Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

“Heart attack?” Ilia asks me, breaking into my thoughts.

  I look away from the mirror to glare at him.

  “You’re right, too blasé,” he says, shaking his head. “And I’m in excellent shape.”

  “I’m not doing this, Ilia,” I tell him dully.

  “It’s not cancer, is it? It better not be cancer; I can’t lose this hair.”

  I clench my jaw, try to ignore him.

  “I got it!” Ilia says, snapping his fingers. “Peacefully, in my sleep, surrounded by naked models.”

  “Actually, I kill you, Ilia; that’s how you die. I stab you with a fork because you won’t shut the hell up.”

  “You wouldn’t stab me,” Ilia says confidently. “Poison me, maybe, but not stab me.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, done with his games.

  The playfulness falls from his face, and for a moment I feel guilty. He doesn’t like doing this any more than I do. I deal with the dead, Ilia deals with the living, and either way it burns when people look at you with fear in their eyes.

  “Here,” he says, shifting so he can pull out the paper from his pocket.

  I take the sheet from him, unfold it slowly. A name is scrawled at the top in slanting letters, followed by an address off Olympic.

  “What happened to him?” I ask.

  Ilia glances over at me, then looks back at the road. “You really wanna know?”

  I shrug. “Guess not.” I’ll find out soon enough.

  Ilia’s car hums along the road with enough speed to press me back into the leather. The lights start to blur together, the gas stations and BBQ joints and hotels, until the night becomes one long streak of neon. He only slows down when we hit the neighborhoods, taking the turns with slick precision. Finally we pull up in front of a yellow apartment complex, the paint faded and the grass outside patchy. It’s nicer than my place, but only just.

  “Ready?” Ilia asks.

  I take a deep breath. Already my skin is crawling with the awareness of what’s waiting inside.

  “Yeah,” I say, and step out of the car.

  3

  ILIA HAS KEYS TO THE BUILDING, AND I DON’T bother asking how he got them. We go up the staircase, my boots echoing hollowly in my ears. At the second floor Ilia opens the door for me, standing well out of my way.

  I hesitate on the landing as Ilia halts in front of the first door on the left. He unlocks the door and then looks back at me.

  “Lexi,” he says. “Come on.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, and his mouth goes thin.

  “We need to do this,” he says tightly. “Please.”

  It’s not the please that moves me forward; it’s the look in his eyes. If I didn’t know any better I’d say it was worry, and I remember why we’re here.

  Ilia opens the door to the apartment and I step inside, bracing myself. The air in here smells stale, old cigarette smoke mixed with oil, and beneath it something sweet and rotting. It’s bare except for a coil of cable wire sticking out of the wall and a roll of paper towels on the kitchen counter. The carpet is matted and stained, and I move deeper into the apartment, my focus on the bedroom at the back.

  “You getting anything?” Ilia asks over my shoulder.

  I could lie. It would be easy to say no, to get back in the car and drive away.

  “Yeah,” I say flatly. “He’s here.”

  The thing is, not everyone stays. Sometimes they don’t need to; some people love so well, live so hard, that when they die there’s nothing left to tie them to this world. They go quickly, with no backward glances. And some spirits are too weak to materialize, so they linger in the in-between spaces, never fully forming and never moving on.

  Even those that stay aren’t always quite human. Sometimes they’ve been dead so long, their spirits slowly unravel until they don’t remember what it was to be a person, until they don’t understand words. They become something else, a presence in a house, a spot of warmth between your shoulder blades.

  And then there are the ones that always stay, the vengeful, the murdered and the murderers. Those ghosts are unpredictable and burn the death sense like acid. They never leave this side, fueled by an anger that will last far longer than the last breath of this world.

  “Good,” Ilia says, relieved. “Let’s just get the information and we can get out of here.”

  We, he says, like he’s going to do anything but stand there and watch me. There is no we; there’s never been a we where I’m concerned.

  “Be quiet,” I tell Ilia, settling my back against the wall. My fingers curl into my palms and I close my eyes, let my death sense swell and curl out.

  “James.” I whisper the name from the paper, my lips barely moving. “James Eliot Sanderson.”

  I turn in lazy spirals, waiting, watching. Slowly, so slowly, the reddish black behind my eyes turns darker, deeper. My magic brushes against something, something warm and soft and near.

  “James. There you are.”

  I open my eyes and walk straight into the bedroom; heat blasts into my face and a small, slight man stares back at me. There are bruises all over his face and arms, and a deep ring of them circles his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s the truth. I’m sorry for what happened to him, and I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.

  “What do you want?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

  “You know what I want. You know who sent me. Give me the name.”

  He shakes his head rapidly. “No. His boys already tried, and I didn’t tell them anything. And I made sure no one can ask me again.”

  “Tell us who you told, Sanderson,” Ilia says, his eyes trying to pinpoint what I’m looking at. “We know you were selling on the side. That puts us all in danger.”

  “I’m dead, you little shit,” Sanderson huffs at him, even though Ilia can’t hear him. “There’s nothing you can do to me now.”

  “Yes, there is,” I say, and my hands tighten into fists. I grit my teeth and I start to push, pressing my magic against the ghost until my muscles strain.

  Sanderson’s eyes go wide, his mouth gaping like a fish, and his form goes even paler, the edges flickering in and out.

  “What are you doing?” he chokes out.

  “Give us the name or I’m sending you to the other side,” I tell him.

  “You can’t—please,” he says, shrinking in on himself. “I have a daughter. They’ll come after her.”

  My stomach twists and I ignore it, bearing down harder. If you want Urie’s protection, you keep your mouth shut. History is full of stories of people who covet magic and people who fear it, but the constant is that when others find out about people like me, we end up dead. We protect one another because no one else will, and putting our community at risk is the worst betrayal anyone could commit. Urie will always sacrifice the few to save the many.

  “You knew the risk when you took it,” I say, shoving aside any sympathy. “And you know the price. Give me a name if you want to watch her grow up.”

  “No,” Sanderson pleads. He fights me, shoving back at my magic with everything he has. It’s not enough. Sweat drips down my neck, and something in my back spasms.

  “I won’t let you,” he yells, and he runs at me, his fingers scrabbling at my face, his eyes desperate and wild. I grab him by the wrists and shove my magic at him, force it down his throat and into his pores.

  “A boy is missing, you asshole,” I pant. “Probably because of you. Now give me the name or we go visit your daughter next. Your choice.”

  He screams, loud and full of pain and despair. And it’s not a choice, not really. He’s not ready to go. Even though he killed himself, even though he’ll never speak to his daughter again, he wants to stay. Because at least this is a semblance of life, a last bit of consciousness, a chance to see the girl grow up, to protect her. I don’t know what’s on the other side, if it’s heaven or hell or nothing at all. All I know is that most ghosts fear it the way we fear death. When
push comes to shove, they always choose to stay. And I’m always the push.

  Sanderson gives me the name and I repeat it to Ilia, who writes it down carefully. I don’t envy the fate of whoever’s on that paper.

  “Keep yourself hidden and don’t cause any scenes,” I say when it’s over. I don’t think he has enough energy to mess with much, but sometimes they can surprise you. “Don’t make me come back here.”

  “Go to hell,” Sanderson says dully. He looks at me with eyes so empty I almost wish I saw hate instead. His ghost flickers out, maybe to see his daughter, maybe to get away from me, leaving behind only the burnt taste of his pain.

  “You all right?” Ilia asks, moving toward me.

  “Fine,” I say, holding out a hand to stop him. “Can we go?”

  “Yeah,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Yeah, we can go.”

  “Great.” We walk out of the apartment, and I touch one finger to my cheek. One of his nails caught my face, but the spells on my arms kept him from breaking my skin. It’s a small scratch, just enough to sting, just enough to hurt.

  We drive back to the club in silence, each of us guilty in our own separate ways. We have to keep a hard line; that’s what I tell myself, what Urie says. We do this so no one is exposed, so the others can live without fear, without looking over their backs. But it’s hard to shake the hate in Sanderson’s eyes when he looked at me, hard not to feel like a monster when I shove unwilling ghosts to the other side. They’re only ghosts, that’s what everyone thinks, but they’re real to me. They’re skin and heat and solid weight, the line so thin between living and dead that it blurs into nothing. What difference is there between pain and the illusion of pain? Between the idea of a thing and the thing itself?

  After the amputation of a limb, over 90 percent of patients report phantom sensations. Some sensations are mild, and some are markedly painful. Doctors don’t know the exact cause of phantom pain, only that the lack of a limb doesn’t make the pain any less real.

  The car slides into a reserved spot at the front of the club, and Ilia cuts the engine. My ears feel hollow, the silence stretching between us. His reasons are different than mine, but no less complicated. Family is family, and blood is thicker than guilt.

  “You need anything?” he asks me finally.

  I shake my head and get out of the car, the night warm and suddenly loud. I don’t want to be here anymore, I don’t want to serve drinks and watch Nic smile and listen to ordinary people talk about their uncomplicated lives. I want to go home, I want to go back to the hospital and the scratchy sheets and the silence.

  “Lexi, wait up, I—”

  The front door bangs open as I pass it and a group of shining girls and laughing boys spills out. I freeze in place but it’s too late; metal and death scream from every direction. Cancer, pneumonia, heart attack, everything is teeth and sweat and death. The sting of it makes my eyes water, perfume mixing with iron.

  My stomach lurches and my shoulders curve in and then—someone’s forehead collides with my chin and I stumble back.

  “Shit!” a voice says, laughing. “I’m sorry.”

  I try to back away but small hands grip my arms and a stone hits my chest, knocking the breath out of me. Let go of me, I want to say, you have to let go, but I don’t have the air to speak. The girl is beautiful; her mouth is painted red and shaped like a heart, and something shimmers along her cheekbones. But that’s not why I can’t breathe.

  “You okay?” Her hands tighten on my arms, dark eyes concerned, but all I see is her face, open and staring and bloodied.

  She’s going to die. Tonight. Painfully, brutally, and that long neck won’t look the same after.

  Bile rises up in my throat, and I tear myself out of her grip.

  “Hey, hey, easy,” she says, holding a hand out like I’m a wild animal. “Are you all right? Can I call someone?”

  She takes a step toward me and I stagger back, trying to shake the truth out of my head. She should go home, run, save herself. But I don’t tell her to. It wouldn’t matter if I did. Death always finds you.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “She’s fine.” Ilia is at my shoulder, leaving barely an inch between us. “I got her.”

  The girl looks from me to Ilia and back again. “Are you sure?” she asks me.

  “I—I’m okay,” I manage to force out.

  She narrows her eyes, hesitating, but I can’t take it anymore.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I duck past her, pitching through the open door as bloody images slice into my mind.

  I run down the hall and tuck my back against a wall, my throat burning with unshed screams. My arms won’t stop trembling, so I press them against the knot in my stomach and try to breath.

  “Jesus, Lexi,” Ilia says, catching up with me. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head, too sick to answer. No, I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay.

  “Can I . . .” His hand flutters up and I recoil.

  “Don’t touch me,” I gasp. I can’t take any more, not now.

  “I wasn’t going to,” Ilia says. “Fuck.” He sighs and scrubs his face with his hands. “What did you see?”

  I close my eyes, as if it could help. “That girl—her death is bad. Really bad.”

  When he looks at me, there’s no pity in his eyes, only a kind of sadness.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll take you home.”

  “My shift’s not over. And my car—”

  “You can’t drive like this,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

  A tremor of relief runs through me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Come on. I just have to stop by the warehouse real quick.”

  I push off from the wall and my legs barely hold me. Ilia doesn’t try to help.

  Urie’s boundaries stretch from the club up to Echo Park and west to Koreatown, making a triangle that most of us operate within. The warehouse is off Wilshire, a solid block of a building without windows or an obvious entrance. Inside are industrial shelves stocked with every magical component you could hope to find. It keeps our witches and the club in operation, but Urie also ships rare ingredients to the other pockets of magic throughout the country—Salem, New Orleans, Cleveland.

  “Stay here,” Ilia says, parking illegally at the curb. “I’ll be right back.”

  I nod, my head thrown back as I try to massage away a pounding headache. Ilia closes his door gently, and the small kindness sits strangely on my heart.

  But I can’t get the image out of my mind: the girl, a gleaming red smile slashed across her throat. Suddenly the car feels too small. I open the door and stagger out, taking in deep breaths. The air smells like fried food and cigarette smoke, but it calms me, settling into my lungs with a familiar bite. I look up, stare at the telephone wires strung across the night sky, fill my eyes with the silhouette of palm in place of death.

  Something prickles at the base of my neck, and I turn around. There’s nothing there, just a quiet street with parked cars. I frown and push my magic out, my hands tingling at my sides.

  “Marcus?” I ask softly. “Are you there?”

  I push out farther, pressing against the night, and I swear I can almost feel something. It’s like my fingertips are reaching out to brush someone just as they move away, leaving nothing but a slight disturbance of air.

  “Marcus?”

  Nothing answers, nothing moves, and the tickle at my back fades so quickly I think maybe I only imagined it.

  “Lex?”

  Ilia’s walking toward me, carrying a small box in his arms.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, nearing me.

  “Nothing,” I say, getting back in the car. “Just needed some air.”

  I stare out the window while Ilia starts up the engine, but everything is still. The only movement is the flickering of a streetlight casting a pool of white light over the lot.

  The sky is turning bubble
gum pink when Ilia drops me off. I drag myself up the stairs and collapse across my bed without taking off my shoes. My head is still pounding, and the muscles in my back are twitching with shivers that won’t stop racking my body. I should eat something, but my eyes are closed before the thought is fully formed.

  I don’t know how long I’m out before I feel a pocket of warmth and a soft tug on my ear.

  “You look like shit,” Trevor says, his voice close to my head. “Did you eat anything today?”

  I make a sound that might be a yes and might be an insult and burrow deeper onto my blanket.

  There’s a sigh and then a weight presses against my side, the heat much stronger than a human body. My breathing eases, something tight in my chest uncoils. Only the ghosts know how lonely it can be, how much I crave being touched. I let myself drift back into sleep, sink into the warmth and pressure at my side. I’ll take whatever comfort I can find.

  4

  I DREAM ABOUT THE GIRL. I SEE HER NECK SLICING open, flesh parting to reveal white bone, and when I look down I find a bloody knife fisted in my hand.

  I wake up covered in sweat, the back of my shirt soaked through. Trevor is gone and I’m alone again, still dressed and starving.

  The sun is streaming in through my small window, and I push back the curtain all the way to let a breeze into the stale air. My phone says it’s almost one and I have missed texts from Phillip that I ignore. I pull off my wet shirt and take a quick shower, staring at the stained tile and peeling grout while I wait for the water to warm up.

  I run the soap through my fingers, and the slipperiness feels uncomfortably like blood. I look down, half expecting to see my hands smeared with red. They might as well be. It doesn’t matter that I’m not the one who killed her; I feel just as guilty. I stood by and let it happen, left her to die alone and afraid. I didn’t have a choice; if you try to cheat death it will punish you, it will take what it’s owed and then more. But what would that excuse mean to the dead?

  My phone is ringing when I step out of the shower. I grab a towel that’s stiff with age and hastily wrap it around me.

  “What?”