by Rebecca Lim
I find myself absently flexing the fingers of my left hand, like a street fighter who has already thrown a punch and connected.
‘Please,’ I beseech K’el in a low voice. ‘Tell me.’
K’el shakes his head as he looks down at my upturned face, lays the back of one hand briefly against my cheek. ‘You don’t remember because some part of you doesn’t wish to remember. It’s self preservation. We were all there — all the elohim, the malakhim, the powers, dominions, seraphim, all of us. It’s no secret what happened; there’s no reason we would hide it from you. Everything you want to know is still there, inside you.’
Always the same answer.
Red rage flares in me and I pound K’el’s broad chest with Irina’s thin fists. ‘Tell me!’ I scream. ‘Tell me!’
He stands there, unmoved, beneath the sharp rain of blows. ‘Unlike you, unlike Luc,’ he murmurs, ‘I’m no liar. I have no talent for it. So I’m not going to tell you, because I would never sugar coat such a terrible truth. And it would hurt you to hear it again, maybe even unhinge you. Search within yourself for the knowledge, but beware of what you see there. It may be your undoing.’
He releases me then, cupping Irina’s face — my face — in a gesture so tender it seems almost final. And I remember, with a sudden, shocking clarity, that K’el had truly loved me, perhaps as much as Raphael had done. How could I have forgotten it? He had hoped I would choose him for my own. And yet I’d taken delight in tormenting him with my preference for Luc.
‘If I had to rank you at all,’ I remember taunting K’el, ‘you wouldn’t even place.’ And I’d laughed.
I close my eyes briefly in shame. I recall the way K’el had watched me. He’d been like a lost dog, always at my heels. Ever hopeful, hopeless. Something Luc had never been.
K’el gives me a crooked smile as he takes in my expression of remorse. ‘In many ways, Irina Zhivanevskaya reminds me a lot of how you used to be. Wild, self-centred, spiteful. Beautiful beyond belief. Though you’ve somehow convinced Raphael, Gabriel, even Uriel, that you’ve changed for the better. Maybe even me.’
He lays a warning finger on my lips when he sees a new question forming there.
‘After this life,’ he says quietly, ‘Nuriel will be your watcher and you’ll no longer be my concern — at least until the next time Michael calls on me to take up the burden. And no doubt there will be a next time. I don’t think he’s ever going to let me forget you — call it my penance.’
He turns away, as if preparing to vanish back into whatever vortex he stepped out of. I’m so afraid he’ll leave me that I say the first thing that comes into my head to make him stay.
‘I don’t even know my name,’ I wail softly. ‘You didn’t even leave me that much.’
He turns back to face me, arrested by my question, and I catch a fleeting expression cross his face before his guard goes up again.
But that expression had been enough.
In poker you’d call it a tell, which is funny, because that’s exactly what he’d been debating. Tell her? Don’t tell her?
And I’m staggered that he’d even show weakness that way. How did I get so good at reading him, when I never was before?
‘Oh, you have a name, Mercy,’ he says ruefully. ‘Like me, like the Eight, the name of God is woven into its very fabric. It’s …’
When he utters it, my real name, my mind fills with a sudden, terrible screeching, as if some unfathomable chasm housing the soul of every person damned since the time of the Fall itself has suddenly opened in my head; as if Hell itself has somehow become lodged in there.
I am the only still point in a spinning, screaming world.
I fall to my knees, sweating and shaking, as if my own name has become a weapon with the power to slay me. Then, just as suddenly, there’s silence.
I can barely lift my head to focus on K’el’s glorious countenance so far above mine. I’m sure he’s seeing abject horror in my eyes.
‘Raphael called it “the last defence”,’ K’el murmurs, extending a luminous hand to help me back onto my feet. ‘He said that if all else failed and you fell into the hands of the daemonium, they’d be unable to find any trace of your true identity inside you. Your name’s so well hidden that only Raphael himself has the power to restore it to you.’
He regards me with his dark gold eyes, as if he’s memorising every line of my face, before releasing me. ‘Remember, if you see Luc? Just walk away like I’m doing now, but don’t look back. And don’t try to leave Milan before the six get here, because I’ll find you.’
Then he turns and moves swiftly away down the street, towards the distant outline of the Duomo, head down, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn-in blue jeans. And it may be a trick of the light, but as I watch, he seems to grow smaller, to somehow scale down to mortal size, so that from the back he might actually be what he appears to be — a pitch-perfect human boy in nondescript clothing.
Without warning, the giant storm front breaks.
And though I can see in the dark like a cat, can see for miles, through sunshine or moonlight, rain or fog, though I rake Via Victor Hugo with my desperate eyes, the one who watches over me is suddenly no longer there, vanished like smoke. And there’s only the torrential, blinding rain.
I scream into the icy, driving rain, rain like needles, like nails, ‘K’el! K’el! I’m so sorry!’
Sorry that I didn’t love you enough; could never love you the way you wanted me to love you.
But there’s no answer; only thunder like rolling war drums in the sky. Rain fills my mouth, and, though I was not formed to cry tears, I can feel them, hot and stinging, as they run down Irina’s cheeks. They mingle with the water streaming down her face.
Time has recommenced again and the whole world around me, and I am drenched through in seconds, barely able to lift my head or open my eyes against the fearsome onslaught of the unnatural, keening wind, the vicious rain. The thunder is so loud now, it sounds like cannon fire. Lightning suddenly splits the skyline, briefly illuminating the now empty rooftop on which K’el had first appeared.
Luc is coming. He’s on his way, that small voice whispers inside me, my inner demon.
This is only the beginning.
I can almost feel Luc’s anger in the air all around. And there’s that sense — as there always was when Luc was near — of terrible anticipation, excitement, at what he might do. Luc, who never toed any line, who questioned every received wisdom and, for better or worse, taught me to be that way, too. Luc, who blazed brighter than any of us. Rules had neither impressed nor bound him. I’d loved that about him — that he was different; that he recognised no bounds; that he was a risk taker.
And though I love Luc as much as I love the idea of freedom, all I am feeling now is fear. I want to stay, but I want to run, too. Because those of the Eight that remain won’t simply let Luc take me. Someone I know, someone I love, or might once have loved, is going to get hurt. It’s a certainty.
From behind me, a man bawls, ‘What are you doing?’
I turn with difficulty, so disorientated that I can barely remember who I’m supposed to be today, how I got out here in the rain.
‘Irina!’ the man roars again from the opposite side of the street, and runs at me, soaked and scowling. He grabs me by the arm, and in the time it takes for him to drag me across the road towards a gleaming black limo with one back door open, I remember that his name is Vladimir, he’s part of my security detail, and today? I’m supposed to be one of the most beautiful and desirable women on the planet.
I’m still laughing hysterically as we reach the waiting car. Vladimir forces my head down and shoves me inside, nothing courteous or gentlemanly about him now. ‘Drive!’ he snarls into Felipe’s astonished face, before slamming the door on us and ducking through the pelting rain towards his own limo.
Immediately, my laughter dies. And I don’t feel cold, but I can’t stop shaking. Felipe hands me a snowy-white hand
towel across the front seats, then releases the handbrake and accelerates into the road.
The rain pounding down on the closed fibreglass sunroof of the car sounds like falling gravel. As I fumble out of the heavy wet overcoat and take off the cloche hat, rubbing at Irina’s wet face and hair with the hopelessly inadequate towel, Felipe depresses a button on his dashboard. It engages a mechanical ceiling panel that slides shut soundlessly, hiding the sunroof from view. The noise lessens a little but it still sounds like the world is ending outside. We’re forced to move slowly because visibility is down to a few feet in every direction.
It’s dark as night as we make a bewildering number of turns down narrow one-way streets — high beams on. For a moment, I see the dim, hulking shape of the Duomo reappear in the rear window of the limo before we do a sharp left and the cathedral is lost to sight.
There are few cars on the road and no people. Milan could be a rain-slicked ghost town at the end of time. The rain surges beneath the wheels of the car as if we have become seaborne.
I see Felipe’s eyes rest on me momentarily in the driver’s mirror before they flick back to the road ahead. ‘You look like the drowned cat,’ he says, an edge to his voice. ‘We are alone at last, querida. As we planned.’
Planned? Is Irina involved with him in some way?
I lean forward, flipping Irina’s long, wet hair over my head, towelling it vigorously to forestall any immediate need for conversation. I pretend I don’t notice Felipe’s impatient exhalation, the gear change he executes with a little too much force. Through the damp and obscuring strands of Irina’s hair I feverishly scan the interior of the car for clues that might assist with the conversation we are supposed to be having.
It’s unlike any other car I’ve seen before. There are lights in shiny chrome fittings near each of the headrests, and a mini-bar built into one of the doors. Two bench seats face each other, upholstered in a full-grain tan leather and offering more leg room between them than most people would actually need. Each seat is bisected by a wide, space-age-looking armrest that extends down to the floor. The limo is filled with the heady smell of white flowers and there’s gleaming chrome and wood inlay everywhere I look. There’s also a small silver serving tray on the armrest opposite mine, and on it, a faceted crystal carafe that’s three-quarters full. Beside it stands a tall, matching drinking glass filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. No ice. No condensation.
The whole thing is about a million miles away from Ryan Daley’s four-wheel drive and its smells of diesel fuel and mud-encrusted guy stuff. I suddenly wish so badly I was there with him — eating candy bars all over the front passenger seat, our breath fogging up the windows — that I have to close my eyes and take a deep and shaky breath.
I sit up and tuck Irina’s damp, unbound hair back behind her shoulders, place the wet towel on the seat beside mine. I lean forward and pick up the faceted crystal tumbler and study its contents, lift it to my nose. It looks like water, but it smells like some kind of spirit … vodka maybe? That’s all I’m getting.
I place the glass back on the tray. Only a teenage Russian supermodel would contemplate drinking vodka before 8 am during the worst storm of all time. And K’el thinks that we’re alike? I must have been some kind of major prima donna back in the day.
Felipe catches my movements in the driver’s mirror. ‘For you,’ he says. Any trace of the coldness I imagined in his eyes before has vanished. Now, he seems almost excited. ‘It is exactly as we planned. Drink. It will … relax you.’
I glance back at the tray. That’s the plan? A clandestine tipple before the day begins? I hadn’t known I was tense, but I feel the line of Irina’s shoulders relax. Something as simple as one lousy drink, I can handle. When I was Carmen, I’d chugged eight bourbon and Cokes in one sitting and they’d done nothing to me, nothing. Oh, I’d pretended to be unconscious afterwards, but Ryan had known all along that it was an act. To me, alcohol is like accelerant poured on a bonfire: easily consumed, leaving no aftertaste, no ill effects. I could drink and drink and never fall down, never pass out. I know it with a certainty that defies logic. Beer, spirits, whatever — bring them on.
‘¡Bebe!’ Felipe says eagerly. Drink.
Gia hadn’t mentioned Irina having any problem with alcohol. Drugs, men, decision-making, modesty, notoriety — yes. But not booze. So, what the hell?
I raise the glass high enough for Felipe to see in the driver’s mirror. Then I place it to my lips and scull its contents in one smooth motion, without pausing for breath.
I sit back, and seem to see — from a long way away — the crystal glass fall from my suddenly nerveless fingers. Immediately, I know that I’ve made a bad mistake.
Felipe winks at me in the driver’s mirror and I know that I’m missing something. There’s some kind of coded meaning in all this that Irina would understand, but I’m having trouble interpreting. I’m suddenly having trouble breathing, too; I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs.
The realisation hits me — way, way too late — that it hadn’t just been 100 proof rocket fuel in that glass. There’d been something else in it, something chemical, synthetic, a world away from wine, beer or vodka. A foreign substance I can’t identify that’s carving a coruscating path through Irina’s bird-boned body like acid.
I imagine I can feel the stuff actually hitting Irina’s bloodstream like a toxic bomb blast. Poison? Has he poisoned me?
‘What — have — you — done — to — me?’ I gag, clawing at my neck and chest.
I feel my pupils dilate, the blood vessels in my face and body explode with heat beneath my pale, fine skin. I’m sweating and shaking now, and a muscle above my right eye begins to twitch uncontrollably. It feels as if my heart is going to burst. That I’m literally speeding up, or burning up.
The car hits an unexpected pothole and water sprays up in front like a wave hitting a ship. Even after the car rights itself, I still imagine the world is falling away beneath me. Felipe switches the windscreen wipers to maximum and the harsh, rhythmic sound makes me cringe. He gives me a sharp glance in the mirror.
‘You’re not … pleased?’ he says, dark brows furrowing. ‘You don’t like it? It’s A-grade. De la mejor calidad. I had to put in more, because when you take it like this, the high it is not so high.’
There’s a pain in the centre of my forehead now as if I’ve been hit with an axe. Even the limo’s soft interior lights are searing my eyes. I can’t seem to control my head, and fall back against the seat.
‘Ge …’ I gargle. ‘He …’
What I’m trying to say is: Get help. But I can’t get the words out; it’s as if Irina’s turning to stone. I’d felt a similar sensation of paralysis when I was Carmen in that hospital bed, flooded with sedatives, on the verge of leaving Ryan for the first time. That awful gulf between thought and action, mind and body, that I thought I’d never again experience — it’s returned. When I try to raise one of Irina’s hands, it’s become something separate from her body. I can’t lift it off my knees.
More than ever, I’m trapped in here. And I remember that terrible feeling as Lela lay dying — of being mired in her body, entombed alive, while one by one her five senses slowly faded to black.
And yet … everything seems curiously magnified — the sound of the rain, the terrible scraping noise the windscreen wipers are making, even the vibrations coming up from the uneven road through the limo’s four tyres, the slight fishtailing of the back wheels as we drive over a slick manhole cover. I can make out every individual sound and movement, as if the car has no walls, or I am the car.
‘I have done exactly what we agree,’ Felipe says loudly. ‘You send me text, remember? Before your plane has landed. Have my usual drink waiting, you say. I’m desperate for pick-me-up. It’s been too long, kiss, kiss, ciao, ciao. And I know Gianfranco he is always searching for the tablets, for the needles. So I make sure a bottle is in the minibar, ready. I mix it myself. Gianfranco does not think
to search the car. There is no reason for him to know that we have met before, many times — in Madrid, in Berlin, Paris. It’s good, no? Powerful. Exactly what you wanted. I give you what you want, now you give me what I want …’
It feels as if I’m having a heart attack. Everything’s hurting me — the light, the air on my skin, even the sound of Felipe’s voice is grating and unpleasant. My jaws are clenched so tightly together that I can’t open my mouth to speak.
I’ve never known if it’s truly possible for me to die in a body I’ve soul-jacked, but this may be it. Together, Irina and I seem to be bursting into flame, and none of the Eight is here to witness it. There’s no one here to save me, because the Eight are under attack themselves — a thing so unthinkable, so brazen, I can still scarcely believe it. And K’el, my watcher, had walked away as if he never wanted to see me again.
My vision is blurring, growing dark at the edges, and I close my eyes.
I hear a male voice complain lightly: ‘I wish you’d just enjoy the ride. You have access to wealth, material things, experiences that no ordinary human being could ever hope for. You should be revelling in everything that’s on offer. The ability simply to be, to abandon oneself to human pleasure, is something our kind could learn from. In a way, I envy you. I really do. I find the act of possession too … messy. I leave that to others. But it does mean that I … miss out.’
I open my eyes with difficulty to see Luc seated opposite me, his elbows resting on the armrests, his long fingers steepled together. I’m hit by a freak wave of shock and longing. When I see him like this, there are no doubts. He is the one. No one could ever compare. How could anyone look at him and not love him?
