The Resurrection Game

by Michelle Belanger

  “That’s something I can’t actually talk about,” I hedged, astounded I was able to get even that much past the gag-order of Sal’s oath.

  Halley made a thoughtful sound, edged with disappointment. Her hand on the seatbelt fell still for the first time since we’d started the conversation. A long silence followed, long enough for me to hope her thoughts had taken her to some arena of interest far removed from the grim events linked irrevocably to Lake View. I really didn’t want to talk about this, not with Halley. She needed her hero unsullied, and with the Eye, I was anything but.

  Stewing in a welter of my own unpleasant recollections, I numbly guided the Hellcat along the winding road, slowing as the light ahead switched from green to yellow.

  “She said you wouldn’t be able to answer.” Halley blurted the statement so matter-of-factly, it was a good thing I was already stopping at an intersection. I didn’t trust my hands on the wheel.

  “You’re talking about Lailah again, aren’t you?” I didn’t really need to ask. Knuckles whitening, I fought a rush of conflicting emotions—not the least among them, jealousy. For months, the only contact I’d had with Lailah’s spirit came fitfully through music and dreams, but somehow, Halley saw her clearly. The girl’s blood pulsed with the gifts of my tribe, but I had no explanation for the disparity.

  “Lailah teaches me, when you can’t,” the girl replied. Her skinny hand drifted toward mine, hesitating a moment, then alighting with the delicate brush of a butterfly’s gossamer wings. A staggering jolt of power at odds with the lightness of her touch leapt between us as she made contact. “It hurts. I know. Come and see.”

  A haze of lavender light clouded my vision and the road slipped abruptly away. For a moment, I tumbled in a free-fall, wings beating spastically in an effort to gain any purchase—up or down or sideways. I couldn’t tell the direction of my plummet, and then I appeared in a courtyard paved with white and black marble in a chevron design. High towers ranged all around, the brilliant white of their limestone façades reflecting the rosy light of a setting sun.

  Halley stood before me—a very different Halley than the skinny child huddled in the distant seat of the Hellcat. This was Halley as she saw herself, the young woman she was meant to be—willowy, tall, extremely self-possessed. In her glittering, floor-length dress, she looked every minute of her fifteen years, and then some. Long waves of dark hair fell about her shoulders like a cloak, cascading to the ground. Twin sections at her temples were tightly braided, swept back from her smooth brow and pinned in place beneath a delicate, jeweled tiara.

  She was always a princess in her mind-palace, although more and more she looked like a queen. The sight momentarily stole my breath with that sweet, aching pride I imagined a parent must feel for a favored child.

  “You look tired, Wingy,” she said, the fond nickname somewhat at odds with her regal deportment—but here, I earned it. Blue-white structures comprised of gleaming light spread behind me as I alighted on the rich paving stones, the wings sprouting unimpeded through the leather of my jacket.

  “I am tired, Halley,” I answered, settling the extra limbs tightly against my back. The tips trailed the ground behind my boots. “It’s been a long few weeks. But you shouldn’t bring me in here when I’m driving. We could wreck.”

  “The car’s stopped,” she responded, picking up her skirts and sweeping ahead of me along a crooked path. “This won’t take long, not out there. She needed to tell you herself.”

  “What?” I asked, jogging after her. “Who?” But I knew the answer, and it spurred my chase. In silence, Halley glided ahead of me, always a few steps out of reach. Slowly, I caught up with her, but only with effort. Her glass-slippered feet were deceptively swift.

  By the time I reached her, we were no longer near the palace, but on the verge of an enormous garden spilling through a hole in the wall. Halley stepped lightly over tumbled masonry, lifting her skirts to rush deep into the riot of flowers. Through twists and turns of soft lavender leaves, we followed a hedge maze that spiraled ever inward. At each turn, the leaves of the towering bushes grew darker, until the purple foliage around us shimmered in hues almost black. The sun above us fled by stages and, before I fully processed it, we stood at a central well, surrounded by whispering night. Halley paused at the edge of the clearing, pointing to a twining arbor of greenery, its archway cloaked in billowing mist. The scent of jasmine hung heavy upon the cool, damp air.

  “There,” she announced.

  The woman’s name left my lips on a susurrus of breath even before I spied her sinuous figure through the roiling curtain of fog. Then the mist parted and Lailah stepped forth, clad in a gray feathered robe that rippled with her every movement. Her eyes were caught between woman and owl, huge pupils dark as the space between stars.

  “Hello, majnun,” she murmured in a voice rich as velvet. “You’re in danger, and we don’t have much time. Halley can’t hold the between-space for long.”

  25

  “Halley’s doing this?” I asked. “How?”

  The girl stood rigidly at the mouth of the clearing, her fingers locked around a glowing sigil of power that cast a purple faery light against the spangles on her dress. Concentration creased her uplit features, and her lips moved around a rhythmic incantation that carried softly on her breath. As Halley strained, Lailah slipped from the mists of the arbor, advancing a few more steps.

  “She found the well here all on her own,” Lailah responded with a note of pride.

  “This isn’t her mind-palace,” I said. “I didn’t teach her any of this.”

  Lailah laid one finger against her pursed lips, cautioning silence. Her black nails curled like talons, startling against the softly brown flesh of her face. Choking down all my questions, I remained rooted to the little path beside the well. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, or how, but some gut instinct clamored that if I touched Lailah or even dared come too close, she would shiver to nothingness.

  “You didn’t teach her this,” she said. “I did. Someone had to, and you don’t remember enough.”

  “You’re here, then,” I responded in a rush. “For real. This isn’t just some vision.”

  “It’s along the edge of one,” she replied. “But that’s not why I asked her to bring you here, Zaquiel. Your brother is tracking you as we speak, and there is very little you can do about it.” She spoke urgently. “He’s stalked you for a while now, and he knows enough about the different layers of the Shadowside that he’s made it difficult for me to stalk him back.” She shook clinging tatters of fog from her heels as if they burned. “He’s good at hiding, and he’s made some unexpected allies.”

  “The cacodaimon?” I asked.

  Hair twitched against her shoulders as she shook her head. “No. That’s a very different problem, one that cannot be left for too long—much like the red man.” She halted opposite me on the far side of the well. Between us, its still waters gazed like a solitary eye up at the starless heavens, glimmers of silver shimmering across its surface from the soft light cast by my tucked wings. “But your brother is an immediate concern. He seeks to hurt everyone around you, and he will not stop. You took something irreplaceable from him, and his own pain drives him like a madness. Once your world has been ground to bitter ash, he means to bind you—all in retaliation for Tashiel.”

  “How can he bind me?” I asked. “He doesn’t have the Stylus.”

  The feathers of her gray robe rustled in a wind I didn’t feel. It teased her hair, making the long strands dance like charmed cobras. “Consider how the Gibburim sealed Terhuziel in the shattered husk of his form,” she responded. “From the moment your people swore to bury the Icons and end the Blood Wars, they have been seeking creative ways to visit their powers upon one another, regardless of their oaths.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” I insisted. “Oaths aren’t just empty words to us, Lailah. We literally cannot speak if we’ve sworn ourselves silence.”


  “And yet you can speak with me, all because of a single word in that oath, majnun,” she said. “Your people uphold the wording but not the spirit, so oaths become more lip-service than obstacle.”

  “You’re saying that we cheat,” I said. My anger rose in excess of the accusation, rumbling through the space with the threat of a rising storm. Lailah lifted a hand to soothe me.

  “No,” she said. “I am telling you the rules.”

  “Fuck the rules.” Lightning the shade of my wings flashed from sky to treetops, reflected in the depths of the well. “If this guy wants to turn my life into bitter ash, I need to get back to Father Frank. I should never have let him talk me into leaving—”

  “The old man is fine, at least for the moment,” she interrupted. “Please believe me. He’s handled worse.” She cast a woeful glance over her shoulder at the arbor. “You need to listen. We waste precious time by arguing. The path collapses even now.” At her words, the mists in its archway boiled ominously, lashing tendrils seeking to snag the edges of her robe. She winced as they swirled up to her ankles. “Shortly, I’ll have to go. I’ll have no choice.”

  “But—”

  “As with the intricacies of oaths, you’ve forgotten the many layers to this space and how they intersect. Your enemy has not. He can move in directions you cannot predict. You need to watch your back, majnun, in every literal sense.”

  “Lailah, please—I’m terrible at riddles.”

  A poignant, mournful look weighed heavily upon her brow. “It only sounds like a riddle because you’ve lost the sense of the words,” she said. “I would help you further, but too many gates stand between us, and strict rules govern my interactions. I am close, I promise—closer than I have been since my death, but you might not want me back if you fully understood the price.” With a sudden shudder, she pulled the feathered cloak more tightly around herself. Not all of the shape beneath it seemed human. The light from my wings turned her tears to mercury as she fretted. “When the time comes, please remember. There is such a thing as a necessary evil, and, in loss, we sometimes find life.”

  “What evil?” I choked. “Lailah, what are you even talking about?”

  “Watch the shadows, Zaquiel,” she said. “They are not all what they appear.” Behind her, the arbor belched a blinding cloud, thick and choking. Halley let loose a startled whimper, tumbling boneless to the ground. The roiling billows engulfed Lailah and she cried out as she vanished.

  Shouting her name, I surged forward to seize her, but even as I did so, the projection shivered to pieces with the musical crackle of shattering glass.

  26

  Joltingly, I was propelled back to my seat in the Hellcat. Halley’s fingers twitched hard against my hand, nails snagging skin. Behind us, a car horn honked. Given how long the driver let it blare, it wasn’t the first time they’d tried to get us to move. Shaking clinging bits of the vision from my spinning gray matter, I stomped on the gas and rabbited forward, trading Overlook for Edgehill.

  Halley pulled her hand away with a regret-filled sigh.

  “I’m sorry, Wingy,” she said. A greasy sweat beaded her brow.

  “You don’t need to apologize, Halley,” I responded. The sound of my voice seemed to reach my ears from a great distance. Everything felt out of joint, like getting dragged prematurely from a dream. With effort, I focused on the steeply climbing road. “You did good.”

  “Sleepy,” she murmured. Her head dropped heavily against the seat, dark lashes fluttering.

  “You rest, kiddo,” I said. “You earned it.”

  She stretched and sighed, relaxing.

  The rest of the drive to the Davis home was uneventful, leaving me to wrestle with a head full of questions about bindings and vengeance and the kindled fury of forgotten brothers. On the heels of Lailah’s cryptic message, Remy’s needling question boomeranged through my thoughts.

  How far might you go to protect those who’ve earned your loyalty?

  Father Frank had said I wanted to talk with Tashiel before casting judgment. Zuriel held me responsible for that brother’s disappearance, which made me think that judgment had been harsh. It was no coincidence that Tashiel was named in one of Marjory’s beloved travelogues. I wondered if that journal described an ill-fated passage through the Alps. Tash had been with Anakesiel at the end. He’d seen the ambush—and reported it too late.

  That couldn’t have been enough for me to judge and find him guilty.

  But what if the travelogue had revealed another version, one where Tashiel delayed his report on the ambush because he’d played some crucial role in its set-up?

  The very notion chilled me and I knew from the convulsive way my hands seized upon the wheel that I’d hit upon some dark, significant truth. I already knew that the Nephilim were not solely to blame for the systematic disappearance of my tribe. But to consider that one of our own had sold us out… I didn’t want to believe it, but I could imagine old Zack meting out one hell of a punishment if he’d gotten solid proof.

  As I followed Murray Hill through the heart of Little Italy, I tried to soothe my roiling thoughts. Until I saw that proof myself, all of this was mere conjecture. Diligently, I focused on the road. The tires of the Hellcat buzzed softly against the old-style paving bricks of the skinny, sloping lane. Parked vehicles, crowding nose to tailpipe, further narrowed the one-way and bustling foot traffic poured from the shops.

  Halley stirred fretfully in her seat, ashen smudges beneath her eyes a testament to the effort she’d expended to facilitate my communication with the Lady of Shades.

  “You’re real loud, Wingy,” she murmured. She slid a hand across her eyes, blinking as the sun switched directions when I turned onto her street.

  “I’m sorry, Halley,” I said. “You gave me a lot to think about.” Pulling in front of her house, I hit the locks to release her door. “Ready to go?”

  She nodded, fumbling out of her seatbelt. I went around to give her a hand out of the car, but she held herself stiffly, making it clear she wanted to do everything herself. Still, she tottered coltishly on her way to the front porch, so I followed a step or two behind, ready to catch her if she stumbled. She pushed the buzzer, leaving her finger on it as it shrilled in the room beyond. After a rush of feet, Sanjeet answered the door. The instant she saw me, the young Sikh woman’s features went stony.

  “Professor Westland,” she said, rigidly polite.

  “Just Zack,” I reminded.

  Behind her, Tyson, Halley’s little brother, came pelting from the kitchen.

  “Who’s at the door? Who’s at the door?” he cried. Crumbs tumbled from the side of his mouth as he threw himself bodily at the back of Sanjeet’s legs. With a deceptively casual gesture, she caught him by the shoulder before he fully connected, neatly deflecting the impact and spinning him around so she could scoop him into her arms. It was an impressive, if unorthodox, application of the mixed martial arts training she’d received from Father Frank.

  “Whoa. Cool!” Tyson chortled. “Do it again!”

  “No,” Sanjeet said firmly. With one arm bracing his back, she perched him atop her hip. Legs kicking, he squirmed a moment, then settled, poking at her glasses. She endured the attention impassively. “Where’s Father Frank?” she asked.

  I craned my neck to peer beyond her into the familiar living room. It was neat, as usual, with a homey scattering of Tyson’s toys. “Are Tammy or Joe around?” I asked. As we spoke, Halley slipped past Sanjeet and shuffled toward the hallway that led to her room. Neither of us stopped her.

  “Tammy’s still at work,” Sanjeet replied. “And NASA called Joe maybe an hour ago. It was supposed to be his day off.”

  “So you get baby-sitting duty,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I like it.” She poked an exposed bit of Tyson’s belly where his shirt rode up, inspiring an earsplitting peal of giggles. Her smile vanished the instant she turned back to me. “What did you want?”

  Sanjeet didn’t like me
, and it wasn’t in her temperament to pretend otherwise. The best I’d ever gotten out of her was that I reminded her of an unpleasant someone from her past. That left a world of conjecture—stepfather, maybe, or an abusive ex-boyfriend. Whoever it was, he had to have been a grade-A asshole to leave such a sweeping instinct of distrust.

  What I had to say next wasn’t going to help it any.

  “This is probably going to sound weird,” I began, then faltered.

  Her brow quirked. “From you? No.”

  “Right,” I said, restlessly scrubbing my jaw. “Weirder than usual, then.”

  Sanjeet remained largely ignorant of my world, and I was inclined to keep it that way. I didn’t trust a whole lot of people with the truth, and the fact that the young Sikh woman already viewed me as a menace gave me good reason to avoid shoveling fuel onto the fire. But with so many tricks at Zuriel’s disposal, Sanjeet needed to know the shape—if not the specifics—of the danger.

  “If I happen to come back here later,” I said, “unless Father Frank is with me and he confirms that I’m actually me, don’t open the door.”

  She blinked, struggling to digest this. “You’re right,” she said. “That’s weirder than usual.” With her middle finger, she adjusted her glasses where Tyson had knocked them askew. “Do you have an evil twin I should worry about?”

  “Just make sure Tammy knows—and Joe, too, whenever he gets back,” I hedged. “And, no matter what, keep that door locked.”

  “I always lock the door, Mr. Westland,” she answered tersely. So saying, she pushed it shut while Tyson frenetically waved goodbye with the same hand he held fisted around a hunk of her hair.

  I lingered on the porch until I heard all the bolts slam home. With a covert gesture, I tested the wards. All the layered protections stood firm, including what amounted to a cowl across the entire house, obscuring its very presence.