GRIT

by Elle Cross

  "How long have you known how to do this?" She gestured with her fingers, in a way that seemed to indicate travel.

  "I'm not sure. Supposedly I've known how to do this all along, but I'm just learning how?" And something had tampered with my memories to suppress these abilities, it seemed, but I didn’t need to share that. Besides, it seemed too close to something I had done myself to Corbin.

  How in the world could I feel violated about my memories being tampered with, when I had been the one to mess with Corbin’s? I bit my lip against the truth that burned from my chest, the one that was dying to break free, and swallowed it down, making room for it.

  Corbin broke into my reverie. "Do you think that if you thought really hard, you'd be able to find Jack?"

  I looked at her profile cast in silhouette from the bright moonlight outside. Was she…trying to make this seem normal? "No, I don’t seem to feel him. Like wherever he is, I have no connection to him whatsoever." If I was finally opening up to instincts that I had had all along, it was doing me no good where Jack was involved. There was a place in my chest where it felt like a gaping sieve, metaphysically weeping and bleeding. A spot that ached for my missing friend.

  I hadn't wanted to acknowledge the lack of pull from Jack, hadn't wanted to acknowledge the significance.

  Corbin withdrew with a pensive, “Hm.” If I were able to see her full on, her eyes would likely be clouded over and grey by now. She was in her own head now, weighing out possibilities in that way of hers until finally, she sighed again and ran a frustrated hand through her hair.

  And it was in that moment that I found some semblance of inner strength. "So, how are you feeling about this, Corbin?"

  She raised her eyebrow, finally looking at me. I had braced myself for judgment, for cool aloofness or anger. I got none of the above. Nothing but the oceanic depths of her aqua eyes. "I’m feeling like this finally makes sense. What you are. It fits you so much better." A look passed between us. "But, don't expect me to worship you, if that's what you're angling for."

  I snorted. "Yeah, I would think you'd pick out less broken deities as your object of worship."

  "Hey now. First, I believe in freedom of religion—I can worship whatever the hell I want. Second. Just because something's broke doesn't mean it can't be fixed. Not saying it should be fixed, just saying. Broken isn't the end of the world, it’s just the end of one way of being. Nothing more, nothing less."

  "Well, look at you, all philosophical. If you ever get tired of this detective gig, you should totally write for fortune cookies."

  She tossed her head back and laughed.

  I felt a freeing. Like the relief that comes when the sun rises and a new day dawned after a long despairing night. "Thank you, by the way."

  "No problem, your worshipfulness." She smiled.

  I helped Corbin reconstruct the timeline for the Sanderson boy and family, and added it to her board. It was already filled with pictures of Jack, Owen, and the beautiful dancer, Kate. She had a red pin on Megan’s street in the West Village, and one where I had re-appeared in Chinatown, rather than placing my photo on the board. Dates, times, locations…all were connected together with red thread.

  That red thread was the only thing that seemed to connect them, at least in my perspective. Otherwise, they all seemed random, nearly impossible in the way they were arranged. I didn’t want to admit that this could be the work of Remnant Gods, but then again, there were tribes that were so old that perhaps they weren’t known or didn’t follow the usual methods and traditions.

  Or, maybe I was just hoping for something, anything that would give us the answers we need.

  Well, even if I couldn’t make sense of her board or see a pattern, I wasn’t Corbin. She was the one with the eye for this sort of thing, for the gut instinct that got her all her commendations and awards.

  Corso had come and gone while we worked in the nice lounge. In his short stay, he had informed me that Jules Sandivar had stepped up, and immediately claimed the boy as his ward. Corso had left Brian sleeping, assigned two guards in the house to assist Jules, if needed.

  When Corbin’s eyes completely clouded over, I knew it was time for me to go. There was little else I could add here, and she was already in her own flow. With a finally push of hope toward her, I tiptoed out of her office and closed the door behind me.

  I nodded here and there to Corbin’s squad, but didn’t stay to chat. They were all working round the clock, over time approved, to get the case solved. I reached the elevator bank. As I waited, the scent of a stuck match wafted toward me as a familiar presence sidled up next to me to wait for the next car, too.

  “Oh, hey Officer Bailey, going down?”

  “Yeah, clocking out for the day.”

  I laughed. “You guys allowed to clock out? I didn’t think you were allowed to sleep?”

  He actually cracked a smile. “We’re allowed one night’s rest every other week.”

  “Ah, that’s awfully generous of your boss.”

  “So, I heard you helped Detective Troy find the boy? How so? I didn’t think empaths did that?”

  I shrugged. “You know the detective and her hunches. They’re always spot on.”

  He nodded in appreciation. “What we appreciate about her, that’s for sure.”

  The elevator dinged open to the main floor of the precinct. “Well it was good to see, enjoy your hour of sleep.”

  “You, too, Ms. Tallinn. Hey, that your limo?”

  Beyond the front doors of the building, I saw the limo idling. I rolled my eyes at it, not used to seeing something like that belonging to me. “Yeah, courtesy of Janus Holdings. Well, see you.”

  I pushed the door open into the vestibule. Before I reached the outer doors, a whisper of black smoke clouded my nose as a strong arm clamped around me, and something seared into my neck, a white hot pain that blessedly fell away as I slipped into darkness.

  It was dark. I swallowed down my panic at not being able to see. Then I realized that my eyes were still closed, but my lids were heavy. I strained hard to try and lift them open, then gave up.

  I felt dim light pressing in around the edges of my eyelids. I chose to breathe in my environment, then. Let myself feel first. Let it all sink in, through my nose, my skin, my pores. Let it flow through me. Sifting through all of the scents and feelings around me kept me from being too conscious of the handcuffs around my wrists…around my ankles. Kept the paralyzing fear at bay.

  That was what these people wanted, whoever they were. My fear. So I could be kept helpless and mindless. That was what they wanted. And I didn’t need to give it to them.

  I controlled myself. I could overcome this. I believed it with every fiber in my being.

  What do I know? What do I remember? What can I feel, other than the restraints?

  A throbbing, a pain that radiated down from where my neck and shoulder joined and then down my arm. I recognized it. A branding, a tattoo on me. Fresh. My eyes finally fluttered opened. I couldn't lift my head to see more. But a flash of memory, of a branding found on Owen and then on Kate. The dancer.

  A brand that was now on my skin.

  My eyelids flew open.

  Voices. The bad guys were here. Should I pretend to be asleep? Would it matter?

  "I thought you said she was weak."

  I blinked in the direction of the voice. The voice was familiar. His blurry shape reminded me of someone, especially as he sharpened into crisper focus the more I blinked. Jowly jaws, receding hairline, paunchy gut. Greasy and oily obsequiousness.

  I attached a name to the appearance then. Don Churchfield, Corbin's often-absent lieutenant.

  "She is weak." I didn't need to shift my gaze to know this was Officer Bailey talking. "You can see how much she weighs. I gave her enough tranq for a full-grown man, and you've seen how they were. They were out for days."

  "She's untrained, right?" Churchfield spoke through his nose, a huffy bombastic tone that slipped around truths
and made you believe his fairy tales.

  "Yes. She doesn't know what she is. Has people taking care of her all the time she’s so fucking helpless. Pays for it in pussy, I'm betting, like they all do."

  "Well, then this wouldn't be too much of a stretch for her."

  The way he said that made me feel like a less-than. I didn't like to be discussed like I wasn't here. The less they saw me as a Human or something with feelings, the more they would do to me without regret.

  The last scenes that had played in Owen’s memory drifted up to me. I refused to acknowledge what Owen had lived through. That girl. Before their deaths.

  As of now, I rated something close to a lab rat. Given the fact that I could descend easily into the status of cockroach, I wanted to tread this carefully. I didn't need to give them any ideas, but I also didn't want them to go about their business and decide to kill me.

  It took a couple tries, the tranquilizer they used left my mouth parched, my throat dry. "Why are you doing this?"

  Lieutenant Churchfield blinked at me like he was surprised I had the power of speech. "Well, now, look who's lucid." He shot a look at Bailey. Not only was I awake, but coherent enough to speak. Clearly, Churchfield had decided Bailey messed something up. Hopefully that meant that they could be mad at each other and forget that I was here long enough to stay relatively unharmed.

  Then Churchfield patted my cheek. I flinched away from his touch.

  His face twisted, and he backhanded me. My head whipped to the side, stars exploded in my eyes. I fought the dizziness, whatever tranq they’d used still in my system.

  He clamped his hand down on my throat. I choked on the rotting filth of his sick lust and greed. "I can't wait until we drain you dry." Then he leaned over and whispered in my ear, walking his grimy fingers all over my body. "I will own every bit of you. Every. Bit." He pinched one nipple, then the other to emphasize his point. Then, cupped my crotch, stroking me under my dress. "My, my, look who's the dirty girl without the panties." He lifted my skirt exposing me. "They're all little sluts."

  He had exchanged looks with Bailey, who couldn't wait to have his turn with me. "I told you they were. This one about jumped me herself one night. Can't wait to make her dreams come true."

  Lieutenant Churchfield's healthy guffaws made me nearly retch in my mouth. Then he sighed, smoothing my skirt back down with a little pat, then he suddenly stood up and walked away from me. "This is going to be a tough one to explain, a great New York icon, a legendary artist tragically stolen from us. Such a waste. Fine upstanding citizen, taken in her prime. Tragedy."

  It was like he was composing the drafts of a teleconference speech right here. He was actually schooling his face in a look of sad despair, practicing hand gestures and motions. He was a psychopath. Or was it sociopath? I couldn't quite remember which it was.

  Then, he came back to my field of vision, a wrought-iron poker like the kind that hung by fireplaces in his hand. That crazed look came over his eyes again, a flickering black I couldn't pin down moved in his eyes, that coppery blood-smell woven in his words. "You understand, don't you? This is all for the greater good…for all of humanity."

  I didn’t know who he was trying to convince. If he thought that the woman that he had kidnapped and chained to a table would be swayed by his speech, he was more deranged than I thought. "Torturing for Humanity. A lovely tagline for the next charitable event."

  He laughed again, a piggish squeal that matched the squalid stench that rolled off him.

  I twisted in my restraints, felt an all too familiar burning as it rubbed against my skin. These were bound too tightly. I'd have to break my hand to get them out of it. Which I'd gladly do if I could guarantee that I didn't need my hand or movement in that hand to stay alive after I wriggled it out.

  I couldn’t guarantee that I could free up the other hand either, though.

  The periphery of my vision inked in blackness. This was not the time to black out. Think dammit think.

  Lieutenant Churchfield stopped laughing as abruptly as he started, wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye. "We need you to scream now. I really do apologize."

  The hot poker scored into my flesh. I was washed in pain. It didn't go out of me, I sucked it in. More in shock than anything.

  And as I did, I fell into a winter landscape. This was the inner world of my mind, the one I’d always imagined to keep me numb, to insulate myself from feeling others’ thoughts and emotions. Why was I here? And more importantly, how?

  Parts of the landscape were less wintery. Some even looked like thawing spring along the edges, like the changing of seasons.

  Lady Astara had spoken of instincts and changes. That my memories would come back to me in time. Maybe this thawing was part of it.

  And maybe I needed to pay attention to my instincts. If I blessedly arrived here, I knew that was something. I gained my bearings quickly, ran to the welcome warmth of fog banks. A distant feeling of déjà vu came over me. Like I’d done this before. Recently. And stumbled upon a man, gold with black whorls on his skin.

  Had I met Deimos, truly met him, in dreams that night? I promised that I would explore that thought at some other time.

  The doors opened, and I stumbled through the door way into what I saw was the Basement.

  Corbin and most of her men were there. But what surprised me was that Deimos there with a few of his men. I recognized Balin and of course, Corso.

  It was as if there was a standoff between all of them, Major Cases squad behind Corbin, Deimos and his guard behind him. Tension crackled the air like a build-up of static electricity before a storm. I saw beyond them to the source of their conflict. It was Prince Arris, contained in one of the cells. His fury was palpable despite the blessings and wards around him.

  It was the Prince who saw me first, his anger softening to something like confusion and then concern. His hand turned into a hammer and crashed against the cell.

  The blessed plexiglass contained the force of his power, but it still made a hefty sound.

  They all reacted to it.

  Deimos followed Prince Arris’s gaze to me. "Vesper? I thought you were going—" He didn't finish his sentence, eyes round with recognition. I was here, but not here, and somehow he knew it. “Why are you here? Where are you now?” His rising panic matched by his rising power, which pushed people away from him.

  I was fading from here, I could feel it. Fading fast. "Find me," I wanted to say. "Find me please."

  Whatever he saw on my face, his full power erupted around him with a deafening war cry, nightfall and mist swirling around him in a blinding maelstrom. His skin blazed gold, the whorls on his skin alive and enraged. His men followed suit, their skin awash in red, black, and gold responding their lord’s war cry.

  Even Prince Arris raged against the cell to break out.

  Something like a tightening cord around my waist pulled taut against me. I was slipping away.

  Desperate fingers reached for me, curled around my wisp of a hand. Ribbons of black, red, and gold slipped around me and through me. Nothing could capture me, because there was nothing physical of me to hold on to. I heard a faint command to Corso, who took after me in a dead run as I was ripped away from the Basement and I hurtled back into my body with a gasp.

  While I had been absent in my body, I hadn’t been present to give these men the reaction they had expected. “Well, that didn’t work.” He tossed the poker away like a spoiled kid with a broken toy. The searing pain from the burning poker finally made it to my brain all at once. Tears leaked from my eyes, and I desperately pushed my lips together to keep from giving him the pain he seemed to want.

  “Time to do this the old fashioned way.” He grabbed a baton, and wailed it against my ribs.

  I screamed for him then. And when I did, the space above me rippled then surged, and I realized what it was I was looking at. A mirror was set above this dais, looking down on me. I didn’t realize it was there because my reflection d
idn’t show in it before, but now it did.

  I was clamped down on what looked like a stage. I could see the runes and glyphs drawn around the outside of my field of vision reflecting back at me.

  Where was this mirror going?

  My reflection rippled away, and soon, an opaque fog covered the mirror and swirled listlessly. Whatever pain I gave him, it was enough at the moment.

  "Ah, now that was easy enough." He twirled the baton, like he was a marching band drum lead. "Some pain registers at different frequency. It's like trying to find the right key for the lock. Damn frustrating, really."

  I worked a cough at my throat. "I feel so sorry for you," I croaked out.

  "Now, now," he tsked. "There's no call for rudeness. If you knew the good work we were doing, you would have gladly given yourself up for the cause."

  I tried shrugging. "My apologies. I don't recall being invited."

  "Well, you see, there's a level of unwilling involvement that needs to play out here, as well. You see, the people we're dealing with need the pain. The sorrow."

  A swirling vortex seemed to swirl just outside of my periphery. "Who do you work for?"

  The mirror flickered a little above me, dissipating almost. As if the clouds were flattening out again.

  A movement flickered at the edge of my vision and I had a moment to brace before the baton slammed into my other side. I swallowed the pain, then. I nearly passed out, but I swallowed it down.

  I heard a slight whisper. A rustle. Like the chittering of an insect's carapace. "Get the one," the voice strangled out. "Make him do it. The offering will be sweeter."

  My stomach churned because I could only think of one person the voice referred to. And the bastard was right. My heart broke, my resolve crumbled at the sight of him.

  Jack.

  My Jack.

  Shambling along. A whisper of himself.

  He saw me and the dullness of his eyes blinked away, clear for a moment. No, they weren’t clear. They silently screamed.

  How much did he have to endure? What silent torment?