Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  He was not entirely ordinary. Tall, reedy, with a long face that was deathly pale except for two red splotches high on his cheeks. His brow shone with sweat, though it was only forty degrees outside, and his posture was so straight he reminded me of a nail. He was also a priest. Black slacks, black shirt, that little white square of a collar peeking through his unzipped black Windbreaker.

  It should not have made a difference, but it did. I had been very nearly murdered less than an hour before, and now a priest had shown up whom the boys wanted to kill. I did not like coincidences—even if this one failed to add up.

  I tapped Byron on the shoulder. “Go get Grant for me, will you?”

  He looked back at me, his eyes black as coal, and old, so old. “Because of that priest, right?”

  He was good at surprising me. “Smart kid.”

  Byron did not blink. “I don’t like him.”

  Smiling never came naturally to me, but my mouth tilted, just so. “Better than smart. Brilliant. Now go get Grant.”

  Byron ducked his head and nudged the volunteer beside him, handing her his spoon before he stepped out of the serving line. He hung his apron on a hook by the kitchen door and left. Fast, efficient. Good at not asking questions.

  I looked again at the priest. He had moved deeper into the cafeteria and was turning in a slow circle, searching the crowd. Zombies watched him. Three, scattered amongst the humans. Auras stirring black and listless. Two men, one woman, wearing dull frayed coats and knit caps. Cold-weather clothes for a cold Seattle winter.

  It amazed me, always, that humans could be so blind to the dangers around them. No one looked twice at the zombies. Folks sat elbow to elbow with them, chatting, making nice.

  But I knew. I stared. Only one of them met my gaze. Brief, haunted. Pale. His leg twitched under the table. I did not look away. I liked his fear. It tasted bloody and warm, and the boys were always hungry for a fat demon: a little possessor; zombie-maker, parasite. Burrowers, borrowers, drifting on the outskirts of human minds, searching for weakness, a hot harvest.

  Demons made pain. Demons ate pain, which was nothing but another kind of energy: a dark emanation. Demons whispered inside the ears of the soul and turned grand-mothers into murderers, awkward boys into rapists, men like Archie Limbaud into sadists. All of them, zombies. Human shells inhabited by creatures who thrived on patterns of suffering, ever-widening circles of despair.

  I was good at killing the parasites. I had to be. No one else was around to do it. Hardly anyone knew they existed. I was the last of the Wardens, all that was left of a race of men and women created to stand against an army of demons, the very worst of which were caught behind the veil: a multidimensional prison, floating in time and space. Weakening, ready to fail.

  When it did, the world would end. Ten thousand years of peace, about to get broken into a million little pieces.

  But here, in this homeless shelter, a sanctuary for the devils. Because I had made a promise.

  I left the kitchen through a side door that led directly into the cafeteria. The priest had his back turned. I listened to the soft roar of breakfast conversation as I walked toward him. Beneath the voices I heard strains from South Pacific playing softly over the intercom. One of the volunteers had been to New York City to see the revival at Lin coln Center, and it was his new obsession. I walked to the perky beat of Mitzi Gaynor washing men out of her hair, and found myself sympathizing. At least, with regard to the priest.

  He turned as I approached. Closing the distance did nothing to improve my feelings about him. He was taller than me, almost skinnier—and the dark clothing, the pale translucence of his damp face and brown, stringy hair, only enhanced the skeletal qualities of his body. The red flush in his upper cheeks looked as though he had jammed his fingers in a pot of rouge, and rubbed and rubbed.

  The priest tilted his head, a faint, tremulous smile touching his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “Hello,” he said, his accent Italian, his voice far calmer than the twitch in his cheek, the flutter of his eyelid. His looked at me as if we were already on a first-name basis, and the familiarity of his regard made me uncomfortable; even nauseous, as though his facial tics were a rocking boat.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, holding steady as Zee pulsed in agitation between my breasts. Dek and Mal tugged beneath my scalp—like twin barbs twitching in a fish’s mouth—while Raw and Aaz burned against my hands, simmering in soft rumbles that scorched me to the bone. Something wrong. Something wicked.

  The man did not immediately answer. He held my gaze, unblinking, as though he was not a priest but some spiritual scientist, dissecting my soul in strips, cutting and cutting with delicate, deadly precision. A fast analysis, cold, and as with his voice it belied the sweat and unease, the radiating uncertainty of his posture. Just a mask, I thought. Or a symptom.

  “I am looking for someone,” said the priest, with a curious dead tone in his voice. “The man who owns this place.”

  I was not surprised. But I wanted to lie. I wanted to get mean. Letting this priest near Grant would be a terrible mistake. I should never have sent Byron to find him. I could feel it in my gut, like a bad meal churning into bile.

  Too late. I heard a distinctive clicking sound outside the cafeteria. Faint, but growing in strength like a heartbeat. Familiar as the hearts of the boys, pulsing hot against my skin.

  Grant pushed open the double doors, leaning heavily on his oak cane. It was like being in an old-time saloon—conversation quieted, chairs scraping as men and women turned, staring. I felt the power of that mass regard like a living weapon, and it made me as uneasy as any promise of death. I should have been used to it. Grant had that effect on people.

  Demons, too. I glanced at the three zombies and found adoration in their eyes, a devotion I would have expected in parishioners praying to the cross. Even the flare of their auras quieted in Grant’s presence, as though simply seeing him eased the darkness of their natures.

  Unnatural. Unnerving. I killed demons. I killed them because I had been taught they were dangerous—and they were. I killed them without conscience because I believed they had none: irredeemable, less than a flea or a tick. I still believed that. Even after all this time, I could not reconcile the Archie Limbauds of the world with these creatures, who were exactly the same—but who had come here of their own free will, to become something different, something . . . better.

  Grant complicated everything.

  He was a tall man, with strong, broad shoulders that strained against a soft flannel shirt, faded to a pale green. He had recently gotten a haircut, but his brown hair was still wildly tousled, a fine contrast to the hard lines of his face and the crinkle of his eyes, the easy tilt of his smiling mouth.

  The strap of his flute case hung across his chest, and I caught a hint of polished wood behind his shoulder; a new instrument, carved with his own two hands. Made a mournful, throaty music, which I would have liked hearing in the natural chapel of the forest outside the city, near the sea. Dawn music. Silver music, soft as the fog that built a wall from ocean wave to rock and leaf. Music that was part of his blood and bone, and in his eyes: primal, otherworldly, sharp like the gaze of a wolf.

  Beautiful man. My man.

  Grant saw me first. He always saw me first, no matter where, no matter the crowd—and it was like hitting a raw nerve: being seen, being known. Truly known, without secrets. Too new to feel natural. I had spent my life as a shadow. I had believed I would die one, too. No one to remember me but the boys, and if I was lucky, a daughter.

  The priest took a sharp breath when he saw Grant. It was loud, dramatic—I half expected to see the man swoon—but there was nothing weak about his face. His jaw was tight, lips thin and white, and his upper cheeks paled to a faint pink that resembled two healing welts against his skin.

  All the warmth drained from Grant’s eyes. I saw it happen, like watching death move in; as though the priest were a gun, an adder, a plug of slime. Nast
y and vicious. I had never seen Grant look at anyone like that, and it was nothing I wanted to become a habit. He was a gentle man. A gentle, dangerous man.

  The priest went very still. He and Grant stared at each other. Folks in the cafeteria, who had resumed their meals, started watching them again. Byron peered through the double doors, then disappeared. I moved closer to Grant and glanced back at the priest. Caught the edge of a cold, piercing smile.

  “Father Cooperon,” said the priest, with a touch of acid in his voice. “Un pezzo che non ci si vede.”

  Grant’s gaze remained steady. “Not long enough, Antony.”

  The priest’s smile faded, shadows gathering in his eyes. “Indeed.”

  I brushed up against Grant. “We should take this elsewhere.”

  His hand slid around my own, and I savored the heat of his body through my glove. I felt nothing on my skin while the boys slept—not even the whisper of the wind, or the rain, or sunlight—but Grant’s warmth seeped through their tattoos. The boys liked him.

  The priest’s gaze fell upon our joined hands and stayed there. He looked unhappy. Maybe disgusted. Or jealous. Not much of a difference between any of those emotions, in my experience.

  Grant did not turn his back on the priest. He shifted sideways and gestured with his chin toward the doors. His knuckles were white around the cane. His hand tight against mine. I squeezed once, keeping my gaze on the priest as he glided past, his shoulders round and hunched. He smelled like yeast and hot beeswax.

  Grant began to follow the priest. I held him back, stood on my toes, and in his ear whispered, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t know,” he muttered, tugging me close. “But that’s the man who tried to convince the Church to kill me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  WE walked to Grant’s office. There was a crowd in the hall. Bulletin boards hung on the walls between framed posters: Charade mingled with temporary job openings, while Indiana Jones, in all his Raiders of the Lost Ark glory, rubbed shoulders with new announcements for night classes and cheap housing. I recognized some of the faces reading the crisp papers pinned to the board; mostly men, dressed in varying degrees of comfort and cleanliness—none of whom wore the shadow of a zombie.

  The men moved aside for Grant as he limped past. I watched faces, searching for dislike, some edge of danger. I found nothing. Just respect, a distant wariness. Appreciation. Grant moved amongst them with easy confidence, murmuring words, touching shoulders. Sharing moments of grace, in passing—bringing light, a particular alertness, into the occasional pair of dull, tired eyes. A melody in his voice, which skimmed over my skin, making the boys tingle.

  Former Father Cooperon. Working his magic.

  I walked beside the priest. He did not seem to notice the people around him, or the curious looks sent his way. His focus was entirely on Grant. And me. I listened to Zee and the others simmer in their dreams, heating my skin. Almost ten hours until sunset, and they were raring to go.

  “And you are?” asked the priest, glancing at me.

  “Annie,” I lied, which was the name I had been using around the shelter for the past six months. I was a fan of the movie Speed, and the name sounded cheerful, nonthreaten ing. Nothing like me.

  Only a few people knew my real name, though two of those were cops, and they had probably written it down in a computer, or some ugly file. Which was crap for me, even though I still clung to my old alias. Hard habit to break.

  “Annie,” echoed the priest, as though he did not entirely believe me. His cheek twitched. “You may call me Father Cribari.”

  Sounded cold. Made me think of circus clowns juggling knives and weeping painted tears. I almost said so. Maybe it showed on my face. I was a bad actress. I watched Father Cribari’s mouth tilt, his eyes filling with a darkly amused condescension that seemed far too knowing. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his pale, skinny hand, and said, “Grant. Where did you find this girl?”

  Grant’s pace faltered, and he glanced over his shoulder, briefly meeting my gaze before looking at the priest. “You’re not interested in her, Antony.”

  “Of course not,” replied Father Cribari. “But you are.”

  His edge was unmistakable, as was the sly tone, the cold, implacable humor. A pissing contest. Between a former priest and the real deal. There was a joke in this somewhere. But nothing funny—not in the slightest—about the anger that filled Grant’s eyes. Or the way his left hand twitched toward his flute.

  Grant stopped walking, so abruptly we almost ran into him. Which made it easy when he leaned in, almost nose to nose with Father Cribari, and very quietly said, “You bring her into this, Antony—”

  “—and you will finish what we started,” interrupted the priest, just as softly. “Yes, I know. But I did not come here for that.”

  “Just the messenger,” Grant whispered, his voice holding a hint of a melody, so deadly a chill raced through my bones. Careful, I thought. Careful of those lines you should not cross.

  But Grant reached out and took my hand, pulling me close as he started limping again down the hall. I leaned into him, and his arm slid around my waist. Father Cribari lingered behind us. I whispered, “And here I was thinking of running off with him.”

  A grim smile touched Grant’s mouth. “You could try. But then I’d have to drag you back.”

  We reached Grant’s office, located near the front of a long hall painted with flowers, bumblebees, and mermaids: courtesy of the children who attended the shelter’s day-care center, located on the other side of the main wing, far from the adults who passed through the facility. I could hear the children laughing—high, sweet, uninhibited—and behind that, the nasal chime of cartoon voices, something more modern than what I was used to. Tom and Jerry was not much in fashion, anymore.

  A scarecrow of an old woman stood by Grant’s door. Wild white hair blazed from her head as if she wore the wig of Einstein, and a crooked potato-sack dress decorated with pink poodles covered her skinny frame. The old scars of track marks covered her upper arms, and she held a tin full of homemade brownies, which made me almost as wary as the priest standing at my side. I knew this old woman. She liked to use special ingredients in her baked goods. Highly illegal, occasionally leafy, ingredients.

  “Mary,” Grant said gently, but firmly. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to meet with you later.”

  The old woman hardly seemed to hear him. She stared at Father Cribari like he was a dirty itch, and took a step that somehow placed her between Grant and the priest—a move so smooth I hardly realized what she had done until she was up in the man’s face, peering into his eyes with her upper lip peeled back over her teeth. Not quite a snarl. More like she was tasting the air.

  “Used man,” she whispered suddenly. “You made your soul a slut.”

  Father Cribari reared back as though slapped. Grant grabbed Mary’s arm, but not before she smiled fiercely and laughed.

  “Gabriel’s Hounds will kill you,” she said, and looked from me to the priest. “Hot damn.”

  Father Cribari made a choking sound. Grant pushed open his office door, gave me a look—and I shoved the priest through, out of Mary’s sight. I heard words behind me, very soft, then Grant limped heavily into the office. He closed the door behind him. A faint flush stained his cheeks, but his eyes were calm.

  “This is not an insane asylum,” snapped Father Cribari, yanking on his sleeves. “There are places for women like—”

  “There’s no place for a person like Mary,” Grant interrupted smoothly. “Not in this world.”

  Which was, quite literally, the truth.

  Father Cribari looked as though he wanted to continue arguing the matter, but he yanked on his sleeve again and compressed his mouth into a thin, hard line that made his lips disappear, so that he resembled a snake.

  Grant did not sit. His hip brushed the edge of the desk, and he leaned hard on his cane, knuckles still white. His office was small, and sparsely decor
ated. Little of his personality adorned the room. Just white walls and a desk. Two soft armchairs. One lamp. Notebooks and pens, as well as some wrinkled papers covered in algebraic equations. A thick FedEx envelope, ripped open and bulging.

  And a framed picture of us, sprawled together on drift-wood while the ocean roared behind our backs and the clouds split silver with sun. No other photograph of me existed, not as an adult. I was happy with that one.

  I stood beside the office door, behind Father Cribari, and leaned against the wall, staring at the back of the priest’s head. Arms folded over my chest, subtly rubbing my arms as Zee and the others rumbled like little earthquakes erupting all over my body.

  “There’s been an incident,” said Father Cribari, without preamble. Still sounding calm, despite the twitch of his cheek and the sweat rolling down the back of his neck, just above the collar of his Windbreaker.

  Grant said nothing. Neither did I. No need. Silence could break a man more easily than questions. And Father Cribari had not come here to simply stand in a room and sweat.

  But it took him a while to say anything else. He was stone, pale as marble clothed in shadows, and the sweat could have been the aftermath of winter rain. Cold man. Standing near him, doing nothing, was difficult. I was used to action. Zombies. Demons. Exorcisms. I saw a problem, I fixed it. No waiting, unless it was for the right moment. And right moments were easy to find if you kept your options open. If you let yourself dwell in possibilities.

  Father Cribari said, “Murders.”

  Just like that. A declaration. Murders. No explanation. Grant’s jaw tightened. “Who were the victims?”

  “Three nuns. Taken in quick succession. Tortured before their throats were slit.”

  Grant showed nothing on his face. He leaned back, gaze flicking to the air above Cribari’s head. Studying the man’s aura.

  I could see auras, but only those that belonged to demons. I wished, though, that I could see what Grant did, though I doubted that was a responsibility I could have handled with even half his grace.