by Hannah Marae
“Then how’d she do it?”
“She must have had help,” the reaper concluded. He kept walking.
“So”—Mab trotted after him—“am I dead, then?”
They walked side by side. She noticed the reaper had slowed his pace. He may have wanted to give the impression of being disinterested, but Mab could see the shell beginning to crack. He studied her out of the corner of his eye, a gesture that made him seem unnervingly human.
“You are not dead,” he stated. “You are in the rare position of being a living soul in Purgatory. It’s why you’re aware and not . . .” he trailed off, indicating a spirit that floated listlessly ahead.
“And my body?” Mab asked, annoyed at how small and frightened the words sounded.
Again, the reaper shrugged. “This is one of reality’s strange loopholes. Your soul is very much alive, and as a result, so is your body. So long as it is maintained.”
“Like a magical coma,” she realized. “And if it’s not maintained?”
“Then it will die, and you will become like them.”
“Fuck.” Mab searched her memories, trying to come up with some reason the mage would have wanted her soul.
But wait.
Her soul was here, in the Good Night. And, as far as Mab could tell, the mage hadn’t tampered with it. Maybe this wasn’t about her soul at all. But what would the mage want with Mab’s body?
As they walked, her thoughts drifted to Eden. This path had led her to this place. Only a year ago, they were inseparable, as they had been since they were both nineteen. Practically sisters. Family. Mab never thought they would sever until it actually happened. And it was over such a stupid thing, the one thing that caused them more problems than anything else.
The past.
Kicking at a stray stone, Mab sent it skittering down the cobbled road. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You wait,” the reaper said. “It’s called Purgatory for a reason.”
“And then?”
He looked at her, and Mab thought she almost saw a flash of sympathy. “You move on. Above or Below—everyone goes somewhere.”
“Well, that sounds like shit.”
This drew a throaty chuckle. “Humans call this place the Good Night because of its dream-like state. But Purgatory is always suffering . . . just not in the ways you might think.” He looked her over. “If it helps, you may walk with me while I patrol the Path.”
“Thanks,” Mab said blandly, though she supposed she really meant it. “You got a name?”
The reaper thought for a moment. “I am called Pyke.”
“Well, Pyke”—Mab fell into step beside him—“let’s patrol this shit.”
Nebulae burned into Zeke’s retinas as the light went out, and the world was drenched in darkness. When his vision finally cleared, he could see Lazarus wordlessly scoop Eden into his arms. She was still unconscious, her head lolling against Laz’s shoulder, hair cascading over his arm.
“What the hell?”
Turning, Zeke saw Ignatius approach. The shifter was smeared with dirt and blood, his wiry frame slightly hunched and clearly exhausted. “Is she okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Lazarus adjusted the mage in his arms. He whistled for Hades and started walking. “We need to go.”
Zeke rushed to follow, his hand pressed to a wound on his bicep, thin trails of blood escaping through his fingers. A scratch. It had happened as the vamp that was Meyer shoved him against the trailer, right before Lazarus buried his knife in his heart. Zeke had gotten lucky. Just a few inches closer, and the bastard’s teeth would’ve been on him. There was no coming back from that.
Jesus. Poor Meyer. Zeke tried not to wonder how it happened, tried not to picture how easily it could happen to him or Laz or anyone.
They walked through the empty night, witnessed only by the stars that clung to the black expanse. Behind them, the campsite shrunk to nothing, an ugly scar on the endless plains.
Ignatius veered away but caught up to them halfway back, fully clothed and a little ragged. Even Hades seemed somber, smoking up to drift through the sky instead of taking tangible form.
“What the hell was that?” Ignatius walked with his hands in his frayed jeans pockets, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “Never expected to find a goddamned hive out here. I mean, damn.”
“It was weird from the start,” Zeke agreed. “A bunch of animal bones in the tent, a whole trailer just sitting there. I’m starting to think we should’ve seen it coming.”
Ig nodded thoughtfully. “And Meyer. Jesus.”
“Better in the ground than living as a vamp,” Zeke pointed out. The slice in his bicep throbbed, and he squeezed tighter, trying to ignore the blood that dripped through his fingers to trail in the grass behind him. God, he hoped he wouldn’t need stitches.
Shaking his head, Ignatius said, “Being turned isn’t a death sentence. It’s what comes after that’s important.”
“Yeah, well, Meyer’s after was trying to rip my throat out.” Zeke grimaced. “Fuck.”
“Of course that’s not the weirdest thing that happened tonight.”
“No,” Zeke said, not bothering to hide his concern. “It’s not.”
Ahead, Lazarus was widening the gap between them, his long, hurried strides carrying him to the vehicle parked in the distance. Right now, the truck was a beacon of safety. If they could make it there, then everything would be okay.
“It’s something to do with that connection sigil we’ve been following,” Zeke said. “It’s happened twice, both times when she came into contact with a spirit.”
“There was no spirit here tonight.”
Zeke pushed back hair damp with sweat. “I know. This whole thing is a new level of weird. And it’s just getting weirder. Eden says when it happens, she can see flashes.”
“Flashes?”
“Images. Like she’s looking through Mab’s eyes. No idea how that’s even possible. At first, we thought touching the spirits was somehow strengthening her sigil, but like you said, no spirit.”
“Not on this side, at least.”
“What do you mean?”
Ignatius shrugged. “Eden didn’t touch a spirit. But the mark goes both ways, right?”
“It could’ve been on Mab’s end,” Zeke realized. “Shit. This whole thing just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
After slipping into his jacket, Ignatius produced a cigarette and fished in his pocket for a lighter. “I’ll take a look in my books, maybe ask some mages I know. See what I can come up with.”
“Thanks, man.” The tension in Zeke’s shoulders slightly released. They had no idea what kind of trouble Mab was in. Saving her would be a lot less daunting if he could wrap his mind around what they were up against, especially now that it could be putting Eden in danger.
They had nearly reached the truck when Eden woke. Lazarus got her to the ground as she slowly became aware of her surroundings, her eyes focusing first on Zeke and then Lazarus. The latter knelt beside her in the grass.
“It happened again.” Eden’s voice was quiet and a little raspy.
“Yeah,” Zeke said. “You lit up the night sky. I would’ve taken a picture if I wasn’t scared out of my wits.”
To his relief, she laughed, tilting her head toward the sky. She seemed better off than the last episode, coming back to herself more quickly. If anything, she just looked confused.
“Is that . . .?”
Zeke followed Eden’s gaze upward, seeing the swirling cloud of smoke hovering six feet above their heads. With an echoing yip, the smoke curled down and materialized into Hades. He leaned over Eden, nuzzling her cheek.
“I’m fine!” she insisted, gently moving back. Taking Lazarus’s hand, she climbed unsteadily to her feet.
“Did you see anything?” Lazarus asked.
Eden nodded. “I saw the forest again. And a man in a suit. Mab was talking to him, but I couldn’t understand the words.” She na
rrowed her eyes. “Something about a pike.”
“A pike?” Zeke raised a brow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Like a spear?” Ignatius cut in.
“I don’t know.” Eden frowned. “I just remember the word echoing through my mind. Like it was important or something.”
Lazarus mulled it over. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“No,” she admitted. “Not at all. But it’s got to be a lead, right? Maybe this is who took her.”
“It does seem likely,” Zeke agreed.
“It’s definitely the best lead we’ve got.” Lazarus jerked his thumb in the direction of the truck. “Let’s get back and patch up.”
A few minutes later, they were piled into the truck. Zeke and Eden scooted in beside Lazarus while Ignatius and Hades hopped in the bed. Through the back window, Zeke saw Ig lay down as Lazarus pulled away. He had a feeling he’d sleep the whole way back to the motel, and maybe then some.
As the truck trundled down the road, Lazarus finally spared a glance at Zeke’s arm. It stopped bleeding, leaving a messy trail down his arm.
“You all right?” Lazarus asked, his brown eyes serious.
“Oh, this?” Zeke glanced down. The wound burned like his skin was being opened up again and again by a red-hot scalpel. Blood was smeared down his arms, dried in rivulets like a frozen river. He imagined he could feel it vibrating on his skin.
He was definitely gonna need stitches.
Damn.
Turning back to Lazarus, Zeke forced a grin. They were alive. And not only were they alive, but they’d taken out four vampires, a whole hive in the making. Of course he was going to feel a little buzzed up and strange. “Yeah,” he assured Lazarus, “just a scratch.”
Eden sat cross-legged on the motel bed with Hades curled up beside her. Zeke perched at the foot of the bed like a nervous bird, holding out his arm so Lazarus could wrap a bandage around the wound. It was a shallow cut, a line of skin torn open by one of the vampire’s talons. Lazarus had already cleaned and stitched it up, much to Zeke’s consternation.
She was relieved to no longer be the center of their concern. By the time Lazarus pulled the truck into the motel parking lot, she was feeling mostly better. More like her usual self. The only evidence that anything had happened at all was the strengthened glow of her tattoo.
This time, the vision was unprompted. Eden was in the clearing one moment, watching the vampires advance, then it was like a veil had been pulled over her eyes. The world became hazy and confusing, but she could see Mab, bright and shining like a lighthouse in the mist. And the man. There was also a man.
Ignatius was quick to offer his theories. Eden had prompted the previous two visions by coming into contact with a spirit. What was to say Mab couldn’t do the same? Maybe the man was a ghost. To Eden, this only opened a slew of new questions. If Mab was the one who started the vision, then why was Eden the one on the ground beneath the strange lights? Why did the premonitions seem to go only one way?
Once the bandage was tied off, Zeke pulled his arm away. He hopped to his feet. Sometime in the last hour, his cheeks had regained color, the spring in his step returned. He’d been quiet the entire ride back, worry coming off him in waves. Foot tapping relentlessly, fingernails clacking against every surface. Eden couldn’t tell if it was the incident with the mark or the vampires themselves making him jumpy.
Zeke circled the bed and flopped down beside Eden, head on the pillow, and chin tucked against his chest. He reached for the remote on the side table, then grinned as Lazarus grabbed it and tossed it over.
“Maybe go take care of yourself a bit, huh?” Zeke suggested.
He had a point. Lazarus tried to hide it beneath his jacket. Still, there was no ignoring his shirt’s state, practically shredded from his collarbone halfway down his chest. During the drive, he’d relayed what happened to him in the RV, how he’d fought the vampire that made the others. Like Zeke, Lazarus was lucky to come out with only a scratch.
It seemed they were all lucky tonight.
Ignoring his cousin, Lazarus walked past Ignatius, who stretched out on the other bed, to the bathroom.
“Need any help?” Eden offered, eager to put herself to use.
“Nope.” He removed his jacket and tossed it on the bed. Taking a second glance, Laz grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the side table. Then he stepped into the bathroom, letting the door swing shut. But it swung back, just a crack, enough for Eden to see him slip out of his blood-stained shirt.
She thought to avert her eyes, but curiosity got the better of her. She’d only known Lazarus a few days but, already, she knew he’d do everything he could to minimize his own injuries. It wouldn’t surprise her if he ended up struggling to stitch himself back together rather than ask for help.
Lazarus faced away from her, hands on the sink, staring into the mirror. Though her intention was to examine his wounds, Eden quickly found her eyes roaming his broad shoulders and the strong muscles of his back. When he straightened, she looked away, eyes jumping to the television where Zeke was laughing along to some show involving an obstacle course.
When she was brave enough to look back, Eden saw Lazarus leaning against the sink, bringing up the whiskey bottle to take a swig.
He lowered his arm, and her blood went cold. Four slices inched across his chest, disappearing down his side. The way he had been acting, she expected to see a few scratches like the one on Zeke’s arm, not these bloody gashes. Grimacing, Lazarus reached for the first aid kit.
Without realizing what she was doing, Eden stood and marched over. She brushed into the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lazarus asked, his brows furrowed. He shrank back, big hands gripping the edge of the counter.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shot back, pointing to his chest. “This is bad, Lazarus. You need stitches.” Eden looked him over, studying the awful rips in his flesh. She couldn’t imagine the scars. “Like, a lot of stitches.”
Reaching into the first aid box, he pulled out a sewing kit, holding it up with a sarcastic flourish. She tried to grab it from his hand, but he held it tight.
“Can I just?” She sighed, letting go of the kit and looking away, anything to avoid the penetrating gaze she could still feel dancing over her. “Even once you’re stitched up, you’ll be in no condition to drive. It’s no trouble to heal you. Just let me take care of it. Please.”
She fully expected him to decline. To open the door and usher her out so he could stitch himself up with nothing but a sewing kit and a bottle of whiskey. Eden summoned the courage to look him in the eye, holding his gaze as Lazarus’s deep brown eyes washed over her. For a moment, they seemed stuck there together, and she knew she should look away.
Only, this time she couldn’t.
“Fine.” Lazarus broke the spell, taking the sewing kit and tossing it on the counter.
Flustered, Eden said, “Right. Just—” She looked around—he was too tall to get a good position—and motioned for him to sit down on the edge of the tub.
Lazarus did as he was told, giving no complaint. He sat with his arms at his sides, lightly gripping the tub. When Eden glanced at his face, she saw him nervously chewing his lip, eyes following her hands. She wondered if he’d ever been worked on by a mage.
Eden stepped close, snatching the bottle of whiskey off the counter. Lazarus raised a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“To write with.” She splashed some whiskey on her palm. He grabbed the bottle from her hands, holding her eyes as he took a long drink.
With whiskey-dampened fingers, Eden slowly drew out a sigil for health over Lazarus’s chest. Then, slowly, she pressed her palm against his chest. Brows furrowed, he stared at her hand and took a deep breath.
“Are you ready?”
Lazarus nodded.
“This won’t hurt,” Eden promised. Then she found her power, nestled in place around her heart. Sh
e set it free, allowing magic to seep through her hand into the mark on his skin.
Lazarus took a sharp breath, instinctually trying to pull away. Eden kept her palm flat against his collarbone, fingers splayed up his throat, leaning in as she poured power through the sigil and into his body. Beneath her fingers, she could feel the muscle respond to her touch, slowly beginning to knit back together. Lazarus looked down, watching his skin repair itself.
His chest was warm beneath her hand, his breath now coming in easy waves. Even as she worked, Eden could feel Lazarus’s pulse slow as he relaxed.
She had never done this before, not like this. Mab was always begging her to cure hangovers and patch up bruised and broken knuckles. This was different. Taxing, but also strangely exhilarating.
The slices shrunk, narrowing until they’d stitched back together, leaving a row of pink scars. As soon as the wounds closed, Lazarus grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her hand away. He inspected her palm, tilting his head to the side.
“I can take care of the scars,” Eden told him, his hand still around her wrist, her voice suddenly quiet. She moved to continue, but he held her back.
“Leave them.” He released her hand and brought his own to his chest, probing at the newly healed flesh.
Eden felt she should say something when he looked up at her, but she couldn’t think of the words. She realized she was still standing inches away, so close she could feel the warmth coming off him, could smell the scent of sweat and blood, wholly alien and yet painfully familiar. A memory that she couldn’t quite grasp.
“I should go,” she whispered, heart thundering so loudly she swore he would be able to hear it. She backed up to the door, fingers trembling over the knob, and eased it open, leaving Lazarus sitting on the edge of the tub with a bewildered look on his face.
A light burned inside him, and it was fading.
Lazarus stared down at his boots against the yellowed tile of the bathroom floor. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the tub and leaned his head back. Below his skin, a warmth resided, pulsing with the beat of a heart that was not his own. Her heart. Absurdly, he felt he should hold onto that feeling. Somewhere in his mind, Lazarus knew this was an effect of her magic, a high brought on by the flood of power. It wasn’t real, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
