Holidays Are Hell

by Kim Harrison

  You are afraid, Six whispered. You are afraid of me.

  No, he told her. I’m afraid of myself. What you see, I see. And there are things I have done that I don’t want to relive.

  Like the bones, she murmured, and Joseph remembered that hot flash of her touch in the massage parlor, the memory it had called—a fluke, he thought—but now it happened again, a strike of deep connection, and he felt her gaze once more upon the worst of his memories, years past, twenty-five and on the go, this time to Africa. The Red Cross, because he wanted to help and they needed people. Sierra Leone, because that was where the need was the greatest.

  But all I found was death and rape and atrocity, he told Six. There was no end to it. And one day, when we were taken to a mass grave to bear witness, I started talking to the dead. I asked them, who. I asked them, where. And when I knew these things I found the men responsible, and I made them—

  Joseph stopped. He tried to suppress the memory, but Six would not let him. He felt her warmth surround his thoughts, unrelenting, and after a moment he yielded to her. He let her see. Allowed her to watch how he had possessed the bodies of murderers and torturers and brought them to the graves of their victims, forcing the men to rest amongst the decay and filth of the dead. And when they were truly buried, he showed Six how he had summoned the memories of the dead, spirits who still wanted vengeance—and shown them what lay in their midst, and that it was their chance to take a pound of flesh.

  And they did, Joseph told her. Not literally, but enough. Those men died. Died of fright, maybe. Or suffocation from the bodies I made them rest under. Either way, I was the one who killed them.

  Are you sorry? Six’s question was a gesture of politeness; he knew she was already aware of how he felt. But he said it anyway, because she asked, and it was something he had wanted to speak of for a long time.

  No, he said, grim. I am not sorry at all.

  He sensed her satisfaction with his response. Six was a practical woman. Why would you try to suppress that memory, then? It bothers you. I see that much.

  Joseph felt a hard cold knot inside his heart, the place where the bones and the death resided. But it was also a place of bitter satisfaction, and there was power in that feeling. Too much power.

  Ah, Six said.

  It’s easy to become a monster, Joseph replied. Easier for some than others. You can get a taste for it. Righteousness makes it simple. But it’s a thin line.

  Much like the one I am walking.

  Yes, he said. Let’s take care of that. How’s the pain?

  Better, now that I have gone deeper. I apologize for your hand.

  Do I still have one?

  I hope you like surprises.

  Joseph laughed, and it took him off guard. He had never felt so comfortable with another woman; he had never felt so at ease revealing himself, as though her eyes were the same as his, without fear or judgment. He tried to imagine losing that. He could not. It did not bear thinking of.

  You lied, Six said, suddenly. You have only helped two?

  You will be three, he said, and dove into her heart, searching for a memory to save her life. He felt Six try to follow, and he held out a mental hand, tugging her alongside him as he sped through her life, tasting her spirit. No two souls were ever alike—a handful of snowflakes might have more in comparison—but Six was utterly unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Her memories of life were stark and cold, with moments of fierceness interwoven like charms.

  But he did not find anything to save her life. Nothing that created a visceral reaction. Not enough to burn out the poison hunting her spirit. He could taste the first tendrils of it, snaking from the darkness beyond her thoughts. Moving faster than he had imagined. If he waited much longer, there would be hooks involved, tearing her apart. Stealing her heart. Making her empty.

  No, Six said. No, Joseph. There must be something.

  You have to fight, he told her desperately. You’re a fighter, Six. You can do this. Find something inside of yourself that’s worth living for. Hold on to it.

  He felt, inside her mind, the memory of a window. A window with a view of a wall, and beyond that, rooftops and trees and sky. Freedom, he heard inside his mind. And then, beside that window, he felt another memory, this time, of him. Six’s first memory, their first meeting, seeing him walk into the room at the massage parlor. He tasted her appraisal of his eyes, his face, and though it was a thrill to know she had noticed him even then, what made his heart ache was that in her deepest unconscious, she equated him with her symbol of freedom.

  Is that what you are? Six asked him. My freedom?

  You tell me.

  No, she said. No person is freedom. But maybe you are a path.

  Then use that path. He wrapped himself around her spirit, holding her. Fight.

  But instead of fighting, he felt Six grow more solid in his mental arms, and he matched her transformation until he could pretend he was searching her mind in the flesh. Like walking in a dream and feeling the ground beneath his feet; only, he suddenly found himself in that office with the window, standing beside Six as she stared through the glass. They were both naked.

  Six, he said, and she turned just enough to kiss him. A hard kiss, hungry, melting right through his soul, scorching his heart. He pressed her against the window, cradling her head in his hands, and he could feel her skin ride against his own, smooth and hot. He grabbed the backs of her thighs and lifted her up, swinging them both around to the desk until he could lay her flat, pushing apart her thighs, moving between them. Six did not hesitate. She reached down and slid him into her body, raising her legs so that her knees practically touched her chin and her calves rested on his shoulders. Joseph gripped her hips and began thrusting hard.

  And then, quite suddenly, they were no longer in each other’s minds but on the bed in his room, and instead of being naked they were both in clothes, wrapped around each other, thrusting and grinding. Joseph did not stop. He began tearing off his clothes, as did Six, buttons popping, pants shoved off and caught around ankles. Joseph pulled down the front of Six’s bra at the same time he entered her, and the sight of her breasts and the sensation of that first slick stroke almost sent him over the edge. She strained against him, crying out, and all he could do was marvel at the fine, strong lines of her body, the feel of her moving beneath him as he obeyed her urgings and thrust faster, harder, pounding into her as she wrapped her legs around his back, fingernails clawing into his skin.

  Joseph had no warning before she turned them, but suddenly he was on his back and she was on top, and that was fine because she lost the bra, and the sight of her bouncing breasts made him so hot that when he touched them he almost lost it for a second time.

  Six leaned forward on her palms, thrusting hard. Then she stopped, abruptly, and slid all the way off him. Held herself there as they both panted, Joseph grappling with her hips, and then came down so hard—like that first thrust all over again—that he shouted and sat up, wild, grabbing her around the waist and hips, lifting and squeezing as she moved against him, faster and faster.

  He felt her come—rode the wave as her muscles clenched around him—and then took her over the edge a second time with only a few more quick strokes. He came with that second orgasm, emptying himself into her body, and the feeling of being in her arms, spent, was so lush that he wanted nothing more than to plant some roots around them both and never move again.

  But as he lay in her arms, he remembered—and slowly, carefully, slipped back into her mind, searching her spirit for the virus that had infected her.

  It was still there. Its progression had stopped, the tendrils hard and frozen, but the threat remained. Nor did it appear that it would be disappearing anytime soon.

  Permanent and dangerous. Part vampire. Waiting to become whole.

  And no way to know what would set it off.

  Chapter 6

  After the age of thirteen, it became quite easy for Six to reconcile herself with the idea
of death. She had, after all, taken lives to save her own, and that was utterly justifiable. As was taking the lives of those who were going to hurt others, however remotely. Indeed, she felt very little remorse about her actions. There was no point. Dead was dead. And she would have to kill again, sooner or later. That was the way of it. That was what she had been trained to do. Her life, no choice.

  But now, resting in the darkness of an unfamiliar room, she wondered if this new turn in her life was some kind of karma. A killer without remorse, transforming into the physical manifestation of another kind of killer, also without remorse. Justice, or perhaps a divine joke. Maybe even destiny.

  Like meeting Joseph? Six glanced at him. He was finally asleep, though lines of distress still cut into his forehead. He was a beautiful man. Six enjoyed nothing more than staring at his face, analyzing lines and angles and curves. Wanting to touch him again, to feel him inside her. She thought about waking him up, but turned aside that thought. He needed to rest. As did she, though that was unlikely to happen.

  Six dressed quietly and went downstairs. She found Wenxia in the kitchen, seated at a fine table with flour scattered, small coins of dough rolled into flat circles. A large bowl of ground pork filled with chopped cabbage, ginger, and shrimp sat by her elbow. It smelled good.

  “I’ll make you tea,” Wenxia said, scooting back her chair.

  “I will do it,” Six offered, and with some direction, found the leaves. A hot water dispenser leaned against the wall; she let the water flow into a little ceramic pot, and breathed in the steam. She let it steep for a moment, then poured Wenxia a cup. The old woman nodded her thanks.

  Six sat opposite the old woman, and sipped her own cup of tea. It tasted good, and she felt herself relax as she watched Wenxia work. Her hands were gnarled and brown, but she made the dumplings efficiently, without sign of pain.

  “Can I help?” Six asked.

  “Oh, no,” Wenxia replied, but she said it with a smile, and Six reached over for a dough skin. It had been a long time since she had tried her hand at making dumplings—there was an art to it—but she wanted to feel the sensation of cooking, of preparing, of putting herself into something other than fighting. She thought of Joseph, and smiled.

  “Ah,” murmured Wenxia. “You do care about him.”

  “Are you a mind reader?” she asked, startled.

  “No need. I saw your smile. Only a man makes a woman smile like that. You care.”

  Six saw no use denying the truth. Still, she hesitated. “Yes, I do.”

  The old woman’s mouth quirked. “You have to think about it?”

  “No,” Six replied. “But speaking of such things is…difficult for me.”

  “You are a product of the state,” Wenxia said. “I can see it in your face.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No.” A dumpling thumped onto a plate. “But it makes you react differently to things some people take for granted. Like making dumplings, for example. You have never spent a holiday with family, have you?”

  “No,” Six said. “Never.”

  “Life is isolating enough, but when forced to live under the cold standard of a government machine…” Wenxia stopped. “Well, times are changing. One day, you and your kind will be as antiquated as my own generation. Relics. And no one will remember what was suffered.”

  “No one ever does,” Six said, struggling to press the dough around the meat in the center. “And no one will ever care as much as you do about your own life.”

  Wenxia put down her spoon. “Joseph would care that much. About you. And if you had any heart in you, you would care that much about him.”

  Six set aside her dumpling. “He doesn’t know me.”

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “If anyone knows you, it’s him. It’s what he does. Something I think you’re well aware of.”

  Six said nothing. Wenxia sighed. “Do you know what he does for work? Many things, you know. He makes big money being a therapist to rich men. Giving them advice. Guiding them in their lives. He does that several times a year. Makes enough, and then he leaves. Runs away to places where the people are hurting, dying. And there—there—he uses his real power. He makes people whole. He gives them hope. Helps them move on.”

  “Did he help you?” Six asked, and instantly regretted it.

  Wenxia looked down, shoulders hunching. “His father did. He…dulled my pain. Made it bearable.”

  Six did not know how to answer. Wenxia saved her from trying. She leaned on the table, her bright eyes glittering.

  “You know the story of the Spring Festival, yes? How a monster would descend from a mountain to terrorize a village year after year, eating people, stealing children. Until finally, someone said enough. And they attacked that monster with nothing but a firework. Boom! And the monster fled! Back to its mountain.”

  The old woman started making dumplings again. “The New Year holiday is a time of faith, child. Symbols, colors, flashes of light and sound—all of it, faith. Faith in a new beginning, in the power of hope. Faith in the ability of people to be more than what they dream. And it is a good dream, yes?”

  “Yes,” Six said softly. “Precious, even.”

  Wenxia smiled. “People become so discouraged. There are monsters everywhere, beating them down, stealing their dreams. Except the monsters are such cowards! A loud noise, a sharp light, that is all it takes to drive them away. Face them and be strong, and they will not be able to stand against you.”

  “And what if the people themselves become monsters? What if I am the monster?”

  Wenxia gave her a knowing smile, and patted her hand. “Shine a light inside you, child. Make a loud noise.”

  Six, Joseph, and Wenxia shared a lovely dinner of dumplings, the finest Six had ever had—and the first that she remembered sitting down to, with people other than orphans or military. She asked Joseph if it would be possible for him to learn of her life before she had been taken in by the government, if those memories were still there, buried. He thought it likely. But Six did not ask him to try. Not then. She was not ready to remember.

  She and Joseph did not stay long after the dinner. There was too much on the line, and the sense of urgency that pressed upon them was sharp enough to taste. A ruining effect, on an otherwise wonderful meal, though Six felt worse about leaving Wenxia.

  They took a cab back to Shanghai. It was difficult to find one, on New Year’s day. They directed their driver to take them to the Bund.

  “Nothing will be open,” Joseph said, holding her hand, cradling it in his lap. He looked handsome, rested, his eyes moving over her face, out the window, searching.

  “Maybe not,” Six said. “But at least we will make good targets. Perhaps attract the attention of someone who will lead us back to his master.” Anger curled through her. “I have been thinking about the terrorists, Joseph. Trying to imagine what they would want with someone like you.”

  He grunted. “I have been thinking about the same thing, ever since Chenglei first contacted me. Trying to understand what Jihadists would want with someone who most definitely falls outside their religion. Not that I need to understand too much. Hate is hate. Hypocrisy rules. And there is precedent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How much do you know about World War Two and the Nazis?”

  “I have studied the history,” Six said. “But I admit to focusing more on the problems this country faced. I have spoken to many elderly, and they have told me the stories.”

  “Yes. There are a lot of stories,” Joseph said grimly. “But one thing I learned long ago, from the European side of the war, is that the Nazis—and more specifically, Hitler—were so consumed by their desire to win, that they began seeking…alternative methods. Inexplicable methods, of an…unnatural origin.”

  “You mean,” she said slowly. “Something like you.”

  “Something like that,” he admitted. “Thankfully, they never tapped into anything real, though they c
ame close enough to make some individuals nervous. And not just those with powers like mine, but competing governments who in turn began developing their own programs to explore alternative weaponry within the paranormal. The Russians were the most serious, second only to the Germans. My grandfather was part of that program. He managed to leave it after the war. Illegally, of course. He escaped into Mongolia and never left. He took the daughter of a shaman as his wife, and they had a son.”

  “A family legacy, then.”

  “But it doesn’t answer any questions.”

  Shanghai traffic was lighter than usual, but the Bund surprised them by being quite crowded. It seemed to Six that every family had taken the afternoon to travel down to the heart of the city and see the sights. Days off were rare for most; the New Year festivals guaranteed at least one.

  “We must stay away from the waterfront,” Six told Joseph, after being dropped off by the cab. “There will be undercover military there for sure, and they will know my face. Xiu must have been discovered by now.”

  As she spoke, her eyes seemed to blur, vision worsening almost to blindness until suddenly, without warning, everything snapped back into focus. Six gasped. She could see…everything. The individual pores on a woman’s face—who was standing more than fifty feet away. The brand name on the buttons of a man’s jacket, far across the street. Her vision swooped and burned like she was an eagle flying, and it was dizzying, frightening.

  “Check,” she said. “Is the poison—”

  “No,” Joseph said grimly. “It hasn’t progressed. But you’re still suffering the side effects.”

  “Just as long as I do not suffer anything else. I am still me, correct? I still…feel.”

  “You have your heart,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you lose it, Six.”