by Marcus Sakey
“For hundreds of years,” Isabella continued, “he wandered, and he fed. He grew quite strong. And he realized, as we all did, that one could go further.”
“‘We all’?”
“The elders. The survivors. We who live for centuries. Eventually we all reach the same revelation. It’s not enough to hunt the dead. There is a limit to their strength. But life? Life is the source of all. And so like the rest of us, Edmund began to cultivate crops.”
“Crops? You’re talking about people.”
“Please.” Her voice like chewing tinfoil. “Don’t bore me with morality. How much time have you spent considering the immortal soul of your steak?” She showed her teeth. “It’s all energy. The universe began in an explosion. Every element is forged in the heart of a star. There is nothing but energy. With enough energy, existence bends around you like the sea around a sailboat.
“I was born the second daughter of minor Spanish nobility in 1336. I learned courtesies and needlework and little else. But I transcended. I have walked the length and breadth of existence. I have watched the world fade with each step toward the abyss. I have stood on the plains of shadow, amidst the numberless hordes crawling toward nothingness.
“I have consumed the stories of great men and fools alike, and learned from both. When I met Edmund, I had already grown powerful. But he had new ideas.”
Brody could see the plot of the story now. The shape of the puzzle filling in. All the pieces had been there, waiting. He’d just needed to free himself from notions of what couldn’t be.
In the echo, the Eaters fought and killed for power. With each kill, they grew stronger. They could move faster, hit harder. But it was more than that. Food tasted better. The sky grew brighter. He’d felt the allure of that, the temptation. But he’d never extended it across a long enough timeline. Not weeks, or years.
Decades. Centuries.
Claire had compared it to heroin. He now realized she’d been wrong. The first hit of heroin was the best a user ever got. Every subsequent one was a pursuit of a lost moment. It was a downward spiral.
Money is a better analogy.
Every dollar a person owned made it easier to claim another. Every dollar increased their options. The journey from poverty to middle class was far more difficult than from middle to upper. And for those addicted to wealth as its own reward, there would never be enough. Until you were Donald Trump, or the Koch brothers, and would do anything, crush anyone for your own benefit.
“Instead of just killing,” Brody said slowly, “he suggested guiding living people to do it for you.” He remembered the boy angel whispering to Simon, promising him greatness, telling him he was important, part of a plan. “Sad, broken people. You turned them into murderers so you could feed on their victims.”
“Oh yes.” Her laugh scraped his spine. “But that isn’t new. My kind has done that for thousands of years. Your tales of witches and demons, your psychopaths and serial killers, they have always been us. We have ridden the weak and the mad and fed on their victims. But Edmund saw greater potential. He realized that in this modern world, the souls were lesser than the fear.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“Every moment of true fear is a tiny death. Each moment a person surrenders to it, they lose something they will never recover. A wisp of energy into the universe. If our actions caused that fear, we absorb that energy. But it’s meaningless, small almost beyond measure.
“That was Edmund’s revelation. Even after five hundred years, Edmund was fascinated by the living world. He studied it. And he realized that in this era when all the planet is connected, any act could be multiplied.
“The energy of individual fear is tiny. But the blue whale is the largest animal alive, and feeds only on tiny krill. Not by ones and twos. By millions.”
“My god.” Brody leaned a hand against the window glass, suddenly afraid his legs might give. He’d heard the phrase “skin crawling” many times, but until that moment, he’d never properly understood it. His skin, his hair, his muscles, every part of him writhed and fought to be away from her. “The victims weren’t the point at all.”
“Riding one killer might yield dozens of souls. But if a monster could be shaped to terrify a city, or even a nation? The potential of terror is enormous.”
Claire was right all along.
All the random, inexplicable brutalities. The school shooters and psychotic Uber drivers. The mothers who drowned their children. The serial killers with their duct tape and their butcher knives. The maniacs who fired round after round into crowded nightclubs, pausing only to reload. The atrocities for which there was no answer, no reason. The ones that made no sense.
How many bore the signature of these self-styled gods? These monsters who were nothing more than people run rampant, drunk on destruction. Who had started as Eaters, and excelled at it. Who had literally built their power upon corpses, stacking bodies beneath them until they stood so high they thought they were divine.
Once, he had wished that there was a reason behind the horrors of the world. Not a plan, or a destiny, but just some logic. Some meaning that couldn’t be grasped.
Now he grasped it.
Brody had a sudden, savage wish that the sniper’s bomb had killed him properly. No echo, no second chance, no battles in the afterlife. Because all of it—all of it, not just those things, but his whole goddamn existence—had been meaningless.
He wanted to choke the life out of her. To wrap his hands around her thin neck and squeeze, feel the trachea collapsing and the flesh tearing. And knew with perfect certainty that he couldn’t. The ancient crone radiated power. He could barely stand next to her, much less touch her.
“Why are you telling me all this? Are you bragging?”
The idea seemed to amuse her. “That would be like boasting to a cow. No. I’m offering you a deal. I will bring your woman back—for a price.”
“The necklace. The, what did you call it? Totem.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “It concerns me. It concerns the hell out of me.”
“I could take it from you,” she said.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. If you could take it, you would have already. Taking is your first resort. So I’m assuming that for some reason you can’t.”
Her brows drew together, and her lips pulled back to reveal her teeth. The air around her seemed to thicken and scorch, wobbling like a heat mirage. “Perhaps. But I can wipe you from existence. As though you’d never been born.”
Brody shrugged.
Isabella made a sound like a hiss, only deeper. A snarling whisper of menace and frustration. For a moment she looked like she was going to pounce on him. Not the slight woman in front of him, but the ravenous creature of darkness that lay behind and beneath and around her.
He stood his ground. It was easier now that he knew the truth.
She spun, stormed three steps away. Stood in front of the glass, peering down at the world below. After a long moment, she spoke. “I told you that everything was energy. Those of us who became gods, we guard our strength. We are not friends.”
He laughed. “The Eaters, all over again. No trust, no faith.”
“Trust is a weakness,” she said. “Trust teaches you to turn your back on those who could destroy you. We feed upon your kind, but we will devour our own at the first opportunity.” She sighed. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to actively, continually distrust everyone, every moment? To do it for centuries?”
“I don’t have to.”
“Edmund and I complemented each other. So long as the benefit was greater, we each felt safe. And I suppose that over decades a certain fondness grew.” Briefly, her voice warmed. But only briefly. “That was a mistake. Over time, I forgot that Edmund was not my friend.”
“And he betrayed you.”
“I escaped. B
ut there was a cost. I had to flee the other realms. The valleys beyond the world. The only place I could be safe was where his power is weakest. I had to return to . . .” Her face wrinkled like she was tasting something foul. “Life.”
Brody laughed.
“You find this amusing?”
“I do,” he said. “I think it’s hilarious. You got back what everyone else would want, but you didn’t anymore. Because why be alive when you can be a soul-sucking demon.”
“I told you Edmund has a restless mind,” she said, continuing as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your sniper is his newest notion. He would use the man to sow fear and pain here. But instead of discarding him, Edmund thought to use him in the echo. To imbue him with some of his own essence. To make him a leader, and unite the Eaters under him. Can you imagine the power? Every kill made would feed Edmund.”
“I gathered that much,” Brody said. “Tell me about the totem.”
She sighed. “For Edmund’s plan to succeed, the sniper would need to arrive in the echo with massive power. The kind it might take fifty years to accrue.”
Brody pulled the necklace from his pocket, held it up in front of his eyes. The desiccated bones twisted slowly on the leather thong. “So this is a magic amulet, then? Wear it and gain superpowers?”
“The energy it contains is enormous, yes. But more important is that it is Edmund’s power. It is connected to him. It is, in a very real way, part of him. That’s how he benefits from every action.”
“And you want it for revenge.”
“I want it so that I can go home again.” The words spoken so softly he could barely hear them. “You’re right, I can’t take it. Edmund understood the risk of putting so much of his power in the totem. It would be a target for all of us. So he wove his will in such a way that none of us, not the Aztec, not the Comanche, not me, can seize it. It has to be given.”
“It wasn’t given to me.”
She scoffed. “You? A mortal? Edmund has preyed on you for five hundred years. It never occurred to him to fear that a mortal might take it. Especially not from his gladiator. That’s why I . . .” She trailed off, but he could finish the sentence himself. That’s why she sent you and Claire dreams. To pit you against the sniper, in the hope that something like this might happen.
“I cannot wield the totem. Edmund made its power poison to us. But so long as I possess it, he won’t be able to strike at me without striking himself as well. I could leave this sad, foul place. Return where I belong.” She turned. “In trade, I will save your woman.”
Brody considered. Could she do it? With everything he’d learned, he imagined so. The echo he knew was only for people who died abruptly, with an abundance of what Arthur had called potential energy. But according to her there were other worlds, other echoes. What he’d seen was just one valley in a chain. If that was so, then it seemed reasonable that Claire had moved farther down the chain. “I understand.”
“Good.” She held out her hand, palm open. “Let me have the totem. Your woman’s time is very short.”
“No.”
“No?” Disbelief and hatred warred on her features. “No?”
“I wouldn’t help you if you were on fire.” He tucked the bone back in his pocket. “Hell, I’d pour gasoline.”
“Your woman walks the plains of shadow. The very end of existence, do you understand? The abyss from which there is no return. Without my help, she will truly die. Soon.”
Brody shrugged. “I don’t really know what that means. But I know Claire. She’d rather die than help you. And so would I.”
“Mr. Brody.” Her voice tinged with desperation. “There’s more. Much more. I can make your woman more beautiful. More compliant. Lustier. I can give you wealth. Position. Long life.” She gestured at her playpen in the sky. “Tell me your price and I will meet it.”
He shook his head. “You really don’t get it, do you? I guess being a predatory old witch for centuries will leave you out of touch.” Brody stepped forward. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want you to change who I am, or the woman I love. In fact, the only thing I want from you, I’m already going to get. You gave it to me when you brought yourself back to life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want you to die.” Brody smiled, then started for the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “And her name is Claire.”
FORTY-TWO
He moved fast through the arch separating the living room from the kitchen. The appliances gleamed, not a speck of carbon to suggest they’d ever been used to cook. The knife block was lacquered wood. The hanging rack was laden with heavy copper pans. A crystal vase overflowed with hydrangeas. Without slowing down, he snagged the vase and a twelve-inch skillet and left the kitchen.
Thing One and Thing Two were in the sitting room, right where he’d expected them. Beyond them was the elevator.
Thing Two had a phone to his ear, no doubt receiving orders to stop Brody. Thing One stood at the entrance to the foyer, his coat unbuttoned and one hand already inside.
Brody tossed the vase underhanded, the crystal sparkling in the sunlight, flowers tumbling out. The bodyguard reacted well, sidestepping instead of trying to block the glass. It hit the wall and shattered in an explosion of water droplets and bright fragments. Before the first pieces reached the floor, Brody had crossed the ten feet, whipping the pan through the air in an edge-on blow. The man snapped up a forearm to block it. There was a crunch of metal on bone, and he staggered, his right hand still going for his pistol as Brody spun and brought the pan back the other way. There was none of the superhuman strength the echo had afforded, but plain old momentum worked just as well. Skillet met skull with a shivering bong. The guard’s eyes went wobbly and he started to fall.
Brody grabbed him like they were dancing, one hand going inside the man’s jacket. For a split second he fumbled, caught on the lining of the suit, then his fingers found the pistol in the shoulder holster. He yanked it free and dropped.
As he did, two gunblasts sounded from behind, achingly loud in the enclosed space. Bright red spots burst on Thing One’s body. Brody rolled onto one shoulder and brought the gun up, disengaging the safety with his thumb. He lined up on Thing Two, aiming at center mass and pulling the trigger three times in rapid succession. A neat triangle of shots bloomed in Thing Two’s chest. The gun fell, and the man followed it.
Ah well. Killing them hadn’t been his goal, but he could live with it. He hoped they enjoyed the echo.
The gun was a Colt 1911, heavier than the Glock he’d carried, but there was no debating the stopping power of the .45-caliber rounds. For a moment, he considered stalking back the way he’d come. But he couldn’t imagine killing Isabella would be as simple as pulling a trigger. Besides, there was no telling if she had other security. Speed and aggression had gotten him through once—oorah, Semper Fi—but there was no point pushing his luck.
He started for the elevator, then remembered the keycards. Brody used a foot to flip Thing One onto his back and dug for his wallet, brown leather worn into a mold of the cards within.
Twenty seconds later, he was in the elevator heading down, the pistol tucked behind his back. He could feel the heat of the barrel through his underwear. When the doors opened, he strolled calmly through the lobby, keeping his head low to minimize the chances his face was visible on the security cameras. Everything was calm. One disadvantage of living on the 72nd floor, he supposed—few neighbors to report gunfire.
Outside the climate-controlled lobby, a gorgeous fall day swirled, the sky burning blue. People walked in both directions like being alive was no big deal. Brody headed for Michigan Avenue and joined the throng.
The wallet held a driver’s license, credit cards, private security credentials, and two hundred thirty-seven dollars in cash. He pocketed the money and dumped the wallet in a bin.
A smell caught him, a rich dark homey scent. A man carrying a cardboard tray pushed through a glass door on a brief wave of guitars a
nd female vocals. Brody caught the handle and walked to the counter. There were a few people ahead of him: an executive type looking at her phone, two college students chattering, a mother cradling a zonked-out kid. They stood so calmly, so easily. Unafraid.
“Hi, welcome to Starbucks. Can I get something started for you?”
“A large Americano with an extra shot, please.”
He paid and waited at the end of the counter. When his coffee arrived, he reached for it with something like reverence. The heat soaked through the paper cup to warm his hands. Brody added a bare splash of cream, raised it to his lips, and took a tentative sip.
God. He’d missed that.
He took a seat by the window and stared out at Chicago. Life streamed by around him as he sipped his coffee and watched and thought.
He was alive. The woman he loved was dead. The man responsible was five hundred years old. Brody knew more about the workings of the universe than he’d ever cared to. He hadn’t just peeked behind the curtain, he’d yanked it aside, stepped back there and started fiddling with the controls.
So now what?
FORTY-THREE
The keys were on the back of a fat drain pipe, held in place by duct tape. Right where he’d left them a year ago. Brody peeled them off and walked the two blocks back up Morgan. The trick to hiding house keys in the city was to stick them on somebody else’s building. Needles in a needlestack.
A few days ago, on patrol in the echo, Brody had asked to swing by his home. He’d planned to go inside, had some vague notion of taking comfort from the place. But as their armed group had tromped through the dead neighborhood, reflections flashing in the glass of silent restaurants and empty stores, it had started to feel wrong. Did he want to feel his way through the dark halls to sit in his lifeless loft? What for? In the end, he’d settled for just standing on the sidewalk looking up at his windows.
Now a bus was beeping and hissing as the hydraulics lowered it to curb level. The air was filled with the smell of exhaust and the sound of distant construction. A group of guys in T-shirts and baseball caps passed, one of them walking backward, telling a story. Brody hesitated outside the front door, but only for a moment.
