Then the thing wound up and threw them.
With a grunt it sent them hurtling into the air. They sailed out above the water like they'd been shot out of a human cannon – higher and higher until the only thing left to do was scream. Malcolm turned back and saw Paul flying next to him, a mass of quivering limbs. Behind him, the strand shrunk into a little pale ribbon next to the river's edge. Skyscrapers blurred past in a kaleidoscope of light.
Malcolm took a deep breath before his face slapped the water's surface.
The last thing he saw was that pair of burning red eyes.
* * * *
His lungs were filling with moss and pine needles and river water. Paul kicked somewhere next to him, splashing water in a reckless arc. All around them the river was quiet. The shore teased them at the edge of their vision. The current pulled them in deeper, straining limbs and lungs where there was nothing left.
“We have to get back to shore,” Paul said. Water filled his mouth and he started coughing, treading water with one hand and pounding the other against his chest.
Malcolm nodded. Somehow he still lived. But his legs were useless, and his arms burned when he paddled. The current resisted every movement. He stripped off his suit jacket and dress pants, and Paul did the same. He kept his shoes on, using them to kick off river rocks and slippery fish that swam by nibbling at his legs. Everything was hungry in this discarded place at the city's edge. Malcolm gritted his teeth and paddled through it, stopping to bob and rest every few seconds.
Finally, when a layer of clouds covered the moon and thrust them into darkness, Malcolm dragged Paul up onto the riverbank. A few hobos had gathered on the rocks to drink and watch them come in. Now they laughed when Malcolm and Paul pulled their gelatinous legs out of the water in their shoes and underwear.
Malcolm just staggered past them and collapsed on a sandy incline as soon as they were out of earshot. He and Paul lay silent for a long time as their rib cages rose and fell. The warm air baked the river sludge they'd carried with them right into their skin and hair.
“We're screwed, aren't we?” Paul said. He stretched his arms out in front of him and studied all the cuts and scrapes.
Malcolm sighed. “Pretty much. The tape's gone. Craig – that thing – crushed it.”
Paul tried to sit up, then flopped back onto his back with a groan. “What the hell happened back there? That little skinny guy threw us… what, like fifty yards from the shore?”
Malcolm looked over his shoulder and found the strand empty behind them. He inched closer to Craig and lowered his voice. “What about his eyes? And that thing on his face?”
Paul shuddered. “The same one Eric and Miranda had. If he killed them why didn't he just kill us too? He already said we knew too much.”
“Maybe he thought the river would do the job. Or maybe he just wanted us out of the way. Bodies leave trails. Maybe he didn't want any more of those.”
Paul sat up, grimacing. He looked at the mouth of an alleyway across the strand. “Let's get out of here before he comes back to finish the job. Though it's going to be impossible to get back to the cab without causing a giant scene.”
“Yeah,” said Malcolm. “We're getting pretty good at that. Scene causing.”
“I'm not fucking around, man. This is serious.”
“I know. Call it gallows humor. But flashing a bunch of drunk people is going to be the least of our worries after we go to the cops.”
Paul held his arms across his chest and shivered. “We are going, aren't we? Straight after this.”
Malcolm shrugged, unable to look Paul in the eye. “Yeah. All right.” He glanced back at the alley behind them. Plenty of twists and turns and dark places. Plenty of places to slip away and disappear – even for a hobbled man like himself.
Then there was movement on the strand. Someone walked along the river's edge, stopping every so often to dip their feet in like it was a vacation destination instead of Lemhaven's dumping ground. Their hips swayed when they started walking again.
A woman.
She didn't carry a pack or push a pilfered shopping cart like the others. Instead, she hooked her fingers on her dress, careful to pull it up at the edges and hold it whenever she stepped over water or sand. It was the worst clothing choice for a hobo Malcolm had ever seen, but she treated it like a precious heirloom.
She broke away from the water and strolled over to them, blending into the twilight sky. Malcolm blinked and she disappeared. But when he blinked again she was back, stopping to pull something out of her dress and hold it to her lips. A spark flew near her cheek, turned into the cherry of a lit match. She pressed it to the end of a long thin cigarette, smoking while she walked.
She took a long drag, looked at the sky, and let it out with a sigh.
Paul grabbed Malcolm's arm. “Should we go?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Just a minute.” He reached down to rub his ankle, preparing it for a hobble to freedom. “She's probably harmless.”
The woman followed her puffs of cigarette smoke up to them and perched on a piece of telephone pole someone had hacked off and turned into a seat. She took another drag, flicked away the ashes, and crossed her legs like a perfect lady.
“What do you want?” Malcolm said. He didn't even look at her when she sat beside them. He kept his eyes fixed on the river.
“I saw what happened. That was rough.” Another drag of her cigarette and her face lit up. The same eyes. The same coy smile and bruise on her head.
Paul jumped up and backed away from her. “No. Hell no.”
“Hell isn't real,” she said. “At least I don't think it is.”
Malcolm looked at her as his fingers crept down to a piece of plywood. “I told you to stop following us.”
The woman laughed. “You said you didn't want to have a good time, but I'm not sure if I believe you. I mean look: you're already halfway there.” She pointed at their bare legs and chests.
“Don't think I won't hit you,” Malcolm said. “I mean it.”
“Fine. But don't think I won't haunt you the rest of your life.”
Malcolm and Paul looked at each other, unable to decipher her words on this senseless strand.
“What do you want?” Paul said. “Really.”
The woman puffed her cigarette and looked out at the river. “Finally. A question I can work with. It's like I said before: to talk. And if that goes well, to make an arrangement.”
“You're like the solicitor from hell,” Malcolm said. “The one who just won't go away. Look. We already told you we don't want any. We've got more pressing issues to deal with.”
“So do I. I'm not really a harlot, you know? I can flirt with the best of them, but I just said those things to get your attention. It usually works on men.”
“Why are you following us?” He knocked the woman's cigarette from her hand and grabbed her wrist. Then, eyes right on her: “Why were you at the park and now you're showing up here? What do you know? Out with it.”
The woman frowned – not from the pain, but almost like she was embarrassed for his upbringing. “That's no way to treat a lady.” She pulled away her wrist. It slipped right through Malcolm's fingers and went straight for another cigarette. After it was lit she continued. “You have a gift. Maybe not a true gift, but a special touch of some kind. Try as hard as you want. It won't work on me.”
Malcolm's eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”
She put a hand to his cheek. “It's all over your face. So much truth all around you, and so many lies inside. It must be a terrible way to live. And trust me: I know all about terrible ways to live.”
“We don't trust you,” Paul said. He went and sat right next to the woman so she was pinned between them on the telephone pole. “Why were you at the park? Why the hell are you following us?”
“I'm here because of the little girl. Nora.” She brought the cigarette to her mouth with trembling fingers. “That poor, sweet girl...”
> Malcolm grabbed her by the shoulders. “You know about that? You know where she is?”
The woman's face filled with tears. “I – I can see her. But she's so far away. Too far gone for me to bring her back.”
Malcolm and Paul were standing now, and they yelled at her in unison. “Where? Where is she?”
The tremble in the woman's hands spread through her body and left her shaking like a plastic bag flapping in the wind. She looked at Malcolm, then Paul, then Malcolm again. “She's trapped. Not dead like her poor mother and father...” A sob caught in her throat. “But that would have been a mercy compared to what's going to happen to her.”
“Where is she?” Malcolm said.
She ignored him. All of her attention went to the cigarette that had fallen onto the strand to join thousands of others. “It's complicated.”
“Bullshit,” said Malcolm. “Who's to say you don't have her right now? Who's to say you weren't the one who killed Eric and Miranda?” He reached for her wrist again. She tried to pull away, but he was faster. But when he went to circle his fingers around it they slammed into the telephone poll. Malcolm reached again and bruised his knuckles on the wood.
He looked down and the woman started laughing. Her wrist still rested on her makeshift seat – right where she'd left it. Slowly Malcolm's fingers traveled around it and squeezed. They came together without meeting skin or any resistance. “Go ahead,” she said. “Try to grab me again.”
Malcolm looked at her and back at Paul, who stood right behind them with his mouth hanging open. Malcolm poked and grabbed. His fingers went right through the woman's flesh. Where the woman's flesh should have been. Paul reached for her elbow and watched his hand travel through it. He moved a fist back and forth through the woman's shoulder, slowly at first and then faster until he was punching at thin air as hard as he could.
The woman laughed again and wiped the tears from her face. She held up a hand and they leaped backwards, nearly fell over. “Relax.” She stretched out her hand. “Now touch my hand again.”
They did.
This time their fingers found warm flesh.
“Now you know,” she said, reaching for another cigarette. “You don't know much, but you know enough to understand where I'm coming from.”
Malcolm and Paul looked at each other and shook their heads. The woman was a liar. Or clinically insane. They didn't understand a damn thing.
“Save it,” she said, smoking again. “You need to listen to what I have to say. Listen close – if you want to make it in this world or the next. Understand?”
Malcolm's legs began to shake. He lost his balance and nearly fell over. Things got a little better when he lay down on the strand again, and Paul followed suit. But then the hollow woman stood above them… and she was speaking.
“I appreciate you not making too big of a scene about my… condition.” She looked around the strand and her shoulders sagged. “Most people don't react well. Anyway, that thing that was after you – that man – he was demon marked. I'm afraid you're in terrible danger.”
“Demon marked?” Paul said.
Malcolm kept his mouth shut. A few days ago he would have told her to take her new age bullshit elsewhere. But now, after the things he saw…
“Demon marked,” the woman said. “That glowing symbol on the side of his face. Every demon has their mark. I wager ours is a card-playing man. He doesn't seem like much of a gardener.”
“Wait,” Malcolm said. He sat up and held his stomach to fight off a wave of nausea. “How do you know it was a… demon? And why not a female?”
She flicked away a chunk of cigarette ash. “I said to save your questions. But I'm not entirely sure. The presence just felt masculine. You stick around long enough, and you start to pick up on these things.”
“Tell us more,” Paul said. “Please.”
The woman nodded. “I will. But you probably won't like it.”
“Why?” said Malcolm.
“That demon isn't done with you. I can't overpower it, but I can hide you from it for a while. I won't stop until I find Nora and bring her back. You're going to help me.”
Malcolm and Paul looked at each other to see who would make the first move. Neither one did.
“Come on,” the woman said, motioning for them to stand. “I know a place just up the strand. We can get more privacy there. And hopefully find you some clothes.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She led them down the strand, pointing out sharp rocks and glass along the way. Malcolm and Paul followed her to a makeshift fishing pier of planks and boxes and crates. Once she made sure it was empty, the woman led them beneath the pier. She huddled under the support beams in the gap below the pier before it jutted out into the water. Malcolm and Paul sat down in the secret cave, drained of energy and blood from the walk.
“Everyone comfortable?” she said, dropping one cigarette and lighting another just a few seconds later.
They nodded.
“Let me start at the beginning. My name's Charlotte Fontaine. Everyone always called me 'Charlotte Fountain,' but you know how people are with French names. I guess I could have picked a new one after I died, but I like the one my mother gave me so I'm sticking with it.”
Paul stood up and nearly banged his head on the pier. “Died?”
“That's right,” she said. “It was the damn train that did it. I was young and stupid. And very much in love. That might explain the stupid part.”
Malcolm reached for her. He had to feel her – to make sure she was still solid. She kicked away his hand when it found her ankle.
“Did it hurt?” Paul said. “Sorry. Forget I asked that.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Not at all. I didn't feel a thing. But I guess that's what happens when you're playing around on the train tracks drunk. Okay. I wasn't really playing around. But I was playing house with a man who'd never be mine.” She squinted at the water like the memory was floating somewhere out there, sealed in a bottle for freshness.
“When did this happen?” Malcolm said.
Charlotte looked at him. There were tears in her eyes when she spoke. “A long time ago. Over one hundred years I think. It gets harder to remember as time goes on. Long enough ago where a woman pursuing a man out of wedlock – a married man, at that – made my mother and father want to send me off to a convent.”
Paul held his arms across his chest, shivering when the wind kissed his bare skin. “All that time passed… and you're still here. Is that what happens when you die? You just get stuck in the cracks – and the world moves on?”
Charlotte reached out and touched his arm. “Not at all. And don't let your mind go wandering or you'll drive yourself mad. Most people make it safely across to the other side. Where it's peaceful. But there are others like me – I see them wandering from time to time – though it's been years since I've come across one. We're the leftovers. The ones who died in transition. Stuck between the lines or tracks or other things.” Her brown eyes flashed, and she leaned forward and grabbed them both by the hand. “Now we're stuck between worlds – between this life and the next.”
Malcolm pulled his trembling hand free. “What happened to the man you loved? The married one.”
Charlotte lowered her head and began to kick at the little piles of loose dirt beneath the pier. “He 'came to his senses.' That's how he put it. He said he wasn't going to leave his wife and child and run off like we'd talked about. We'd had too much to drink that night – there was always too much to drink – and he told me he was going to make something of himself. He wouldn't leave his wife. We fought while he drove us back to Lemhaven. I begged and pleaded until there wasn't a shred of my dignity left. Then I made him stop and let me out of the car.”
“You were walking home?” said Malcolm.
“I was just walking away from him. Crying so hard I could hardly see. But then I found the train tracks. It was nice there – quiet. Until the horn and the lights. My shoe got stuck...” She sh
ivered. “And it was too late. The last thing I saw was the conductor's face. I wonder who looked more horrified – me or that bleary-eyed man with a beard and his arms flying around inside the locomotive.”
Malcolm opened his mouth and shut it again. There wasn't anything to say.
Charlotte looked them over and smiled. “It's okay. I'm over the dying part. I mean, it happens to us all so why make sour grapes? It's what happened after the dying that I still feel awful about. That's where I need your help.”
“The girl,” said Malcolm. “You've probably seen millions of them born, grow up, and die. Why's this one so special?”
Charlotte took a drag from her cigarette, dumped the stub that remained, and watched it burn itself out on the ground. “Her mother was special to me too. And her mother before that. That girl is John Dixon's great-granddaughter. I don't keep track of the years anymore. Just generations. That family tree is the only thing I have left. And now someone's trying to cut off its last branches.”
“You had a kid with him?” said Paul. “With John?”
Charlotte smiled. “I wished. No, I didn't have a child with him. But his wife did. He didn't even come to my funeral. Can you imagine that? Being stuck in the middle while everyone cried and paid their respects? Everyone but the one man whose grief and sorrow you needed to see to know that at least you mattered. At least he missed you.” She cleared her throat and reached for another cigarette, but the pack in her dress was empty. “But of course that didn't happen. He couldn't go without his wife wondering. People would have asked questions. So he buried his head in a bottle of Scotch while the years ticked on.”
“You were angry,” said Malcolm.
Charlotte nodded. “Furious. For years I watched them. They had the family I wanted but would never have. I blamed her, him, and even myself. Here I was stuck between two worlds… and everyone just moved on.”
“I'm… sorry,” Paul said. He snapped his mouth shut as soon as he said it. But the words were already out.
The Truth Collector (Demon Marked Book 1) Page 8
