by Ilana Waters
“The way our family luck runs?” said Titus grimly, still holding the sobbing Abigail.
“And with that bad mojo she felt?” I murmured to Arthur, but not so loud my mother could hear. “I appreciate the thought, mate, but let’s not get our hopes up.”
“Yes, well . . .” Arthur and I stood up, and he gave me a tight smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything, ah, unusual or whatnot until I get back tomorrow, all right?”
“I won’t,” I promised. I’d always been grateful for Arthur’s willingness to help my family. The rest of the PIA cared little about what happened to supernaturals, so long as it didn’t interfere with their precious cataloging and notetaking of us. But Arthur was different. Whether it was conducting vital research under his superiors’ noses, or his surprising skill with a crossbow, when you needed him, he was there. Except for that unfortunate incident where I had to lock him in a jail cell, but that’s all water under the bridge.
I reluctantly left my parents’ suite, with Titus still trying to comfort the distraught Abigail. I didn’t know how well it would go. As you saw, they tend to argue quite a bit—even when they’re getting along. It was one of the reasons why living with one another was rarely an option, though they are technically married. As I left, I heard Arthur going through the penthouse kitchen so Abigail could at least have, as he put it, “a decent cup of tea.” Frankly, I think another of the drinks my father procured would have been more effective. I’m sure he wished vampires could drink something other than blood right now.
But I didn’t feel like going back to my own room, despite the lateness of the hour. I decided to take a little walk. Surely Arthur couldn’t consider that unusual, right? Besides, tonight’s revelation was a lot to take in: the fact that I’d unknowingly carried a demon inside me my entire life.
And so I walked out of the lobby of the Hassler—arguably Rome’s grandest and most traditional hotel. My old-school, fire-witch father likely wouldn’t have stayed anywhere else. From his sleek black shirt and trousers down to his custom Italian shoes, you’d never guess Titus Aurelius was once a Roman general who led thousands of men—and slaughtered tens of thousands more. But those days are behind us now. I hope.
Admittedly, he’s a strange contrast to my mother, Abigail Silver, who is possibly the world’s toughest hippie. A midwife by trade, she’s happy to go about in billowy skirts and peasant tops. She probably wouldn’t have minded staying at a hostel either. But make no mistake: she’s a powerful earth witch capable of doing serious damage when necessary.
I am a sort of combination of my parents. For instance, I was in my typical stunning ensemble of a black suit, white button-down shirt, and loafers. My clothing is almost invariably wrinkled, my shoes inevitably scuffed. I nearly share my father’s height, being a little under six feet tall, as well as his light eyes and a bit of his paleness. But that’s where the similarity ends. I’m skin and bones where he’s hard and muscled. His close-cropped blond hair is the opposite of mine: black, baby fine, winding its way down my neck. Not to mention my eyes are green, not blue, with rounded eyebrows that always make me look worried.
I’m also somewhat of a bizarre phenomenon, and an outcast because of it. You see, I’m only a mage, or a “half-breed,” as some call me, because Abigail wasn’t fully a witch when she had me. She was in the process of studying to become one when I arrived. I wasn’t even supposed to be born, as I mentioned, my father being the only supernatural creature incapable of having children.
My father was a witch by birth who was turned into a vampire by force, the details of which he doesn’t readily share. So he has some of the attributes of both, and can use magic as well as a vampire’s physical strength and senses. He stopped aging when he was turned into a vampire, as they all do. Now, he looks like he’s forever in his forties, the same as my mother.
What if I have to undergo some sort of exorcism? I wondered, walking quickly through one of the older neighborhoods in Rome. Many mortals were still about; costumed clubgoers, old-timers sitting on steps, and tourists not yet ready to return to their hotels. Mages are physically weaker than witches, but stronger than humans. Could I even survive an exorcism? It’s already unknown if I will be immortal, or able to keep myself from aging permanently, as witches can. As my mother managed to do. Right now, I’m around thirty-five, but look a good ten years younger.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked faster. Inwardly, I felt the same as I had when the evening started. Of course, that was before I knew I was an unwitting demon host. Now that the demon knew I knew, would that change the situation? Would I start speaking in tongues or climbing the walls? Would my head spin around 360 degrees?
I decided it didn’t matter. Nerve-racking as it was, I could do nothing until I had more information. Being an air mage gave me certain powers, yes, but demon purging was completely beyond my ken. I’d lie low and try not to get into trouble until Arthur conducted more research at the PIA. I nodded as I walked, trying to calm myself. It was a good plan.
At least, it would have been if it had worked.
“That’s nearly the last of it, Pietro,” I heard a burly man call in Italian. He was unloading several cardboard boxes from a delivery truck. His colleague, presumably Pietro, made his way up the steps of a building with a handcart. “And thank God.” The man wiped his sweaty brow. “What a long day. I never thought we’d finish this late.” Utility knife in hand, he leaned over a final set of boxes, cutting the cords that bound them together. Pietro nodded, then disappeared into the building with the handcart.
I was about half a block away, coming towards them, when I heard a voice whisper my name.
Joshua.
I don’t mean I thought I heard a voice. There was a voice. It was scratchy, with a strange echo to it. It sounded like whoever said it was right next to me. Then it spoke again.
Joshua!
It was louder now, like someone had clapped their hands right beside my ear. I jumped, so startled I began running down the street, where I banged into Pietro’s partner. He let out a loud oomph, doubling over onto his stack of boxes while I fell, sprawling, to the ground.
“Scusi, scusi!” I tried to catch my breath as I picked myself up off the sidewalk.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” he barked in Italian. “What the hell’s wrong with you, stupido? Jesus and Mary, I’m bleeding!”
Sure enough, there was a gash at least six inches long on the man’s forearm. When I bumped into him, it must have thrust the utility knife forward at an angle, making a deep tear in his flesh. Blood was running like dark red streamers down his arm and onto the box, seeping into the cardboard. He grabbed a dirty rag from his back pocket and tried pressing it to the wound. But the rag was quickly soaked, and his arm was still dripping blood.
“See what you’ve done? I’m going to sue the hell out of you. Goddamn!” He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as he continued holding the rag to his arm.
But I hardly heard his words, or thought to do anything sensible, like call for an ambulance. Because on top of the cardboard box, spelled out in jagged letters with the man’s blood, were the following words:
I think it’s time we met, don’t you, Joshua?
I stared in horror, unable to move or speak. When I blinked, the words were gone. It was just ordinary blood pooling over the box’s surface. I didn’t know if the injured man even saw it.
“What’s going on out there?” called Pietro, bringing his empty handcart down the steps.
“Dammit, you’d better call the hospital.” The first man patted his wound uselessly with the blood-soaked rag. “This won’t stop bleeding. Hey, where do you think you’re going? Hey!”
The man called out after me, but I was already running. My heart pounded and my hands shook. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I had to get away, before I—or the demon—hurt anyone else.
Unfortunately, the demon had other ideas.
Chapter 3
Once I felt I’d put enough distance between myself and the delivery men, I went at a slower pace. But my heart was still beating fast, and my hands were still shaking.
I hope that man’s all right, I thought. What if the wound never heals? A demon could probably make him bleed out right there on the sidewalk if it wanted.
I shook my head. I couldn’t worry about that now. The best thing for that mortal—or anyone else—was for me to get as far away from them as possible. I kept listening intently for the demon to say my name again. I heard a man and woman arguing with each other, a stray cat’s yowl, and when all was quiet, the sound of my own heavy breathing. But there was nothing further from the demon.
It said it wanted to meet . . . meet where? How? How can you meet something that’s already inside you? Unless you have to cut it out . . .
I entered a section of Rome I was slightly familiar with, though I didn’t remember planning to go there, or even wanting to be there. Nevertheless, I felt I had no choice in the matter. It wasn’t like anything was pushing or pulling me. It was my own legs walking, as if the whole thing were my idea. And yet I knew it wasn’t.
What the hell is going on? I had a vague notion that I should call for help on my cell phone, or at least cry out. But I couldn’t seem to make myself reach into my pocket for the phone, or open my mouth to make a sound. I’m not sure what I would have said, anyway: “Save me, my body’s being taken over by a demon”? Mortals armed with straitjackets and syringes would likely be the only ones who came running.
I turned a corner, and suddenly realized why this part of the city was so familiar. There, at the end of the street, was the Temple of Aradia. It was a Wiccan house of worship dedicated to an ancient Italian witch, one said to protect others of her kind. The building itself was small and plain. Nothing mortals would look twice at. But any supernatural creature could easily see waves of magic drifting in and out of it.
Why would the demon lead me here? I wondered as I went inside. The doors to the temple always remain unlocked, yet mortals never enter—only supernaturals. Still, I was grateful to find I was alone. I didn’t want to risk harming anyone else. Of course, witches aren’t as fragile as mortals; there was always the possibility they would harm me if I tried anything. But with a demon inside my body, who knew? It could very well slaughter a whole bevy of them through me in the blink of an eye.
I walked down the center aisle flanked by wooden benches. There was a painting of Aradia—a dark-haired beauty of the Renaissance—above the altar. Dozens of lit candles were lined up below. It seemed there could be no safer place for me. But then, I realized the temple was just a way station. The demon wasn’t going to let me linger at a site known for protecting people.
I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as I approached a door at the back corner of the temple. Opening it, I saw the entrance to the temple’s basement. It was the same one I’d seen here with my father only a few weeks ago, when we were searching for Abigail. I’d learned then this was no ordinary stairwell. On the left side of the wall was a tall rectangle whose edges shimmered ever so slightly to someone familiar with magic.
It was the door to the subterranean lair where we found the ancient vampire Ferox.
Pushing it open revealed another set of stairs to the temple’s true underground. Mindlessly, I followed the winding stone steps down, my shoes kicking up dust. It was a good thing I knew how to make a ball of magic light, otherwise it would have been pitch-black in there. But just as before, when I seemed drawn to the temple, the hands making the magic didn’t feel like my hands. The energy was not my energy.
It was as cold in the underground as I remembered. The air was still stale, the sound of dripping water still constant as it flowed through ancient Roman pipes. I supposed I could have gathered some more magic to warm myself, but part of me was screaming to get the hell out of there entirely. Unfortunately, it seemed overridden by a different, calmer part. A part telling me that soon, I wouldn’t be thinking of the cold at all. The stone walls rose higher around me as I ventured deeper. The staircase grew wider until, finally, it ended in a circular room full of passageways.
Which way do I go? I thought. The last time I was here, I was with Titus, and he’d selected a route based on his vampiric ability to sense Ferox. Of course, the only way I really wanted to go was right back up the stairs. I wanted to run up them, in fact. But again, demon-led, I chose the same passage as my father, and continued on.
I kept expecting to see the demon reveal itself around every corner, but so far, it had not. In fact, the sights were the same as the last time I was here. This was ancient Rome before modern mortals built their new city on top of it. Columns loomed above me to hold up public buildings, apartments, bathhouses, theaters, and more. Faded mosaics and frescoes lined the walls. All around was detritus from long ago: fragments of clay cups, bowls, and even pieces of the buildings themselves.
Why does the demon want me to go back to Ferox’s tomb? I thought, heart pounding. All that was left there was an enormous crater, evidence of how we’d blown him and his minions to kingdom come. Also, the tomb was much farther ahead. Miles outside of Rome, in fact. Surely an evil spirit could have let me take a car.
But it turned out I didn’t need to go that far in order to “face my demon.”
My feet stopped in front of an enormous, once gilded mirror that I’d seen on my previous visits. Of course, the gilding was mostly peeled off now. The center of the mirror radiated cracks, as if it had been struck by something small, like a rock or bullet. As I looked closer, I realized there were hairline cracks all over the mirror. But not in a decorative pattern, like some mirrors had. This mirror had definitely been damaged, even before the center was struck.
But that didn’t make sense. All those cracks should have made the mirror shatter. Instead, it almost looked like someone had put it back together very carefully, one piece at a time. Also, there should have been a thousand reflections radiating out from the crack in the middle. But the mirror reflected only one image: that of the surrounding cavern. And it did so perfectly, right down to every last pebble and pottery shard.
Except I wasn’t in it. In my place, where I should have been standing, was a completely different person.
Well, not exactly a person. More like a small, furtive little creature. At first, I couldn’t tell if it was an animal or a human being. It was three or four feet tall, with the body of a child. And it was black. I mean completely black, as if someone had dipped it in ink. Its skin, its hair, its eyes—everything was coal black, except its teeth, which were white.
As soon as I spotted the creature, I whipped my head around to see if it was behind me, or off to one side. But it wasn’t there. Not in the underground, anyway. I kept looking all around, using magic to light up the cavern’s dark corners, the entrances and exits. Finally, I turned back. Sure enough, the creature was still there in place of my reflection. It existed only in the mirror.
No. It existed in me. I was in the mirror. Was that thing my soul? It couldn’t be, could it?
I peered at the creature again, keeping a good distance between myself and the mirror. The thing had fingers that ended in sharp points, and I’m not talking about its nails. I mean its fingers were pointed, like the ends of branches or prickle bushes. It had two small horns above its temples that were slanted back. It walked partially bent forward, with its forearms against its biceps. This should have been amusing, since it bore more than a passing resemblance to a chicken. Even its glittering eyes kept darting this way and that, as if looking for feed. But somehow, the similarity wasn’t funny. It looked like the thing was ready to spring, to pounce and snatch at whatever it wanted. I had a feeling it was good at that.
It was also completely naked.
Still, I couldn’t tell if I was looking at a male or a female, not that I wanted to look that closely. There seemed to be the start of a man where the demon’s th
ighs met. But then, it rounded out and tucked back under, split in the middle, almost like . . . well, I told you I didn’t want to look closely. Slowly, it lifted its head until its eyes met mine.
“Hello, Joshua,” it said. “How good of you to come.” Its voice was disturbing; not a man or a woman’s, but younger. And it was scratchy and doubled somehow, as if there were two demons.
“I didn’t realize I had a choice.” I tried to keep my own voice even. I felt magic gathering in my arms and hands. An automatic defensive gesture.
“You didn’t.” The creature skipped a little from one end of the mirror frame to the other.
“Well, then.” I felt the magic grow stronger, warmer in my hands. “What shall I call my host?” Or am I your host, seeing as how you’re inside my body? I wondered. I might as well have asked the question out loud; I realized it was obvious the thing could hear me.
“Oh, I have many names.” It waved the question off with a pointy hand.
I swallowed hard. “Is one of them ‘Oblivion’?” The demon grinned, revealing its sharp teeth, every one of them like a tiny vampire fang.
“You may call me Oblivion, if you wish,” it said.
“Fine, then, Mr. Oblivion.”
“Not ‘Mister,’ ” the demon said merrily.
“Sorry. Ms. Oblivion.”
“Not ‘Mizz’ either,” it chuckled, as if I were giving the wrong answer to a riddle.
“I don’t understand,” I said with a frown. “Are you male or female?”
For some reason, the demon found the question extremely funny. It laughed hysterically, clutching its sides. The laughter had the same eerie quality as a vampire’s, but with more of an echo at the end, as if the sound were drifting off into hell itself.
“Male . . . female . . . how small-minded we are,” Oblivion said. “Petty distinctions so you can breed like beasts, making more of your meaningless little selves. There is no ‘male/female’ where I come from, or in any incorporeal realm I know of. But you may call me ‘he’ if you wish. I understand that is the more powerful of your race.”
