A thousand tiny icicles needle into my neck. Pain blurs the world around me, a dull roar and a cloudy haze. Then the haze lifts and I’m looking into two bulging, translucent eyes and then a shimmering face, its mouth stretched out into a scream, chipped, malformed teeth, buckets of gelatinous drool, an eternity of darkness down its throat. This is a child’s face, haggard and broken but still so young. Those eyes burrow into mine; I realize the ice on my neck is from its two tiny hands, crushing my windpipe.
The face takes up my whole vision—it’s pressed up so close to mine I feel the chill air around it, its stale breath—but a figure stirs in the hazy world beyond this thing. Carlos. He’s poised to strike, that blade of his raised and ready. The thing turns and I see Carlos clearly—his brow furrowed and frown uncertain.
I’m trying to figure out why he doesn’t just kill this demon-ass child mothafucka when the creature hurls into him, throwing Carlos on his ass. The sudden absence of pain is the first breath of air after drowning. I gasp, scramble a few steps, and then break into a run.
So many people have come out to the park on this warm end-of-winter night, like their collective presence can somehow ward off whatever evil’s been plaguing this place. Surely that thing, that horrible, broken-faced, icy demon child of fucking frosty death will find one of the many other folks here to attack once it’s done eating Carlos’ soul or whatever. Or maybe getting shoved will wake Carlos’ aloof ass up and he’ll take care of business finally.
Either way, I’m out.
I dip and dodge between concerned onlookers, ignoring the stares and the feeling that hasn’t left me, cross Lafayette, veering out of the way as a biker flies past and curses me out, and then cut around a corner and run hard. I don’t know where I’m going—everything inside screams away; far, far away from that hell. I pass the junk lot with its dazzling dragon mural where the old guys used to play dominoes and the bodega I used to get candy at with Karina. Start to slow as a stitch twists my gut, cross another street, and then my hands are on my knees and I’m leaning over like I’m gonna hurl. Then I do hurl, right there in the street, just watery yellow crap—bile, I guess? And I look up, back toward the park, and then I scream.
It’s just a hazy flicker in the night but there’s no mistaking it: the demon child is a block away, swimming at me in watery, uneven strides with its arms outstretched. I can’t move. A city bus passes, oblivious to the nightmare my life has suddenly become, and the whoosh of air wakes me up. One more glance—the thing launching upward into the sky, mouth stretching wide—and then I turn and run again.
My breath is still short—I don’t have much left—and immediately the sharp ache reopens beneath my ribs. Carlos is whoknowswhere and I have nothing to fight with, no idea even how, but I won’t get got running. If that little spectral fuckmonster can touch me then I can touch the hell outta it too. I whirl around, fire raging in me again, ready to die.
It’s closing on me from above, long fingernails stretched out, mouth twisted into a silent howl. My left leg shoots back and I pivot just so, twisting my body out of the way. The ghostling rushes past with a chilly gust of air, spins back around, and charges. For this perfect second, I am smooth. Born from unholy terror, this is my ginga. I don’t know how long I have before either this grace and precision abandons me or I get strangled again, so I anchor my right leg and spin-kick the little motherfucker in the face.
The air is cool and thick on my leg. The ghostling hurls backward and there’s Carlos, face creased with fury. He yanks the thing right out the sky mid-tumble and shoves it into a black burlap bag.
I’m sitting on my ass, my breath sudden, fitful gulps, and my whole body shivers. Behind Carlos, a whole slew of shiny translucent figures stand gaping at me. Carlos follows my eyes. “Oh,” he says.
I feel strangely calm. Everything slides into place. “Am I dead?”
Carlos shakes his head. “Nah. But your life will never be the same.”
Carlos
A muted daybreak opens across the warehouses and fancy new high-rises around us. The East River sparkles beneath the growing dawn, still alive with the last of Manhattan’s shine.
We absorb it in silence for a few minutes, then I rake out a Malagueña and offer Kia the pack.
“No thanks, man. I want to reach voting age without my larynx rotting out.”
I shrug and light up.
“So.” Kia puts her hands in my pockets and keeps her eyes on the gray sky above the rooftops. “Turns out you’re not some crazy hallucinating guy.”
I bark a laugh. “And neither is Baba Eddie.”
“Well, I knew that. And all the glowing guys that were standing around you?”
“My team.”
“They’re . . . dead.”
“Very.”
“And the little fuckmonster that attacked me?”
I nod. “Also dead.”
“Not dead enough.”
A seagull circles in front of us, caws its complaint, and then veers off toward the bay.
“I guess I always thought the whole ancestors thing Baba Eddie always talking about was more like a metaphor, you know? Like, he puts down food for them and smokes cigars with ’em and shit, but I thought that was just like . . . you know, symbolic.”
“Nope.”
“And you, Carlos? You’re dead too?”
“Half.”
She shakes her head. “Alright, man. It’s just a lot.”
“I know. And I know last night was scary. Really scary. And we’re gonna figure out what the hell is going on, Kia.”
“What . . .” She pauses. Collects herself. “What am I supposed to do now, Carlos?”
“I wish I could tell you everything’s just gonna be alright,” I say, “but that’s not a promise I can make you, Kia. You gotta live your life, but you gotta be careful. You have the Vision now, you’re gonna be seeing ghosts.”
She shudders. “Like, everywhere? Man, I can’t handle this shit. I didn’t ask for this.”
“Not everywhere, just . . . around. And I know it’s a shock at first, believe me, but you have to stay sharp. Just keep away from them. If one starts coming at you, you gotta run. I mean, most of them are harmless, really, and I don’t want you to walk around the rest of your life being afraid of the dead . . .”
“No, why would I ever do that?”
“Look, right now, it seems like something’s after you. And we got this one but we can’t be sure there ain’t another one out there looking for you.”
“Great.”
I crouch and unstrap the short blade from my boot. It’s sheathed in a metal holster wrapped in worn leather. I hold it out with both hands, the way Riley handed me my first blade.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a blade like mine. It kills ghosts.”
“Carlos, man . . .”
“Kia, take it. I don’t usually give things to people, especially not ghost-killing things. This is important.”
She scowls, arms crossed over her chest. “Where am I supposed to keep that thing, man? You do realize I’m black, right?”
“I . . .”
“Can’t be walking ’round Brooklyn with a dagger hanging off me just chilling like ayyy. You read the newspapers? You gonna pay for my funeral when the cops blow my ass away?”
“Kia, I— ”
“Y’all brown folks don’t get got like us, C. You might get ya ass beat for being brown, especially gray-ass brown like you. But I’m black. Ain’t no kinda ambiguous either. Unambigously black. They shoot us for having a wallet or a sandwich or just walking down the street, how Imma roll with a medieval-ass ghost killing-ass dagger?”
“You . . .”
“I need you to be up on shit like that if we gonna be friends, C. This is my life. I’d like to keep it.”
I finally stop trying to get a word in edgewise and take it in. She’s right. I hadn’t thought about it. My blade stays safely hidden away in my cane and I still get side-eyes from eve
ry cop I pass. And I’m light gray-brown. Cops been on the rampage in this city, killing with impunity, and all the victims black. Unambiguously black, as Kia said.
“You right,” I say. “It’s different for me. I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“’Course you hadn’t.” She takes the dagger. “Imma rock with it though. I’ll figure out how to hide it.” An unruly glint sparkles in Kia’s eyes. She draws the knife and it makes that shhiiinnngggsound they do in movies and the blade catches the orange glow from the rising sun, damn near blinding me. “Oh, fuck yeah,” Kia whispers.
I step back. “Careful now. Listen . . .”
She sheaths it up again and smiles up at me. “Go ’head.”
“You trying to really kill a ghost for good, you stab or slice at the head or torso. One or two good cuts and that’s it, the deal is done. Most the time. A particularly strong one might last longer. If you cut at the limbs you might incapacitate it but it won’t be gone.”
“How a ghost die though? They not dead already?”
“It’s called the Deeper Death. Means they’re really gone, like ether. Just gone.”
“Cool.”
“Not cool.” I stern up my voice. “Be careful with this thing. Sometimes when folks are new to seeing spirits they just bug out and stab up any ol’ ghost wandering by. Never rush to the kill. Find out what’s going on. But stay ready. Shit gets hairy fast with the dead, even if most spirits aren’t gonna try to hurt you.”
“If they do,” she says, drawing the blade again, “they gonna taste Ethereal Juniper.”
I frown. “Ethereal Juniper though? Try harder.”
“You name yours?”
“No, Kia I’m an adult and I don’t live in Middle-earth. But do you.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Also: Imma have some of my folks keep an eye on you.”
She shakes her head and sheathes the blade for emphasis. “Hell no.”
“Kia, listen . . .”
“No. I listened. Now you listen: It’s not happening. I reject it. Do you understand me, Carlos? I did not invite this situation and I do not welcome this situation into my life. Yesterday, besides almost dying, I made an utter jackass out of myself in front of the one boy I ever had a crush on. I am sixteen. I got a job, a black eye and trigonometry homework, and plenty of other shit to worry about besides having your dead-ass friends following me around. Feel me?”
I swallow back a retort. She’s right again, but that doesn’t lessen the danger. I wonder if this is what parents feel like when their cute little kids turn into full-fledged autonomous things. “I do,” I finally say. “I do and I’m sorry. Part of this is my fault. I shouldn’t have hesitated. I fucked up and I’m sorry.” I shuffle back and forth on my feet and look out at the city. “Really sorry.”
“It’s alright,” she says, squinting at me. “Maybe it’s better anyway. Like you said—this way y’all can maybe figure out what’s going on. If you’da just cut the little fucker it’d be a done deal and we’d be stuck guessing.”
I brighten. “It’s true!”
“But the next time it’s between me and some demon child, stop overthinking shit and just do what you have to do.”
She shrugs and heads down the stairs.
The sun emerges from a hazy muddle of clouds; it throws the scattered shadows of circling pigeons across the rooftop.
Ginga: a Tor.com Original Page 3
