Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Grant had a syndrome, a brain disorder that had afflicted him from birth: synesthesia. Which meant that every sound he heard, every sigh and creak and chirp, translated itself into color. Grant could see sound.

  He could see others things, too. Energy. Auras. Reflections of souls, bound in color, colors that had meanings, that formed a language only he could decipher. No person could hide from Grant. Masks meant nothing. To be seen by him meant being stripped down to the essence of some personal truth—no matter how damning, no matter how good. Not something most people would have been pleased to know about. Souls were supposed to be private. Souls—even the souls of demons—were supposed to be inviolate, unalterable by any human or creature.

  But no other human or creature was like Grant. No one I had ever met had the ability to alter the very nature of a living being—with nothing but a song.

  “You have investigators,” replied Grant.

  “Ah,” said the priest, with a smile, “but the killer was a friend of yours.”

  I was looking at Grant when he said that. I was staring straight into his eyes, and so I saw the flinch, even though his body stayed still as death.

  “I had a lot of friends in the Church,” Grant replied, but I knew him too well, and a fist of dread pushed into my stomach. Unfamiliar sensation. Ugly. I had felt dread while my mother lived. I had felt dread after she died. Dread, when it was just me and the boys, up against the world. Trivial, though. My mother had been indestructible, larger than life—and I was merely hard to kill. Even my close call with the bullet was nothing, in the long run.

  This was different. I suffered, in quick succession, anxiety and dismay—and it was not for me. It was for Grant. And that was worse. Worse than I could have imagined, all those years spent alone.

  “Father Ross,” said the priest. “He asked for you.”

  Grant finally looked down at his hand, still gripping the cane. “Where is he?”

  “Shanghai.” Father Cribari wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “We could not bring him to you. It may be difficult to move him for some time yet. He was sent as part of a special mission from the Vatican to explore relations with our brothers and sisters in China, but something happened while he was there. He . . . changed.”

  “He murdered,” Grant said softly, still looking down. “But that’s impossible. He was a good man. I know it.”

  I had wondered for some time what good looked like to Grant. What it meant to have a kind aura, or a gentle spirit. Grant said I had all of those things in me—which meant he was the best liar I knew—but I believed him when he said the same of others. If his Father Ross had been a good man when Grant knew him, then it was true.

  Father Cribari took a step toward the door. I did not budge, not even when his back came close to brushing against my body. Zee writhed against my skin, lunging in his dreams toward the priest. I tried to ignore the sensation. Tried not to think about what it would look like if it were night and Zee were awake, lunging for real at that man’s back. I guessed there would be a hole the size of a Frisbee where his spine should be. My boys were good like that.

  “He asked for you because he said you would know what to do,” said Father Cribari.

  Grant’s gaze snapped up. “If I remember correctly, we had a similar discussion ten years ago. About all the things I could do. You suggested I would be better off dead.”

  “But you are not, are you?” The priest sidled backward again, and this time did touch me. My arms were still folded over my chest. I felt the hard muscles of his back through my clothing. He was built like a whip. The scents of yeast and beeswax were strong, and even though I had never thought about the hairs in my nose, I could suddenly feel every one of them, tingling.

  Father Cribari did not move away. He stared over his shoulder into my eyes. No words, just silence. I gave him the same treatment. No sweat off my back. I could stand like that forever. Or at least until the sun went down.

  Grant said, “You want me to go to Shanghai; is that it?”

  Father Cribari did not move or look at him. Just held my gaze. “Yes. We can arrange a visa through one of our local contacts in Seattle’s Chinese embassy, but you will have to fly a commercial airline and enter the country as a tourist. We do not want to bring attention to this situation. It must be handled in secret.”

  “Secret,” I said, before Grant could reply. “For a man with secrets, you sure spilled your guts in front of me.”

  “And why wouldn’t I?” said Father Cribari, with a smile—though there was a trace of unease in the lines of his mouth. “Dark Mother.”

  I blinked, and the priest backed away, his eyes glittering. Skin slick with sweat.

  Grant whispered, “Get out of here.”

  Father Cribari pulled a white business card from his pocket and laid it on the desk. “I’ll need your answer within the hour.”

  He turned to the door, and this time I stepped aside. There were reasons not to. I had no idea what Dark Mother meant, but the man obviously knew something about me—and the boys hated his guts—which was more than enough to judge and convict.

  But it was not the right moment. Not a good opportunity for truth.

  Father Cribari moved past me without a glance, opened the door, and walked out—though he paused, just slightly, in the hall. Looking around with a wariness that made me think he was afraid of meeting one particular old woman. I hoped Mary found him and stuffed some of her brownies down his throat.

  He left the door open. I listened to his footsteps fade, then reached out and closed the door. I locked it, but did not turn to face Grant. I stared at the brass knob, thinking hard. All my secrets were shit.

  “Maxine,” Grant said.

  I tasted blood. “Who was he?”

  “A long arm.” The desk creaked, and I glanced over my shoulder, watching as Grant eased himself onto the hard surface with a sigh. He laid his cane beside him and started kneading his bad leg. “He would have been an Inquisitor in another life.”

  “He still is. That man wants you dead.”

  “He already tried that. He thinks I work for the devil.”

  “Well,” I said with a faint smile. “Mostly they work for you.”

  Grant also smiled, but it was wry and tired. “I have to go. Doesn’t matter who asked.”

  “Ross,” I said quietly. “He was a good friend?”

  “My best,” Grant replied, but with little happiness. “He was the only one I told, the man I confessed to, about my . . . ability.”

  That surprised me. I could recall, with perfect clarity, the first night I had met Grant, when he had told me about a fragment of his life, how he had been driven from the Church. A friend had betrayed him. A friend he had confided to—who had feared what Grant could do instead of embracing it.

  “Grant,” I began, but he shook his head.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Never mind the past. Father Ross was not a man capable of murder, let alone torture. If he did commit such acts . . .”

  Grant did not finish, but there was no need. When a good man went bad, without warning or explanation, there were few reasons why such a thing could happen. Possession was one of them. Demons. Zombies. The kind of creature now asking for Grant. Maybe.

  I sat on top of the desk beside him. “You know this is a trap.”

  “Antony wasn’t lying about Father Ross, but his aura was dark. Not demon dark, but almost as bad. Full of conflict. Unease. It was worse around you. You scared him.”

  I scared a lot of people, but hearing that I made Father Cribari squirrelly did not tickle me as much as it should have. “What does Dark Mother mean?”

  “I’m not certain. But he knows too much.” Grant flashed me a hard look. “Did I lead him to you, Maxine?”

  “No,” I said, and meant it. “I need to have another conversation with him.”

  He smiled, without humor. “Leave some pieces for me.”

  “Spoilsport.” I drummed my fingers against his
hip, feeling the boys toss gently in their dreams; like a soft wind, rushing through my skin. “China. Shanghai. No matter what Cribari said about your friend, it feels like he’s going to a lot of trouble to drag you away from here.”

  “Believe it’s just a coincidence?”

  “That depends on what you think he really wants with you. And how much he knows about the two of us.” Strangers, prying into our secrets. Strangers, knowing our secrets. I hated it.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I finally said, holding out my pinky. A ghost of a smile touched Grant’s mouth, and he snagged me with his own little finger. We shook with all the solemnity of five-year-olds, then wrestled back and forth for a moment.

  “You’re my Wonder Woman,” he said softly. “My Amazon.”

  “Pied Piper,” I whispered. “My best, favorite man.”

  He did not smile. “What happened this morning?”

  Pain pulsed. I thought of the dead girl. Archie. “Same thing as always. I got there too late.”

  “You were hurt.”

  I rubbed my head. “Not worth mentioning.”

  Grant’s frown deepened. “I was talking about your heart.”

  “I found the demon,” I said, not wanting to discuss the bullet that had almost killed me. “I took care of it.”

  “Maxine,” he said roughly, and his fingers grazed my brow, warm and gentle. He examined my head, parting the hair around my right temple, no doubt catching glimpses of the silver tattoos covering my scalp. I did not bother asking how he suddenly knew what had happened. Maybe my voice had told him. Maybe the bullet had punched more than my skull.

  “You were shot,” he said softly.

  “You can tell that from my aura?”

  “There’s a dent around your head. Like your spirit is still suffering from the fear you felt.” He peered into my eyes. “But I’ve never seen you afraid of a gun.”

  “It was close,” I admitted, unable to lie. “I think I’ve put you in danger.”

  Grant’s jaw tightened. “Did you see who did it?”

  “No. Long range. Just before dawn. I’ll put Zee and the others on the scent tonight.” I nudged him in the ribs. “Business as usual.”

  “No, it’s not.” He pulled me closer, squeezing me so tight I almost ended up in his lap—which was suddenly not close enough. I twisted, straddling him, taking care not to put too much weight on his bad leg. Heat spread between us, soft and rich. I fiddled with his collar, hardly able to look past his throat, the hard line of his stubbly jaw. He smelled like cinnamon and sunlight, warm as summer stone, and my gloved hands looked very small against his tanned skin.

  “I was fine before I met you,” I whispered. “I was fine.”

  “I know,” he said softly, and his lips brushed mine. “But you scare me sometimes.”

  I scared myself. I glanced over his shoulder at the bulging FedEx envelope and felt another pang of unease. “Are those the results?”

  Grant hesitated and reached backward. “Arrived first thing this morning. I haven’t . . . looked at it like I should.”

  “But you did look.”

  He gave me a wry glance. “I learned from you that prying into a mother’s secrets is dangerous business.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “How bad can it be?”

  Grant sighed, dumping the contents of the envelope across his desk. A bound manila file thumped out, along with a heavy gold necklace that slid a short distance across the battered wood surface. I was no expert on jewelry—I wore none, except for the finger armor, and that was not my choice. But the necklace in front of me was eye-catching. The metal gleamed like velvet infused with sunlight, warm and rich. Pure soft gold, the kind a person could bite down on and bend.

  A pendant hung from the thick chain. A coil of lines, like a rose.

  “My mother was my world,” Grant said quietly, fingering the necklace. “You know she died while I was in high school, right? Cancer. Devastated my dad and me. But especially him. He didn’t want to talk about her. And you know . . . you know how you never think to ask certain questions, you take everything for granted, then . . . then once that person is gone, all those things you never knew about her just keep coming at you, over and over?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  He pushed the necklace aside and slid his fingers lightly over the folder. “I didn’t do anything about it then. I don’t think I ever would have, except . . .”

  “What happened changed things,” I finished for him, and he gave me a long, steady look that was both calm and pained.

  “What happened,” he agreed heavily, “when that . . . thing . . . called me that name.”

  Lightbringer, I thought, and imagined a tremor in the delicate armor surrounding my finger; as though a small heart fluttered, briefly. I clenched my hand in a rough fist, and heat passed through my tattooed skin.

  I did not believe in the supernatural. The supernatural was fairy-tale. I dealt in reality; cold, hard facts. And one of those facts was this: More than demons walked the world. Other creatures existed, also capable of possessing human flesh.

  Avatars. Manifestations of sentient energy in bodily form. Ancient beings who had done battle with the demons and built the prison veil to jail the demons—made my kind, the Wardens—and then abandoned this world for others, where the memory of battle did not cling so thick.

  Not all of them had left, though. Some had stayed by choice. Others . . . not so much.

  But one thing had been made clear: Avatars recognized something in Grant, something they had a name for, and it had scared one of them shitless. Or just shocked her so much it was practically the same thing. Made me feel like a pussycat in comparison. Insignificant. A mere pretender in the art of death.

  I had killed that Avatar. I had destroyed her—and a part of myself—with only a touch. No choice in the matter. No way to question her about Grant. And the only other individual who knew the full truth of what my man was had disappeared like a ghost, gone now for three months.

  My grandfather. Jack Meddle.

  “So,” I said. “The file.”

  “The investigator I hired was thorough.”

  “And?”

  “And,” he said, not looking at me, “my mother didn’t exist before she married my dad. Not on paper, not anywhere. There’s nothing, Maxine.”

  I hesitated. “She could have been from another country. Immigrated on the sly. Easy enough to do.”

  “Yes.” Grant finally met my gaze. “But the investigator found old neighbors, some hospital records. According to what he uncovered, I had already been born. Before she was married. I was at least a year old.”

  Scandalous, that was not. But something in his tone made me careful. I sat in his lap, and he was tense as a blind man in a minefield, and I wanted to hold his hand, hold him tight. I waited, though, unmoving. Until he said, “I was told something different by my parents.”

  “Ah,” I replied, and thought of all the lies my mother had told me. “So?”

  “So nothing,” he muttered tersely, reaching back to swipe the necklace off the desk, the chain flashing soft and golden as it draped over his wrist. “But a year is a long time, Maxine. The nine months before that even longer.”

  I finally understood. “Your real father might be a different man than the one who raised you.”

  He was so grim. “Wouldn’t make a difference. It wouldn’t.”

  But it would. Not in love, but in identity. Blood was serious business. It was good, knowing the roots of what flowed in your veins. Helped put your feet on the ground, when you had nothing, no one else to anchor your heart.

  I did not know who my father was.

  Grant held up the necklace and studied the gold links, the pendant sunk deep in his large palm. “I thought she was buried with this. But after my father died, it was found in his papers.”

  I studied the golden lines, knotted in a circle half as large as a compact disc and almost as flat, with a natural opening
near the top where the chain looped through. No end, no beginning, just a tangled coil that became ever more intricate the deeper one looked; as though there were layers buried in layers, buried deeper still, despite the deceptively level shape of the disc. Made me dizzy. I had to look away, blinking hard. Grant’s fingers closed around the pendant.

  “First time I’ve seen it,” I said, nauseous.

  “I bring the necklace out about as often as you handle your mother’s guns. Receiving those files made me want to hold it again.”

  I leaned in, pressing my brow against his warm, hard shoulder, trying to steady my upset stomach. “So, what now?”

  “I don’t know.” Grant slid his fingers through my hair. “My dad . . . was normal. All business. Aggressive, ruthless. But not . . . not like me. I took after my mother. Except for . . .” He waved his hand—still holding the pendant—around his head. “If she could see what I saw, do what I did, she never let on. And I only told her . . . a little.”

  “You thought you were unique.”

  “But I’m not. Especially if what I do marks me with a name.”

  “Lightbringer,” I whispered.

  He held me closer and placed his mouth against my ear. “Not human.”

  I closed my eyes. “Old news, man. Join the club.”

  He set down his mother’s necklace. “I need to find out what I am. I need more information. I’ve been running on instinct all this time because I thought that was all I had. I thought I was alone in what I do. But I’m going to slip one day. I’m going to do something I shouldn’t. Push a mind too far. Make too big a change in some person’s soul. Maybe it’ll be an accident. Maybe not. But if there’s someone who could teach me—”

  Grant stopped, a tremor running through him. “It’s in me, Maxine. The possibility of becoming what I hate. I don’t . . . want to hurt people. I don’t want to be the man who justifies hurting people. I don’t want to be that man who believes in his own righteousness, without question.”

  I did not want that, either, though I had more faith in Grant than that. The boys liked him. That said a lot. If Grant did go sour, I had a feeling it would not be the end of the world. Not that I could tell him that. My own brand of callous realism was not something he particularly needed, not now. His urgency was painful—which pained me, too, because Grant was a good man. Driven, in that same spirit, never to do harm. But when you could influence, with nothing but the sound of your voice, the very integrity of a person’s soul—