by Hannah Marae
She took a step.
The sand beneath her feet lit up a brilliant gold, reverberating away from her. Eden watched ripples of light shoot into the distance, over and over, disappearing beneath the stars.
Then she heard them.
Strange whispers cut through the unnerving quiet, shadowy and dark. She strained to hear the growing sound, turning to find where it came from. Then she realized. Looking down, Eden saw the sand glowing beneath her feet, pulsing in time to the hushed voices.
She stumbled back, sending the waves of light crashing anew. She couldn’t decipher the shadowy language that seemed to call to her, pulling her in. The sound grew, slowly coming into focus, a chorus of laughter and screaming. Sobs and sorrow. Fragments of memory flooded her mind’s eye.
A boy lay on a dirt path, his legs crushed beneath the wheel of a wagon, his screams echoing down the street. Bystanders tried to help. They pulled his tiny body out from beneath the wheels, but there was so much blood, and he was too broken to—
A woman blushed, standing in a darkened stoop on a quiet street. City lights blazed cheerily in the distance. Before her was the woman she’d been waiting for. Her best friend, her soulmate, on one knee with a ring in her hand. The woman grinned and said the word, pulling her lover up to meet her waiting lips—
Faster and faster, the images played. A weary family gazed up at the Statue of Liberty. A woman sat at a desk and wrote famous words. A man stepped onto the surface of the moon. Memories, thousands of memories blurring through her mind, fast enough to make her head spin. The chorus became a cacophony, pressing in on all sides—a boy hiding in the trenches, a woman gasping as her firstborn slid from her body—and it wouldn’t stop. Eden collapsed to her knees, hands scrabbling up to her ears, eyes pressed closed. But she still heard the cries, still saw the memories flashing in front of her eyes.
A child playing the starring role in the school musical. Another waiting sadly in the wings. A plane crashing into the ocean. A person screaming in the mountains, broken and alone.
A lush garden filled with prostrating figures and, standing among them, a man in heart-shaped sunglasses and a loving smile.
“Stop,” Eden whispered. Jaw clenched, her hands clamped tightly over her ears, she tried to block the unending, penetrating noise that only grew louder until it was emanating from within. The visions slid in front of her eyes, barely finishing before the next began. Over and over and over. An eternity spent watching the lives of other people. Her bones vibrated, her mind splitting wide open as her heart thundered behind her ribs. She opened her mouth to gasp for breath, but all she could do was scream.
Stop!
Quiet descended over the desert, the memories freezing and then fading into nothing. Through watery eyes, Eden saw the golden light had ceased. She removed her hands, lifting her head.
A figure stood in the distance, a man in a black suit with glowing red eyes. He was watching her. Waiting, but for what?
Letting out a ragged breath, Eden climbed to her feet. “Hello?”
She shivered as the man walked toward her, a pair of smoke-shrouded figures slinking at his side. He was sharp and angular, his gray hair swooped back, ember eyes fading to green. He seemed familiar. So familiar. Eden imagined she could still feel his cold hand pressed against her forehead. This was him, she realized—the reaper who had taken her soul.
“I have been searching for you,” he said, his hoarse voice tinged with amusement.
Eden looked around. Already, the effects of memories had lifted. Her heart was sluggish in her chest, her body numb and slow, like it wasn’t entirely her own. “This isn’t the Good Night,” she managed to say.
“No.” Gray eyes glittered. “This is not Purgatory. This is someplace else. Someplace more private.”
“Care to enlighten me?” Eden asked, drawing herself up. “What the hell was that? What is this place?”
“This place”—the reaper came to a stop a few feet away, gesturing widely with his arm—“well, we like to call it the Memoriam. It is a collection or, perhaps more accurately, a dumping ground. The memories of every human soul that has ever passed through Purgatory resides within these sands.”
“But . . .” Eden’s throat tightened, and she struggled to swallow. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. She should have been safe in the Good Night, sleeping the long sleep while waiting to move on. How had she ended up here? “What happened to me?”
The reaper gave a dismissive shrug, reaching out to run his fingers through the smoky forms of the hellhounds that swirled around him. “You disturbed the sand.”
“But why am I here?” she protested, voice rising. “I was supposed to be in the Good Night. Where Mab was.”
“The other was an accident. You are right where I meant for you to be.” He beckoned her forward. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” She didn’t want to follow, didn’t trust this reaper or the way he seemed to talk circles around her questions. The Memoriam? What kind of place was this for a soul?
But she took a step forward and then another, her body out of sync with her mind. Like an obedient dog, she followed the reaper through the piles of memory. “Why can’t I stop?”
“Because your soul belongs to me now. Don’t worry. We’re almost finished,” he said finally as they crested a dune. “Look.”
Below, a great valley, countless miles of sand, stretched as far as she could see. Within, there were people, so many they seemed to disappear into the distance. Squinting, Eden could make out figures in modern clothing standing beside those dressed from eras past. Nineties grunge, eighties hair, poodle skirts, and victory rolls alongside top hats and bustles. All of them stood, arms slack at their sides and eyes glowing the same gold as the memories in the sand.
“Who are they?”
“They are a gift,” the reaper replied. “A tribute.”
“From Josephine,” Eden realized. He said Mab being in the Good Night was an accident. Could it be that she was meant to end up here? But that meant all these people had fallen victim to one of the blood mage’s deals. There were thousands of them. How was that possible? “But why?”
“Fuel. For what is to come.”
He walked down into the valley, and Eden followed. She tried to stop herself, her mind frantically shooting signals that her body refused to acknowledge. Instead, she asked questions. “What’s happening to them?”
“Visions,” the reaper said. “They’re plugged into the Memoriam, watching memory upon memory. They are pacified. It’s no different from Purgatory, in the end. At least for them, there’s a show. Normally I let them watch their own memories, let them relive their own lives. They find it peaceful, I think.”
He stopped, turning to face her. Curiosity slipped into his expression. “I would have given you the same,” he said, “but it seems your memories are missing. ”
“No,” Eden whispered. Her blood went cold, chest tightening. How could he know that? How could he know she didn’t remember anything before that night five years ago? The night Mab found her unconscious on the side of a highway, the word Eden scrawled on her palm.
“Don’t worry. I have something special in mind.” With a loose wave, he sent her stumbling into the crowd.
Eden watched as her body settled beside a uniformed man and a pioneer woman. The reaper turned to walk back up the dune as her eyes clouded over, and a scene clicked into place.
In a blink, the desert vanished, the dunes becoming a dingy basement. The walls were unfinished, bare sheet rock and rafters overhead—a concrete floor, water dripping from the ceiling, the air bitter cold and quiet as death.
Eden had no memory of this place, but that didn’t mean anything. Was this one of the pieces, some part of her she couldn’t remember?
Somewhere unseen, a door flung open. Hurried footsteps pounded down the stairs. A woman came into view, tall and wiry with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of a cloudy day. At the bottom, she looked around w
ildly, her gaze settling on something behind Eden. The woman stood there in disbelief, breathing heavily, hand clutching what looked like a coin.
Another person emerged, a young man fresh-faced and scared as hell.
Zeke.
But that meant . . .
Eden turned, and she saw him. Lazarus, lying on the dusty floor with his arms splayed at his sides. His lips were slightly parted, black hair haloing his face, eyes open but unseeing, as if his soul had left his body.
As if he were dead.
Lazarus stepped out of the car and circled around to the passenger’s side. He opened the door and stooped to grab the insulated pizza bag off the seat. Then, adjusting the dorky hat Zeke made him wear, he walked up the driveway to the manor’s front door.
Night had fallen, and the plan was coming together. Ignatius showed in time to see it put into action, lending Laz his car along with—to Zeke’s elation—a full pizza delivery getup he picked up en route. Lazarus didn’t want to know where Ig got the uniform, but it smelled greasy enough to be the real thing.
Movement flashed at the corner of his eye, and Laz looked in time to see a lanky coyote lope across the street. He watched as Ignatius disappeared behind the house. Mab and Zeke were back there, watching from the woods as the manor quieted for the night. Somewhere, Pyke was circling, waiting for them to get to Eden in the vault, to break the seals that kept him out. And, for now, all of that depended on Lazarus.
No pressure or anything.
Approaching the door, Lazarus rolled his shoulders and gave it a lazy knock. It was late in the evening, and he expected to be in for a long wait, but the door opened almost immediately.
A tall woman emerged, holding onto the door like she was prepared to shut it in his face. She looked Lazarus up and down, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice stiff and a little forced.
“Yeah.” Lazarus pointedly looked down at the insulated bag in his hands. He unzipped the bag and slipped out a greasy box. “Got your pizza here.” He tried to hand it over, but the woman—the thrall—just blinked.
“We didn’t order that.”
She stared at him with blank eyes, and Lazarus wondered how thralls worked. Mab said she controlled them like puppets, that their souls were stripped away. Were they like a Nowhere person following a script, or did Laurent herself look out through their eyes?
The worst of it was knowing that Eden was in there, trapped somewhere beneath the house. It took Lazarus everything he had not to storm inside, push past the thrall, and fight his way into the vault. It wouldn’t end well, but the impulse was strong. He took a measured breath.
“Look ma’am.” Lazarus held up a spelled receipt. “I’ve got the address right here.” He stepped forward, using his height to herd her back, and entered the house. Turning, he spotted a side table to the right of the doorway, just like Mab said. With an exaggerated motion, he set the pizza down and turned to face the thrall. “That’ll be twenty-three dollars. Plus tip.”
The thrall blinked. Either he’d screwed with her programming, or she was unsure of what to do. She opened her mouth and closed it, staring straight ahead.
“Can’t leave until you pay me, lady.” Lazarus shrugged. He leaned against the wall, discreetly slipping an open pocketknife from his sleeve into his palm.
As he watched her, the thrall’s expression changed. Her brows furrowed, teeth bared in a snarl. “Fine. Yes,” she snapped. Then she went still, face softening as the placid expression returned.
That must have been the blood mage, Lazarus realized. Laurent was speaking through her thrall. A chill crawled up his spine, and he was glad he hadn’t insisted on sending Zeke in his place. Even if the thrall didn’t recognize him, Laurent surely would.
Lazarus took a look around as the thrall went to the side table and slid open a drawer. The moment her back was turned, he spun, keeping one eye on the thrall as he quickly scratched a line through the ward etched into the back of the door.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, spinning back to face her. Lazarus shoved his hands, and the knife, into the pockets of his jeans.
“Surely you’ve heard of Madame Josephine Laurent?” The thrall slipped a few bills from a money clip and closed the drawer. She walked back to the door, her back turned on the pizza box that still sat on the side table.
Lazarus tried not to look as the box shuddered, a dark cloud slipping free to skulk into the shadows near the staircase, disappearing into the manor.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, reaching up to adjust his cap. “I wanted to see her down at the festival but the line, y’know? Guess everyone wants their fortunes told.”
She passed him the bills, a twenty and a five.
He raised a brow. “You’d think Madame Laurent could afford a better tip.” The thrall opened the door, overlooking the broken ward. “I mean, two bucks? Seriously?” She wordlessly ushered him out the opening and shut the door in his face.
Sighing, Lazarus hauled the empty pizza bag back to where Ignatius’s car waited. He tossed it in the back and hopped in. Then he pulled out of the driveway, heading down the street while dialing Mab’s phone number.
“Yeah?” her brusque voice answered after the first ring.
“The ward on the front door is broken. Hades is inside.” He noticed a coyote break free from the trees and head up onto the road. Pulling to a stop, Lazarus waited as Ignatius shifted before climbing into the back seat.
“I saw Hades,” Ignatius said as he pulled on the change of clothes he’d stashed under the seat. “He’s taking care of the wards in the basement. They’re good to go.”
Lazarus nodded. “You hear that, Mab? Basement wards are down. Let’s get this party started.”
“Well?” Zeke pressed as Mab hung up her phone and stuffed it into the pocket of her leather jacket. He shifted his weight between feet in an attempt to dispel some of the anxious energy. They were hunkered down in the woods that ran along the property’s rear, the manor barely visible through a dozen yards of brush and trees. Lazarus would be in the car around the front, heading for an abandoned lot a few streets away.
“Hades broke the basement ward,” Mab replied. “We’re good to go as soon as the place shuts down for the night.”
Through the trees, Zeke could see lights still on in the windows. “That could take forever,” he complained. Already, he was getting antsy, tired of crouching down in the dirt with nothing to do but to wait.
“Yeah, well, you do not want to go in there with all the thralls awake. Trust me.”
For the next hour, they sat in the woods, and Zeke was halfway crazy by the time the last light went dim. Mab sent a message to Laz and Ignatius. They waited some more, staying in position until she was satisfied the coast was clear.
Then, finally, they moved.
After picking their way through the brush, Zeke and Mab emerged beside the basement window on the house’s west side. Mab knelt along the wall and pressed her hands against the glass. She gave the window a push, just wide enough for them to squeeze through.
Across the grounds, Zeke knew Lazarus and Ignatius would be doing the same thing, creeping into the house through a bathroom window. Each group would make their way through the manor, breaking every ward they saw as they converged on the vault. Hopefully this would create a hole large enough for Pyke to wriggle through.
“In you go,” Mab told him, giving a little shove as Zeke slithered through the window.
He emerged into darkness. Mab followed, pushing ahead as she flicked on her phone’s flashlight. She swept it in wide arcs, casting light in a circle around them. The basement was huge, filled with unlabeled boxes and shelves of meticulously organized glass jars. Activating his own light, he shined it on a row of mason jars filled to the brim with dark liquid. He leaned in, watching the way the blood went a brilliant ruby as his light passed over, glimmering like a precious jewel in liquid form.
“Blood mag
ic is disgusting.” Mab scowled.
“Yeah. . . .” he murmured. That was one word for it.
He straightened, shaking his head to rid himself of the mesmerizing feeling. Wiping his brow, Zeke asked, “Does it feel hot in here?”
“No, it’s a basement,” Mab replied dryly, and Zeke could imagine her rolling her eyes in the darkness. “You’re probably just anxious.”
She led him deeper into the basement, searching for the door on the back wall. They threaded their way through the shelves. Zeke found himself staring with a sickening sort of curiosity. He wondered where all this blood had come from, what kind of people had given it up. Blood magic was said to be a rare art, and he knew precious little about it. He imagined Laurent sitting in the parlor, her small teacup filled to the brim with red.
They were near to the door when a pair of crimson beads flashed in the darkness. Mab jumped back with a curse, and Zeke grabbed her elbow to keep her steady. He swept his light around, revealing Hades, who panted happily at the foot of the stairs.
“Hey.” Zeke reached out as the hellhound nuzzled his hand. “You did great. You ready for the next part?”
Wagging his tail, Hades turned and bounded away.
The stairs opened into a pantry as big as Ignatius’s kitchen. Mab made for the door, but Zeke spun in a circle, awestruck by the assortment of snacks that sat alongside more typical staples. He nearly collapsed from joy when he spotted a case of energy drinks on a lower shelf. Quickly, he snagged one and cracked it open before Mab could protest.
“Seriously? What is wrong with you?”
She flashed him an angry glare, but Zeke just chugged it down. Ever since leaving the motel, he’d been feeling edgy, more so than usual. His brain felt like it was buzzing in his skull, his mind wandering. It’d only been a few hours since he’d shot-gunned a coffee in Lazarus’s truck, but already the need for caffeine was creeping up on him. When he finished the can, he slipped it back into the case with a happy sigh.
