by VK Fox
The idea of taking a trip came to mind as Jane sat alone in the fading evening light. Something to do would be good for her. She didn’t want to be here with Ian gone. Not just yet.
Jane’s mind wandered back to Dahl, and she couldn’t shake something on the fringe of her mind, a knot she couldn’t untangle. His off-putting mixture of sweetness and sharp edges was hard to read. Wherever they stood wasn’t where Jane wanted to be. What had he said to her?
I don’t do things without a plan.
You have the benefit of so much personal experience, and you’re still expecting me to spoon-feed you all the answers.
Keep listening, and we’ll get it worked out.
Dahl who lied about or denied the cuts on his wrists. Was Dahl soaping the mirrors? The boy king with a phantom deformity he wouldn’t explain and a sinister power of command. A nineteen-year-old who couldn’t remember his birthday. Dahl who, despite his love for Ian, his beautiful girlfriend, and his incredible powers, said he’d wished his life had gone a different way.
The finer points of his struggles were a mystery, but concrete action would help on some level. Jane fiddled with the edge of the blanket. She didn’t even know where to go. It seemed like a hopeless cause: she couldn’t ask Ian or Dahl, and finding someone based solely on their name was an impossible proposition. Money was also an issue. None of her adventures so far had benefited her financially. Ian told her she could probably get a job with the sisters, but right now she was broke.
Carefully, slowly, she climbed out of bed and paced around her room. Jane grinned as she spotted a replacement backpack that cheerfully declared “I Heart Mushrooms” on a chair in the corner. Dahl must have brought it for her. She opened it in search of clothing to replace her hospital gown and gaped. Bundled with her meager possessions was almost $50,000. Cash. An old envelope was jammed among the stacks of bills in paper sleeves. It had a single word inscribed on the back in lovely, flowing script: “Thanks.”
So much money didn’t seem real. She touched it, smelled it, and counted it again. Was it from Dahl? Was this the money they carried for “under the table expenses?” What the hell did their off-the-books expenses usually include?
The thrill of the find settled, and Jane realized that without an address, her mission was still impossible. She sat on the edge of the bed and bit her fingernails. How could she possibly find a woman she knew almost nothing about? Could there be public records about her service in the foster system? How could Jane even access that information, especially in a foreign country? She kicked her backpack in frustration.
When her foot connected, it glowed. The light faded after a few seconds, and Jane’s leg cramped in a painful twinge. Clamping down on the spot, Jane’s eyes fell on the “thanks” note where it innocently lay with her newfound fortune. Prickles crawled up the back of her neck, and the charley horse from hell in her calf was impossible to ignore. With a cringe, Jane glanced at her throbbing leg as thick red liquid seeped through her fingers. Too much gushed out too fast, and she was seriously woozy. She just needed to work through the phantom wound. It would pass in a few minutes. Breathing deeply, in and out, Jane eased onto the floor and distracted herself by examining the envelope. Her clammy hand gripped the bloodstained paper as she turned it over. The envelope was to “Michael Gibson.” Yes! A return address!
Jane shook her head, trying for clarity. When everything seemed hopeless, the exact thing she needed had happened at the precise moment she needed it. Just like her escape from Solace when the door had miraculously swung open. Jane’s mind wandered through stories of the saints, searching for the link inside her. Who else resided there? No images or feelings, like those from Saint Barbra, popped up. Dahl had described the side effect wound as a puncture from an arrow or a lance. If Jane could bring herself to inspect it, she might agree, but for now she was going to have to take his word for it. Maybe when she had more practice meditating like Dahl had shown her, she’d be able to turn up additional clues.
After the hole in her leg closed, Jane dressed in a hurry, noting with annoyance that her new clothes were ill-fitting and baggy. At least now she had enough money to buy more. She packed her bag and boarded an airplane all by herself for the first time. Six hours later, she was standing on the front step of a small, off-white Cape Cod house with a cheerful blue door flanked by potted chrysanthemums, brittle in the frosty air. Jane hugged her woefully inadequate jacket close while she waited for someone to answer the bell. Her gaze wandered to the fenced backyard. A lonely children’s swing stood rusting in the middle of a small patch of brown grass. Was that a leftover from Dahl? Had he played on it when he was a little boy? She searched her mind and found the link to her power, pale and bright. Boy, she hoped this worked. After a second ring, a woman a few years her senior answered. She wore a nurse’s scrubs, rosy cheeks and blonde hair pulled into a twist. She had kind eyes and an easy smile as she greeted Jane.
“Je peux vous aider?”
Jane smiled back, pulling on the edge of her coat. She hoped this lady also spoke English. She took a deep breath of frigid air.
“I’m here to see Emilie Lévesque.”
Epilogue
Earlier at the convent hospital. After the battle at Longwood Gardens.
For Dahl, the easy part was over. The part of the mission where they were following leads, traveling, problem-solving, and fighting. The action all wrapped up, foes vanquished, allies regrouped. Now, the hard part. Waiting in the hospital while the man who was most of Dahl’s world fought for his life. Waiting while his new student slept endlessly, weak and useless. Sitting with Sister Mary, who looked like she was mentally gearing up for a conversation that promised to be tedious and exhausting.
Dahl forced himself to stay put and let her get started. No matter how spent he was, he might not get this opportunity again. Dropping hints to Jane for days had helped him knock the rust off, even if she couldn’t put one and one together. If he could get the message to anyone outside of Sana Baba, it would be an incredible victory, maybe even the tipping point in his secret war.
“Do you want to talk about it?” There it was. Sister Mary’s voice was soft and gravelly, the commencing shot in the verbal event.
“No.” What she was asking was clear, so Dahl was forced to say no, but maybe he could keep her talking. “I would have pulled the trigger on my own. I can’t comprehend it. Why would that woman use magic to take control of the gun and force me to shoot her? She could have waited for three seconds and saved all of us the extra anxiety.”
Sister Mary nodded. “She wasn’t in control, although she was figuring it out by the end. All her worst fears were coming true, but when they hung around, she realized she could use them. Although she was managing to make friends with the cryptids, she was also afraid of less malleable dangers like parasites, guns, and probably us. I’ve been thinking—how could both of our orders have turned up there at the same time? I’m wondering if she called us somehow. Secret, powerful agents working in the shadows—we are the stuff of urban legend.” Sister Mary paused, staring into the middle distance for a few seconds before continuing. “You didn’t have a choice about pulling the trigger, but even if you did, you would have acted to protect Ian and Jane. I’m glad you’re at peace”—she caught his eye—“but that isn’t what I meant.”
Good—she’d called out the diversion, but it still wasn’t anything easy to work with. Maybe if he picked a different topic. “I’m sure Ian will be fine. Thank you for the airlift, it made a difference. I’ll feel better when he’s out of surgery.”
“Not that either. Do you want to talk about your suicide attempt?”
“Nope.” The answer was out before he could consider how to stop it. That happened sometimes.
“You’ve got to talk to somebody.”
Silence. Simple, declarative statements were difficult. They left no wiggle room. He couldn’t say anything true about the suicide attempt, which was actually a murder attempt, but he could
lie. Crafting a lie convincing enough that it could pass his lips but implausible enough that it tipped off the listener was an art. Tone of voice was always his ally. He could say one thing and communicate another. The loophole proved incredibly useful, even if it made him sound like an ass. Dahl’s voice was flat, like he was repeating a memorized explanation but wasn’t going to put the effort into selling it. “It was part of a cover story. I needed to get committed in a hurry so I could operate inside a mental institution.”
“Goodness, Mr. Dahl. Don’t spend all that energy trying to convince me.”
She was interested. That was a positive sign. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Let me guess, no one would?”
Silence.
Mary spoke again, “I have honestly never heard of someone with your abilities surviving a suicide attempt, but you’ve survived several, by the look of it. You could overdose on iron. You could burn too much power and bleed out. You carry guns everywhere. Why cut your wrists?”
Because he’d done it before. Because cutting wasn’t contrary to his nature. Because once upon a time, a lonely, desperate six-year-old boy had tried to find a pain that was better than the pain inside. Clean, neat, tangible. Something he controlled.
Dahl hated the timidity in his voice. “I don’t want to die.” That was probably the real reason why he hadn’t. Maybe she’d put it together at some point.
“What do you mean?”
“The bravest people are the ones who don’t mind looking like cowards.” Maybe a well-known quote would be enough of a hint to investigate the fucking book.
“Mr. Dahl? Are you all right?”
Speaking was exhausting, and the opportunity was slipping away. Time for a different tactic. “Ian told me you were in the training program for a while and washed out. Best thing that ever happened to you. How does it feel to have a connection to God? Your own kind of link. It must be beautiful that it’s His voice in your head and not . . .” He couldn’t say it. The words died on the way to his lips.
Mary waited a few seconds before prompting, “Go on.”
He couldn’t. Dahl tried a different angle. Babbling helped. Forcing an overwhelming quantity of words allowed him to hide truth in the confusion. “You know Sana Baba doesn’t give a shit about agents once they’re active. If you’re a billionaire, do you bother learning how to replace spark plugs or change oil? Nope. You just move on to the next car when the one you’ve got stops working, because you’re not going to run out of vehicles. If one of us has questions or issues, the answer is its magic, and we can’t possibly understand. When you start throwing the word magic around, it’s like it absolves lack of understanding.” Dahl’s little laugh was nervous and strange. He willed her to understand, or at least start trying to.
“And you have questions? You have problems?”
Yes! Come on, half-wit, a little more. He started knocking over dominoes he’d set out the day before. “I love the idea of karma. I wish it were true. What a tidy little universe, where the good are rewarded and the wicked are punished: everyone receiving their comeuppance. I also love the idea of Santa Claus. I mean, really, who wouldn’t? But we did talk about one true thing over breakfast.” Dahl exhaled, and sooty, black smoke escaped through his nose. He closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. Time was almost up.
Sister Mary’s brow puckered. “Mr. Dahl, are you smoking? You can’t smoke in here.”
No, no, how could she think that? Fucking simpleton. What was wrong with her that she would focus on the smoke? Look at the clues! He was out of time. The words were cool and collected, but not his. They tasted foul as they left his mouth.
“I have nothing more to say.” His stomach fluttered with nausea, the last scraps of control snatched away. “I won’t speak to you about this again.”
Dahl’s body stood and retreated to the bathroom. He locked the door and turned the fan and faucet on to mask any voices. He squeezed his eyes tight for a few seconds. His father would look at the clues. Ian would figure it out. And as soon as he did, Ian would be gone—no one with his secret was safe inside the walls of Sana Baba.
Dahl stared at the mirror. It stared back.
It spoke with his voice. “Why do you do this?”
Dahl gave it his most charming grin. “I just want you to have friends. I worry about you, never getting to go out, cooped up all alone.”
“You and I are the same. That’s why our arrangement works.”
“After five years, you can’t possibly still believe that. Please, Mordred, who are you trying to convince?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of living half a life? Let’s make up. We can work together. We can do great things. I never age. I never die. I will outlast all of your reservations.”
Dahl leaned forward so he could confront the image in the mirror, staring deeply into its eyes. “You listen to me, you little shit. This body is your prison. You’re not calling the shots, you’re yelling through the bars of your cage and hoping your buddies on the outside can make all your wild plans happen. You’re too stupid and desperate to see that is utterly, completely beyond the likes of Everest Lovecraft and his ilk. You see what I see, you feel what I feel, but do not for one blessed second believe that you fucking know what I think. I am smarter than you, I am stronger than you, and I will laugh as I watch your whimpering existence snuffed out. You chose the wrong vessel, and now it’s over. I’m not your puppet. I’m your grave.”
It only shook its head and smirked. “Such a rousing speech from someone so helpless. You’re still that sweet fourteen-year-old with his cry-for-help cutting, hoping his daddy will come save him. The real joke is that once you’re gone, I’ll get the next little boy, and the one after that, and so on. You’re a link in the chain who thinks he’s special. Darling. It won’t be long now.”
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ALSO IN SERIES:
INDIE SAINT
NEON REDEMPTION
SUICIDE KINGS
RIGHTEOUS EIGHT
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