My face, but a mockery. The mouth split.
“You mad, bro?” my tormentor cackled.
I shoved him away violently. “Get out of my head!”
The Bobby-Thing rocked back on its heels, springing right back up like one of those clown-faced punching dolls. “It’s not that easy,” he taunted. The grin never wavered. “I got her, which means I got you.” Gleaming tendrils of energy trailed from the back of his head, skulljacking him to Marjory’s dead body. A second set of psychic cables sprouted from the whirling circles between her breasts. Those ran between her and me, hooking just under my ribs—exactly where the explosion of magic had crashed against my chest.
I needed to unpack the layers of that spell, and fast.
Lazily, the rings of the sigil spun, a tiny echo of the larger version reflected from every gleaming surface in the room. The burning letters shimmered and streaked, making them hard to read, but I managed. The outer ring—that was Marjory’s binding. It locked her soul to her body. The inner ring, blazing with his Name and my Name, let Zuriel leapfrog to me. The middle one, I wasn’t certain. The symbols rearranged themselves as I struggled for focus. Only one word stood out with any clarity.
Rage.
“You mad, bro?” he asked again. The question was ridiculous.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You know,” he spat. Taffy-stretched ribbons dangled from the lips of his melted simulacrum. “How about I give you time to reflect?” Locking the fingers of both hands, he shoved. Abruptly the floor tilted, and I hurtled backward, scrabbling for purchase.
As I thrashed, cracks spiderwebbed through walls and lights and autopsy equipment. Massive pieces sheered away in my hands. With a shattering explosion, the whole scene burst into a rain of jagged shards. They pelted my face and my jacket, stinging against my wings. Empty blackness hung behind them. The whirling sigil was an ultraviolet ghost against the void.
I stopped my fall with a downstroke, one arm shielding my eyes. The raining shards expanded, folding outward until they penned me in with mirrors. Front, back, top, down, Zuriel cackled in every one, wearing endless iterations of my face. Only the sneer of the lips was different. Petty.
“You been two-faced so long, you wouldn’t know the real one if it bit you,” he growled. Jacked in through Marjory, he skimmed my thoughts. I didn’t know how deep he could go, but I could feel those cords at my chest. They were like vipers, poisonous and burrowing.
I needed to cut myself free and put an end to this, but that meant slashing my ties to Marjory. At the thought, I felt a welling reluctance. She was dead. I knew it, but I didn’t want to lose her.
Let me go. Find Tabitha.
That made sense—so why did the prospect hurt so much?
Around me, banks of mirrors folded and refolded themselves in a whirl of kaleidoscope physics. Weightless, I drifted among shifting angles, seeking a way through the ever-warping maze. At every turn, I was confronted by a mockery of my stolen face.
“You know what I’m after,” he spat.
“No,” I said. “I really don’t.”
“Liar!” he shouted. The mirrors rattled with the force of it, a brittle cascade of tinkling notes. “He came here to meet with you. I know he did. I plucked it from her head.”
“Now who’s lying?” I demanded. “You never broke her, not even when you bound her to her corpse.”
Fifteen versions of my face folded into masks of ugly rage. “I’m psychic, you dumb shit. I didn’t have to break her.”
“But she beat you any way,” I needled. “Bet that pisses you off.”
He launched into a long and gratifying rant of barely cogent fury. While he distracted himself, I groped for the root of my tie to Marjory. Hooked deep, it was nearly hidden by Zuriel’s own cobbled connections. Her mind chimed like distant music. Even in the midst of this psychic assault, she was still fighting.
She’d walled herself away in one of her travel stories, doggedly imagining the majesty of the Himalayas. Bypassing the mirrors, I arrowed for the tiny sanctuary. The snow-bright image held a soothing nostalgia. I’d never been to this place, but I’d heard it read to me.
That’s it, she urged. Follow the path to the summit.
Through tenuous threads of recognition, I dove until I found her. Behind me, Zuriel lashed the air, but I held tight to my purpose. My brother might have crafted this space, but he’d built its foundation on Marjory. If I found her, I could free both of us.
She hung in a gray expanse, suspended at the center of the burning sigil. The three rings spun in mad gyrations, whirling so fast they painted a sphere of light around her. His power gleamed in its inscribed symbols, arctic-white and cold as her dreams of Everest.
Here, the devious cruelty of Zuriel’s gambit became apparent. The threads connecting us went far deeper than those he’d cobbled together. Marjory was an anchor—a mortal into whom I’d placed a portion of my power. Anchors were more than friends or allies. They were family—often literally. When life left my mortal body, it was through an anchor that I’d instinctively seek rebirth.
I should have seen it. The deep connection. The haunting recognition. She’d listed me as next of kin. Marjory was about the right age—
Don’t think about it, I told myself.
I couldn’t afford to waver, so I drew my daggers. The curving blades sang as I pulled them free, their glinting steel catching slivers of my face. One eye spilled light, pale as the moon on a midnight lake, and glimmers of answering fire licked along the steel. Weapons primed, I studied the whirling sigil. This work came down to timing. The knots of power were so enmeshed, any cut that freed us both would sever her ties to me.
But I had to get to her first.
“Do it,” Zuriel coaxed. “Cut her. I want to see you hurt like me.”
I didn’t ask or try to reason. There was no way to contend with that kind of hate. Tucking my wings, I plummeted at top speed through the rotating rings, catching an open space before they all scythed together. But I couldn’t move fast enough. The middle ring cut a swath of fire across my brow. Ducking, I curled my body into a tight ball to avoid decapitation. Icicle shards of magic burst against my vision as an edge caught me a second time.
Then I made it. Marjory hung deep in her dreams of distant places, backpacking with the love of her life. In those dreams, she sometimes had a son, and Tabitha was safe.
Zuriel’s power bore down with suffocating intensity. Sere tongues of white flame leapt from the physical inscriptions writ large upon the spinning sigil to the ethereal strands woven within and throughout Marjory. I aimed my daggers.
“I am so sorry,” I breathed.
Power surged. Her lids fluttered, and our eyes met. I knew her smile. Loss welled at the impending amputation, but I refused to hesitate.
In a clash of light that drowned my vision, I cut Marjory free.
16
The stink of scorched skin chased the winter-sharp bite of Zuriel’s power as I emerged. My ears thudded with the rush of my heart. The room felt strange and hollow around me, and I stared at each reflective surface, making sure I was truly out of his crafted nightmare.
The severed-limb ache of Marjory’s absence should have been answer enough. Her corpse was just a corpse again, brutalized, mutilated, but with no soul attached.
Bobby stared like he expected me to collapse at any moment, stepping close in case he had to catch me. Irritably, I waved him off.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. We both knew it was a lie.
“What next?” he asked.
“I need… I need to see her things, Bobby.” I struggled to get the words past the dry and ragged feeling in my throat. I hunched around a deep burn beneath my ribs that might have been my heart, but was probably something worse.
Both of my blades were drawn. Out of habit, I wiped the daggers on the leg of my jeans before hiding them away in their sheaths. As I sagged against one of the nearby drawers, Bobby put Marjory back roughly
the way we had found her, fussily settling her sheet a little higher on the Y-incision. Neither of us mentioned the blackened streak of damage I’d left burned across her chest.
We exited the room, and Bobby hustled me toward the far end of the section. We moved through the halls swiftly, but no longer had the complex to ourselves. Activity had picked up as the night shift gave way to the day crew. Still hunching around that dull ache where my connection to Marjory had been severed, I kept my head down and avoided eye contact. I had zero interest in talking with anyone, but at least half of the new arrivals knew Bobby on sight, so they slowed our progress with a seemingly endless stream of “good mornings” and “hellos.”
Everything rankled. All the pleasantries were empty recitations, the reflex of a polite society. It was different for Bobby. He met the eyes of each person who greeted him, making a point to acknowledge them by name. He didn’t talk long—we were both in too much of a hurry to waste that kind of time—but he made every salutation count.
“Mr. Popularity,” I muttered once we had a little stretch of hall to ourselves. Bobby just shrugged, as if his level of earnest amiability was nothing special at all.
“It’s not hard to be nice to people,” he responded, a little perplexed.
“Says you.”
“Seriously, Zack. Who’s to say they’re not having the same kind of day we are?” he said. “This kind of job, people see awful shit nearly every hour, and that’s just the work front. We don’t know their lives—we only see a sliver, and they’re putting their best face on, just like we are.” A little too pointedly, he added, “Everyone’s carrying some hidden pain. A little kindness goes a long way.”
“Don’t start with the lecture,” I grumbled. “Not now.”
“Sorry,” he said—and he meant it. He started to say something else, but I quelled it with a look. My breath felt shallow in a way I really didn’t like, and I couldn’t nail down the extent of the damage I’d done to myself. Waves of wounded anger thudded against my skull, some of it directed at Zuriel, but the rest bleeding through all of my thoughts. I wanted to snarl at the fake smiles around me, just draw my blades and cut the hypocrisy from their skin.
You mad, bro?
I’d cut Zuriel’s access, but the taunt lingered persistently.
“Pissed as hell,” I muttered.
“I didn’t catch that,” Bobby said.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets to hide the clenched fists. Muscles across my shoulders bunched beneath the jacket. “Shut up and get a move on.”
Bobby’s mouth tugged downward. He was smart enough not to say anything, but he quickened his steps, angling away from me. A growing distance opened between us in the hallway. If he thought that made him safe, fine by me.
We marched in silence until we came to the door of the properties room. Bobby scooted ahead, approaching the gal behind the counter. I let him do the talking. He kept glancing back over his shoulder. I looked away. The properties clerk was new to her job, so he had to introduce himself. Somewhat subdued, he still managed to be charming. She only frowned once in my direction. Bobby diverted her attention and, after a few exchanged pleasantries, she happily signed Marjory’s effects out to me.
Avoiding my eyes, she pushed the clipboard through the window dividing us. I scribbled a rough approximation of my name—it still felt foreign, even after a year—then shoved pen and clipboard back at her.
“Thanks,” she muttered, peeling back a layer of the ditto paper. She tore off the bottommost sheet and placed it on the counter. “That’s your copy. Let me get the box of her things.”
“We appreciate it,” Bobby said.
She gave him a weak smile and then, softly humming, disappeared down the rows of metal shelving piled high with box after box. Folding the receipt for Marjory’s things into something manageable, I tucked it into a pocket. Without warning, an aftershock of pain lanced through my chest. The world grayed and I seized the counter.
“Are you sure you’re ok?” Bobby asked.
“No,” I snapped.
“What happened back there?” His eyes flicked in the direction of the clerk and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know what I saw wasn’t half of it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. Swift as it arrived, the pain started fading. I held my breath in anticipation of another wave. Nothing came. Tentatively, I straightened.
The girl returned with a small-lidded carton sealed with orange tape. “Marjory Kazinsky,” she pronounced. “This is all she came in with.” She placed the box into a metal drawer set under the counter. It opened on both sides. I reached for the handle, but Bobby interposed himself with a cautious glance toward me.
“What’d you do that for?” I demanded.
Bobby took the package and tucked it under one arm, then turned back to the girl.
“Is there a room free, where we can look over these before he takes them home?” he asked. “The case is ongoing.”
“Sure,” she said, pointing. “Right over there.”
Box in hand, he muttered his thanks and headed toward the door she’d indicated. Choking on annoyance, I stalked after him. Twice, I almost ripped the package from his grip. All I wanted was to grab her things and get the hell home. All the chattering mortals made my skin crawl.
Oblivious to the violent scenes of carnage scrolling behind my eyeballs, Bobby ushered me through the door. He locked it behind us the minute I was through. Slamming the box onto the desk in the center, he whirled to confront me.
“Tell me what happened.” He kept his voice low, conscious of the clerk, but the way the tendons corded on his neck, it was obvious he wanted to shout.
“I said, I don’t want to talk about it,” I snarled. Shouldering him aside, I grabbed the box and ripped through its seal. Tossing the lid to the floor, I upended the container, dumping all of its contents into a messy heap on the desk. They were depressingly sparse—a green purse of worn leather, house keys, and two rings—both with a Southwestern theme.
No cellphone.
Anticipating my question, Bobby said, “If she had a cellphone, it’s in evidence for sure.”
“That doesn’t help me,” I groused.
He made an empty-handed gesture. “I might be able to get access from Lopez, if I fake the right reason, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Useless,” I muttered. “Fucking useless.”
“Come on, Zack,” Bobby urged, pulling out the chair. It rolled on heavy casters over a thick square of plastic sheeting meant to protect the tile. Age had left the plastic warped and yellowed, the edges curling up. “Take a few minutes and calm down. Whatever you went through back there, it couldn’t have been easy.” He reached for my elbow. I jerked away so violently I nearly clocked him in the forehead. Hesitantly, he backed off. “To be honest,” he said, “you’re kind of scaring me.”
“Good,” I snapped. “You should be scared. You know the kinds of things I’m capable of.”
“Zack—” he persisted, but I ignored him. Rooting around in the whale of a handbag, I searched for Marjory’s wallet. I wanted to see her pictures—nearly everyone her age still kept printed ones. The main pocket was a bust. Breath mints, a tube of lipstick, half a dozen crinkled candy wrappers. Werther’s Originals. They were everywhere. A sense-memory of their taste rose swiftly at the back of my throat, blindsiding me with wrenching nostalgia. Cozy home feelings.
They did nothing to allay my rising fear and anger. Spitting an incoherent string of curses, I shook the handbag as if it might disgorge its secrets under threat of violence.
“Where the hell is her wallet?”
“Try the middle pocket,” Bobby offered. “That’s where my mom usually keeps hers.”
I didn’t thank him, just went straight to the central section. Something caught in the teeth of the zipper, and it snagged halfway open. I tried to force it, but my strength was more than the metal could bear. The zipper’s tag ripped off in my hand and, snarlin
g, I hurled it against the wall. It hit with enough force, it scored the plaster.
“Fuck it all,” I grumbled.
Bobby took a halting step backward. One hand twitched in the direction of his firearm. Then he caught himself, straightening the lines of his shirt instead.
“I’ve… never seen you like this, Zack,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” I snapped. “I remind you of Garrett?” The words leapt all of my filters. I knew better, but I couldn’t stop. “We’re more alike than you realize, you know.”
Bobby rocked as if slapped. “That’s not fair—not to any of us.”
“Don’t talk to me about fair,” I said. “Not with what I had to do back in that meat locker.” With a snkkt of metal against Kydex, I pulled one of my daggers. Bobby’s eyes flew wide. I adjusted my grip and the curve of the weapon caught the light of the stuttering fluorescents. He backed up until he could go no further, narrow shoulders smacking the door, one hand perched upon the knob.
“Zack, what are you doing?” he asked uncertainly.
Without comment, I plunged the blade into the lining, gutting Marjory’s purse. Bobby’s face seesawed in a bewilderment of shock and relief.
“You can’t do that,” he objected.
“She’s dead,” I reminded. “I can do what I want.” Angling my hand out of the way, I re-sheathed the dagger with a snap.
“Yeah, but…” He trailed off.
“I need to see her wallet,” I said insistently.
A long, fat monster of turquoise, I dragged it through the slice in her purse. Cards from local businesses came tumbling out the minute I opened it—tons of them. Most had notes scribbled on the back, names of employees and managers along with details like “has a precious kitty,” and “birthday in March.”
Marjory kept track of everyone she enjoyed doing business with. Probably sent each of them holiday cards.
That wasn’t what I was after. I scattered the cards anyway, just in case something important was sandwiched between her mementos for Rito’s Bakery, Three Brothers Plumbing, and all the rest.
It wasn’t.
One side of the wallet had a pocket with a clear plastic window. It held her driver’s license. The thing had been in there so long, it had adhered to the plastic. I teased it out with a little effort, holding it vaguely in Bobby’s direction.
The Resurrection Game Page 10
