by Rhys Ford
“Think we’ll need to bring weapons?” Ari grabbed his own blades, sliding the harness carelessly over his shoulder.
“Considering what happened here the last time, yes,” Death said. “It might come in handy defending your car in case another wraith attacks you.”
“You are never going to let that go,” Ari muttered softly. “And no, I’m not reparking the car.”
Mal parked nearby, and the other two got out as Death swore at Ari. Min trotted across the parking lot, falling into step next to the tall Horseman.
“You just like being difficult, huh?” She poked at his ribs, finding the center of the scarred sunburst on his torso. “You know how OCD he gets.”
“Yep,” Ari agreed, grinning broadly at Death’s mock disgust at his petty challenge. “Keeps him on his toes. He’ll never know when I’ll disobey him.”
“If you’re done being a child, walk me through what happened here.” Death paced around the gash, noting where splashes of blood dried on the curb’s rounded edge. Mal jogged over, dodging a motorcycle zooming by. Min watched the sleek machine weave through the parking lot, listening to its motor. “And the wraith was unveiled? Did anyone get hurt?”
“It definitely broke free from the Veil but went back in when it left,” Ari admitted. “To be honest, we didn’t stick around to check for any casualties. The wraith took off down the street toward the motel.”
“I’m surprised it didn’t stay to feed on its carnage,” Death mused, crouching down to sniff at the remains of the hydrant, a shorn piece of metal poking up under the edge of a sheet of plywood. “If it was powerful enough to get outside of the Veil, why wouldn’t it stay to eat what it hunted?”
“It had places to go, other kids to eat.” Ari stepped close, bending down beside Death. “I have no idea what you’re smelling.”
“Mostly, Chinese food right now.” Death glanced over his shoulder, inhaling the scent of burned sweet and sour sauce on the breeze. “I was trying to see if I could follow the power back to its origin, but it’s too old.”
“That makes a difference?” Min asked. “Here I thought you were like a bloodhound. Able to snatch the slightest of scents out of the air.”
“Age makes a huge difference with impressions,” Death replied. “If Ari was more skilled at this, he could have found out who was at the bottom of this when it happened.”
“Just can’t seem to learn it.” Ari spotted the security guard’s golf cart parked askew in front of the doughnut shop at the end of the rambling strip mall. The Mustang was safe from being ticketed for a while. “Maybe you haven’t tried hard enough to teach me, Shi. I’m thinking some wine, a bit of splashing in a tub, and then I’d be more amenable to learning those kinds of things.”
“You’re not a dog to be taught by treats.” Death stood, dusting the grit from his hands. “You don’t seem to have the patience or the palate.”
“I keep offering for you to taste my palate, but you keep turning me down.” Ari ignored Death’s pointedly exasperated sigh. “I’m telling you, Mal and I didn’t stick around—”
“What is that?” Mal pointed to the sky as a fluttering whirl of dust broke free from a bank of low-lying clouds.
The swarm grew, forming shapes in the malleable darkness. Death and Ari glanced up, a single fluid motion between them. The elder Horsemen reached behind their backs, the snick of blades leaving oiled sheaths.
Ari whistled out loud. “Fuck me. Looks like we’ve got company.”
“Well, at least we know the wraith wasn’t chance.” Death wove in, tilting his lean body sideways, shoulders squared against Ari’s. “That’s always comforting.”
“This is going to be nice.” Ari grinned wildly, the adrenaline pumping in his veins. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been together in a fight. Those are always fun.”
“Min, take up behind us. Keep Mal between.”
Death stepped into the space to Ari’s left. Ari spun a long dagger in his hand, settling the hilt comfortably in his palm. Another wicked-looking dagger slid free from its sheath, a sheen on its razor edge. Death’s katana hummed when its tip was struck by the barest kiss of Ari’s left blade. Back to back, they waited, feeling the Veil stretching thin around them.
In the distance, a single shrieking caw belled, rattling the Horsemen’s eardrums. The cacophony rose, small ripples of sound driving a piercing throb into their temples. Around them, pedestrians strolled by, unaware of the hideous rent in the space above them. A little girl, barely out of diapers, ran toward the Horsemen, her brown pigtails bouncing about her head. Giggling, her sweet voice screeching when her mother chased after her, the girl nearly ran into Ari’s leg. Flailing, her fist passed through his thigh.
Min pushed at Mal’s back, shoving him between them. She tugged her mace free, its silvered handle nearly black with the oils from her body, worn smooth in places from her hands. The woman’s fingers tightened, flexing until she found her grip. Boots shuffling on broken gravel, Min tensed, body coiled tight.
“Can you see what’s forming?” Ari turned, following the arc of the swarm. The shapes shifted again, becoming one mass as it caught a thermal rising off the street.
“Looks like a bird.” Death followed Ari’s worried look, falling on the wide-eyed Mal, his fingers nerveless around a knife, holding the weapon too tightly and at a bad angle. The creature’s wings were coalescing, stretching out pinfeathers from the shadowy nothingness.
“Birds are good.” Min fought to keep the volume of her voice down, excitement rising in her throat. “Right? A bird is good?”
“Nah, one of the squat things would be better,” Ari said. “It would be stuck to the ground. Something with wings has an up option. That makes it a bitch to fight.”
“Think whoever is after Kismet summoned this too?” Mal asked, concentrating on the movement of the dust cloud. The air around the shape was clearing, the shadows solidifying in the center of the mass.
“Has to be. He probably called them up to hunt the boy down or stop someone from getting to Kismet first.” Death weighed their options, wondering if it would be possible to reach Kismet before the wraith formed. “We can’t assume that the magus doesn’t know we’re here. If he’s got enough power to summon something this big, he might know more about the Veil than he should. A simple command, retrieve the boy or take up where the wraith left off.”
“If he has this much power, why does he want Kismet?” Mal asked. “What can Kismet give him if he can do this?”
“Why do you think it’s a he?” Frowning, Min poked at Mal’s ribs. “It could be a woman. Maybe it’s a she.”
“Don’t think that really matters right now,” Ari replied, the anticipation gnawing at his patience. “It all comes back to humans being crazy and thinking they can be all-powerful. They never learn.”
“Min, you and Mal might be able to get over to where the boy is.” Death stilled, feeling the air grow cold around them. “Ari and I should be powerful enough to draw the bird’s attention. It might be fooled into thinking that the strongest thing it senses down here is the boy and not manifestations.”
“I don’t know if we should leave you,” she protested.
“We’ll be fine.” Ari tossed her the keys to his Mustang, briefly sliding a dagger under his arm to tug the ring free. “See if you can get the kid and come back. We’ll be fine. We’ve fought more with less.”
“Go on,” Death urged them. “Before it comes down and you won’t be able to get free without drawing it to Kismet’s side.”
Folding the mace away, Min dragged at Mal’s waistband, pulling him with her toward the red Ford. Slamming the door behind her, she pulled the Mustang from the curb, tires screaming a black rubber trail on the lot. Torn between swearing after her and the flock, Ari sensed a gentle nudge against his ribs, Death’s elbow turning him. Tucked under his left arm, the dark-haired Horseman felt right positioned there, a comforting harbinger of destruction that matched his own bloodthirst
y nature.
“Been a long time,” Ari said, the rumble of his deep voice rich with laughter. “Since we’ve been like this, I mean.”
“You like this.” Death moved, his shoulder briefly rubbing Ari’s shoulder blades. The wraith spotted them and dived. Talons stretched out, it spiraled down, cutting through the air with a whistling sound, piercingly loud. Balancing himself, Death settled into a ready stance, katana poised over his arm, edge up.
“Damned right I do,” Ari responded. “Lets me know I’m alive.”
FRAZIER PEERED out from behind the dirty muslin curtains in the manager’s apartment, the thin material stiff with grease and dirt. Even through the thin latex gloves, his fingers felt grimy, a film of cigarette smoke and fried foods sticking to his skin. Carl’s body held court in an ancient white box freezer in the small dining room, rust spots and dings marking up its thick metal walls. The myriad of TV dinners the manager had stored there lay defrosting in the kitchen sink, a small pile of plastic food Frazier wouldn’t dream of putting into his body. He’d pocketed the stacks of cash he’d found wrapped in newspaper and ziplock bags.
A hastily scribbled note, barely legible, fluttered on the motel office’s door, notifying anyone stopping by that the manager would be out until Monday. It would be days before the tenants of the building noticed the man’s absence. Perhaps even weeks before the cops were called. Frazier planned to have the boy extracted from the premises before the hour was up.
Frazier’s need for a cigarette gnawed at him. He fought off the urge, knowing that he couldn’t risk leaving even the slightest speck of his spit or skin in the manager’s apartment. A skullcap pulled over his short hair would serve to prevent any accidental root discoveries, and he’d been careful to wear long sleeves to prevent any scraping of skin against sharp edges. The longer he stayed in the man’s apartment, the greater the chance of discovery before they could get the boy back to Beckett’s house.
He hadn’t planned on killing the manager, not at first, but as he listened to the man wheedle for more money, Frazier saw the uselessness of the situation unfold. Carl would become a loose end, and those were better left tied up before they unraveled and people starting asking questions. Besides, it gave Frazier great pleasure to stop the man’s whining voice.
Something flickered in the corner of the room. Turning, Frazier frowned, staring at the emptiness there. The living area was sparsely furnished, a broken-down couch with threadbare cushions taking up most of the wall beneath the window looking out onto the parking lot. A battered television perched precariously on a pressboard table, a length of cable running from the set to a splitter in the wall.
While rank and tight on space, the manager’s apartment was a prime spot to watch the boy’s place until Frazier decided to make his move. The motion pulled at him again, Frazier whipping his head around. He’d already looked through the small space for any sign of a pet, finding only stacks of porn and dirty laundry piles in the tiny bedroom.
Rats scratched in the crawlspace above the ceiling, or at least Frazier hoped the endless scrapings were from small rodents. He’d heard a story of a family of skunks suddenly startled by the smell of blood from a particularly violent murder, their oily scent spraying through the air-conditioning system. He certainly didn’t want to be found out about Carl’s death by an odor. His pride would never withstand the indignity of it. Staring back out of the window, Frazier ignored the scrabbling and concentrated on the boy’s closed door.
Since Frazier began squatting in the apartment, only a few of the motel’s residents had walked by, giving the boy’s door a wide berth. Dark splotches wrinkled the building’s stucco wall, shadows moving back and forth with the lights from passing cars. Frazier reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, the crinkle of its wrapper flaring his nostrils. Tongue swollen with moist want, the bodyguard tensed. A pair of young men were approaching his target’s home.
Glancing back toward the locked freezer, Frazier swore at Carl’s metal coffin. “Shit. If I could kill you again, I would. You told me he never had any visitors.”
Carl remained mute in his frozen prison, eyes iced shut against the cold blackness. Moisture leaking from his dead body crystallized against his slack skin, sticking the pair of brown polyester pants to his thighs. With the remainder of his warmth leeching from his corpse, Carl was slowly turned into a long slab of meat among frozen microwave burritos.
“Screw it. Time to grab the boy and leave.” The fog must have moved in, Frazier thought, as the two young men appeared to float in and out of his vision. Twisting his head, he tried to focus, blinking to shake off the watery tears filming over his eyes. Broken shards of darkness fought battles behind him, sucking on the tendrils of madness emanating from Frazier’s head.
“I think there’s a mortal watching this place from across the parking lot.” The rounder of the two men scratched at the thin smattering of hair on his chin.
Tucking his fingers into the fold of stomach hanging over the waistband of his sweatpants, Gluttony tried to make out the mortal’s aura, searching for a shred of vice in Frazier’s psyche. He found nothing emanating from the mortal, at least nothing connected to him. His fingers found his chin again, the under flap of his dusky thick arms wiggling as he scratched.
“I can feel him. But I can’t touch him. He’s not one of mine,” Gluttony remarked.
His companion was tempted to wave at the mortal, wondering how thin the Veil had become around the motel. Lanky, his body held a youthful gracefulness, flowing movements at odds with the jerky, bloated fumbling of his brother’s footsteps. Lust ducked his head, nearly nose-to-nose with Gluttony.
“Maybe he’s free of vice,” Gluttony deadpanned, his round face serious until Lust’s luminous green eyes glinted with humor. They burst out laughing, cheeks aching from the effort and then falling apart to small hiccupping gasps. Pounding his taller brother’s back, the rotund Sin caught his own breath, heaving a sigh and coughing out the air in his lungs. “He feels kind of normal. I’m still surprised he can see us.”
“I’m not,” Lust remarked, tilting his head back to watch a stream of shadows overhead. “Look at how thin the Veil is. Things are going to start crawling out really soon. I don’t want to be here when that happens.”
All around him, Lust felt the pull of humans on his calling, their covetous nature hooking into him and yanking small pieces of his control back and forth. He ignored them all, concentrating on the need trapped behind the thin painted door to Kismet’s private hell.
“Can’t you feel the tightness of the mortal world on you? That sticky wrapping on your face when you walk? I’ve never felt it so thin. Not like this. It’s incredible.” Lust fought the pull of a couple walking down the street, their hands intertwined. Their fingers winked gold, the rings’ matching bands wrapped around other fingers far from their mates. “Someone’s done something that he shouldn’t have. There’s something wrong with this one.”
Kismet’s soul literally wept with need, and Lust’s cock twitched in response, nipples tingling beneath the rub of his shirt. Kismet’s wants were nearly overpowering, energizing Lust down to his bones. “I want to know what’s going on. Use it if we have to.”
“Use it how?” Gluttony’s eyebrow crooked, a thick golden stud waggling in his nearly ebony skin. “It’s not like we can auction him off.”
Squat bodied and rounded, his face naturally creased in a smile, dimpled and merry. Never lacking company, he often shadowed Lust, moving through the world of the humans with a practiced ease. Chasing after the thinning Veil and the mortal at the center of it didn’t make much sense to Gluttony, but he was willing to see it through, more out of loyalty to his brother than anything else.
“I don’t know,” Lust admitted with a casual shrug. “And maybe auctioning him off isn’t a bad idea.”
The other Vice prodded at the bony remains of a wraith. In a few days, under the glare of harsh sunlight, it would disperse, leaving nothing b
ehind. The creature’s skull bore the marks of several blows. Gluttony poked his fat fingers through its eye sockets, nearly jumping back when a tendril slithered out of the hole.
“Why are you doing this?” Gluttony looked up from the wraith’s bones. “Why are you dragging me into this with you?”
“Why do I have to explain everything to you?” Lust hissed between his teeth, exasperated at his brother’s apathy. “This kid is important. I don’t know why, but I can feel him pulling at me, and it’s like kissing a star.”
“And you think this kid will do what for you?” the Vice asked, poking at a lingering tendril of inky blackness lying on the broken cement walk. It dissipated under the touch, unable to hold it cohesion when struck with flesh.
“Think on it. We’re more vital than any of the immortals, but we’re relegated to the back of the bus, sucking on the scraps of fame they might toss to us, like dried chicken bones leftover from a stew,” Lust said. “This kid is worth something. If we have control over him, who knows what we can do?”
“If we’re so important—” Gluttony leaned against the wall of the building, sniffing at the remnants of carnage caught along the Veil’s stickiness—“then why are we hiding here in the shadows sniffing around a human that probably will be more trouble than he’s worth?”
Lust replied, “Shut up and help me do this.”
Kismet, lost in the scent of acrylics and the images unfolding in his head, continued to paint, dipping brush strokes into his nightmares, then onto the canvas. Lust inhaled deeply, filling his body with the scent of the artist’s pain, cut sweet with the powerful drive of hidden passions. So much lay beneath the surface, pushed down deep below Kismet’s conscious thoughts, nailed down into a coffin of denial. The loss of family hung a shroud over the young man’s eyes, a loneliness haunting him. Narrow shoulder blades worked furiously beneath Kismet’s thin T-shirt, arcing motions dipping bony wings beneath the cotton.
