You didn’t tell them about the murdered and brutalized woman dumped like garbage in a construction site in Bushwick. Her body lay broken in Marie’s memory, her eyes wide open and staring up with a silent question: You promised you’d save me. Why didn’t you save me?
Marie pulled the covers over her head and curled into a fetal ball.
Out in the living room, she heard a knock at the door and a muffled exchange of voices. Then Janine’s response. “Hey, Tony. No, I…I don’t think it’s a good time.”
More murmurs.
“Yeah, I’ll tell her you stopped by. I think she just…well, you know. Sometimes she just has to sort things out.”
The door closed. Footsteps shuffled across the living room.
“Hey, Marie?” Janine called through the bedroom door.
“Yeah,” Marie said. Her voice sounded strange. Dry, cracked. Her head hurt, probably dehydrated. She knew she should get up, go to the kitchen nook, get a glass of water. She couldn’t make her arms pull the covers back.
“Tony came by. He’s wondering if—” She paused. There was another knock at the front door. “Huh, hold on.”
Marie drifted in the dark, her head throbbing.
“Oh, hi. I’m Janine, her roommate. I’m sorry, Marie is…she’s sick.”
Now two pairs of feet were striding across the living room.
“Sick?” Nessa said. “Where is she? I need to check on her.”
“You can’t—you can’t just come in here,” Janine said, flustered. “She doesn’t want to see anyone—”
The bedroom door flung open. Nessa was at Marie’s bedside in a heartbeat, her voice laced with worry.
“Marie? What’s wrong? Did you come down with something? What do you need? How can I help?”
Marie poked her head up from under the covers, looking past Nessa. Janine stood on the threshold, wringing her hands.
“It’s fine, Janine. Thank you.”
“Yes,” Nessa said, an edge of annoyance in her voice, “thank you.”
Janine looked dubious, but she shut the door. Nessa sat on the edge of the bed. Her hand curled over Marie’s shoulder through the sheets, giving a protective squeeze.
“My room is a mess,” Marie croaked. “I’m a mess. Didn’t want you to see any of this.”
“Stop listing things I don’t care about.” She pressed the back of her hand to Marie’s forehead. “You’re not running a fever.”
“Not that kind of sick.”
Marie sighed, shaking her head. It was going to come out, one way or another. Might as well rip the bandage off.
“That girl I was trying to save,” Marie told her.
She didn’t need to say anything else. The rest was in her silence. In the half-lit gloom, Nessa leaned in and held her close.
She gently kissed Marie’s forehead. Her fingertip brushed Marie’s mouth.
“Your lips are cracked,” Nessa murmured. “You need something to drink. I’ll be right back.”
“You don’t have to—”
Nessa’s finger pressed harder against Marie’s lips, silencing her.
“Let me take care of you,” she said.
She came back a minute later with a tall glass of water. Marie wriggled her shoulders to prop herself higher on the pillows, sitting up in bed, and drank as Nessa watched her like a nurse. The cold water went down fast. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Nessa said. She took the empty glass from Marie’s hand and set it on the nightstand, then sat back down beside her.
“I couldn’t.” Marie glanced down, wearing her shame on her face. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. Nessa, last night was…I don’t know what last night was, but it was…magic. And then this happened and I fell apart and I didn’t want you to see me in pieces. I was afraid you might change your mind. About us.”
“Never,” Nessa whispered.
Marie tilted her head. Squinting a little, reading something in her lover’s eyes.
“What is it?”
Nessa flashed her lopsided smile. “Nothing. I had a question. But you just answered it.”
She looked around the room. To the cheap replica sword on the wall, the bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. Her eyes fell on the framed print opposite the bed. She took it in, eyeing the knight in her green-steel armor and lance, facing a looming shadow on the horizon.
“I like your picture,” Nessa said.
“It’s the cover of one of my favorite books. Swords Against Madness, by Carolyn Saunders.”
“One of those fantasy novels you grew up with? From that box in the basement?”
Marie nodded, her gaze distant.
“What’s it about?” Nessa asked.
“A paladin—a knight of a holy order—is trying to save her city from a coming darkness. But her superiors don’t believe her. They punish her for speaking the truth. Cast her out, strip her of her vestments, and even her god stops answering her prayers. But she’s determined to keep fighting, even if it costs her life.”
“Sounds like a fine role model for a starry-eyed girl.”
Marie let out a tiny chuckle. “Maybe not. In desperate need of aid, the fallen knight goes to the Queen of the Witches. She kneels before her and pledges her service, becoming her coven’s knight, in exchange for the aid she needs to save her people. Fighting evil with evil.”
“Still, she fights. Does it have a happy ending?”
Marie thought about it.
“Bittersweet,” she said.
Nessa shifted on the mattress. Her hand rested on Marie’s hip.
“You’re mourning today,” she said, “and no one in the world could blame you. What happened…it hurts. Let it hurt. Don’t deny it or shove your feelings in a box. Hurt, Marie. It’s all right. But you have a decision to make. You’re mourning today. What will you do tomorrow?”
Marie met her steady gaze. “I go back to work?”
“Are you asking me, or telling me?”
“I go back to work,” Marie said.
Nessa patted Marie’s hip and rose from the bed.
“You go back to work,” Nessa said, “and then you text me immediately afterward and tell me how it went. Yes?”
“Yes,” Marie said.
Nessa had her hand on the door when Marie spoke up again.
“When will I see you?”
Nessa looked back over her shoulder, sly. “Do you have plans for Friday night?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. You’ll be with me.”
She closed the door behind her. Marie lay in the shadows, staring at the artwork. At the armored woman she’d idolized as a girl, pretended to be on the playground, charging imaginary foes with a backpack for a shield and a fallen-branch lance.
She had a real shield now, issued by the City of New York. There was a real monster to hunt.
Marie was pushing back the covers, resolved to clean herself up and salvage what remained of the day, when an aroma drifted under the bedroom door, sweet, familiar, and warm. It could only mean one thing.
She poked her head out. “You made cinnamon rolls.”
Over in the kitchen nook, Janine held up her oven-mitt-clad hand.
“I know you, Marie Reinhart. And when it comes to getting my roomie out of the dumps, I fight dirty.”
Marie stumbled over, led by her nose and her rumbling stomach. “You do. Not fair. Not remotely fair.”
A fat eight-pack of cinnamon rolls, glazed in gooey white frosting, cooled on a baking sheet. Janine brought down a couple of mismatched plates from the cabinet.
“What can I say? I’m a heinous bitch. These should be just about cool enough to eat by the time you get out of the shower.”
“Is this your way of forcing me to take care of myself, or do I just smell that ripe?”
“Both.” Janine waved her hand over the tray, wafting wisps of curling steam toward her. “Mm, it’s Marie’s favorite food, just waiting for
her. Mmm.”
Marie threw up her hands in surrender and trudged to the bathroom.
* * *
Marie and Janine sat on the futon, plates and paper towels in their laps, fingers and lips sticky as they each dug into their second cinnamon roll. Marie was in the lead by half a bun.
“I am going to feel so bad after this,” she mumbled as she chewed.
“But you feel so good right now,” Janine shot back.
Marie closed her eyes and shivered. “I do. You’re my best friend, you know that?”
“Duh.”
“The calories, though.”
Janine snorted at her. “Make up for it with exercise. I’ve seen cops on TV. Your entire day is, like, foot chases and parkour and jumping across rooftops.”
“I have never jumped across a rooftop.”
“Speaking of friends, that Professor Roth is kind of intense, huh?”
Marie smiled at her cinnamon roll. “Nessa is…unique.”
“Nessa.” Janine nodded to herself. “See, that’s more fitting. I was saying to myself, funny, she doesn’t look like a George.”
Marie froze in mid-bite.
“George?” Janine said. “You remember, your research buddy? C’mon, Marie. I’m not stupid.”
“How did you…” she asked, uncertain.
“For one thing, not that I was eavesdropping, the walls in here are made of tissue paper. But I didn’t need to overhear anything. When she came out of your room to get you a glass of water? And when she left? The look on her face said it all. Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on? I mean, you know I’m not homophobic, right? I’d hope you’d know that by now.”
“No, of course not, I didn’t think…” Marie shook her head. “It’s just been a very, very complicated week. And weird. And every time I think it’s done being weird, it just gets weirder. And it’s like, I’m not normally…I’ve never been, you know, with a woman. I’ve never leaned that way. I don’t think I have.”
“So you’re not gay in general, you’re just gay for her.” Janine shrugged. “There’s also this concept you may not have heard of. It’s called ‘bisexual.’ It’s a real thing. You can look it up.”
“You don’t say.”
“Sex is weird, Marie. Relationships are weird. People don’t fit into neat little categories, even if we want them to. Can I ask you one question?”
“Shoot.”
“Are you in love with her?”
Marie set down the remnant of her cinnamon roll and wiped her sticky fingers on the paper towel. She leaned back on the futon, contemplating, staring out the window at the cherry-red fire escape. She looked back to Janine.
“Yeah.” Marie nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m in love with her.”
Janine leaned across the futon and punched her shoulder.
“There you go, then. That’s all that matters. You’ve just gotta go for it. Trust your gut and take a chance.”
Marie’s popped the last bite into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Yeah. Still,” Marie muttered, “weird.”
“That’s the thing about life,” Janine said. “Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, you find out that it can always get weirder.”
Thirty-Four
Across the Hudson River, Jake Moretti finished a twelve-hour shift. The sky was full dark when he returned to his condo in Jersey City, the stars blotted out by the city’s electric noise. His key rattled in the lock, and the sturdy old door groaned on its hinges as he let himself in. He reached for the light switch.
A hand clamped on his wrist and hauled him into the shadows. He stumbled, off balance, and a rock-hard fist plowed into his gut. The air gusted from his ruddy lips as he buckled to his knees. Hands grabbed on to his jacket sleeve, twisting his other arm back, plucking his service revolver from his shoulder holster. The sole of a boot slammed into the small of his back and shoved him flat on his belly on the cold linoleum floor.
The lights clicked on.
Pale hands held his wrists, forcing him onto his back. Others snatched at his ankles, yanking hard and held him spread-eagled. The narrow kitchen was filled with faces. Moretti had been expecting street-hardened eyes and gang colors, some crew he’d rumbled coming after him for payback. These were normal people. A teenager in a video game T-shirt. A construction worker, still wearing his orange safety vest and tool belt. Just a scattering of people you might see on any Jersey street, any time of day. An elderly woman in bifocals held his wrist in a grip as strong as the rest, too strong for her frail frame.
The crowd of intruders had two things in common. One, their skin was fish-belly white.
Two, they didn’t blink. At all. And whatever their glassy eyes were staring at, it was a million miles away.
“Don’t know what you people think you’re doing, but you’re makin’ a big mistake.” Moretti nodded his chin at his belt. “You see that? See that badge? I’m a cop.”
No reply. They just stared.
“You hear me?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“My qliphoth can hear you,” said the woman rounding the corner, the hem of a pristine white lab coat swaying around her legs, “they just can’t speak. Forced exposure to corrupted cosmic data has reduced their gray matter down to little clumps roughly the size of walnuts.”
Savannah Cross tapped a button on one side of her goggles. Side-mounted beams, like laser pointers the color of shimmering sapphires, strobed over Jake’s face. A projection inside the goggles spat scrolling data across the lenses.
“Really. Brains the size of walnuts.” She shrugged. “I mean, what would they possibly have to talk about? I snip their vocal cords as a matter of expediency. Saves you from having to listen to all that pointless screaming. Not to mention, otherwise every now and then one of them starts speaking in four voices at once. The next thing you know half the lab is infected with extra-dimensional parasites and you’ve got to purge all of your interns. But I’m getting off track. Detective Moretti, my name is Dr. Cross. We need to have a word about what happened the other day.”
His mouth hung open. He didn’t understand a word she was saying. That wasn’t strictly true. He knew the words, but the order she spoke them in left something to be desired in the clarity department. He only understood that he was in serious trouble—the kind of trouble the academy hadn’t trained him for.
“What…what other day? What are you talking about?”
“Well, that’s the problem. I’m not entirely sure. But something fascinating happened, and I’ve tracked it to your precinct. Can you think of anything unusual that took place, specifically, at 2:48 p.m.?”
Jake furrowed his brow. “Yeah. Yeah, the…the perp. We had this guy, serial-murder suspect, and we caught him dumping a body. A disturbance pulled us out of the interview room. When we got back, this defense lawyer was in there with him. Except nobody saw the guy come in. Nobody. He was just there.”
Savannah frowned. She tapped her goggles again. The beams turned a sickly amber and a fresh flood of data spilled across the inner glass.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Mr. Smith, Esquire, from Weishaupt and Associates.”
“Yeah.” He blinked at her. “How’d you know?”
The silent, pale figures held him to the floor. She turned and started rummaging through his refrigerator, violently jostling bottles and cans around.
“I didn’t, but I should have. This is what happens when the left hand doesn’t communicate with the right. Could have cleared it up with one phone call, but no, I had to leave my laboratory and go to New Jersey.” She poked her head over the refrigerator door. “Do you not have any pomegranate juice?”
“Pome…what? No. Why?”
She slammed the door shut, eyes wide and furious behind her goggles. She took a deep breath and counted softly to five as she let it out.
“Because daily intake of pomegranate lowers a hormone called cortisol. Very good for managing stress. Well, this…th
is is embarrassing. I’m very sorry, Detective Moretti. I appear to have wasted your time. If it’s any consolation, your organs will be used to further the cause of science. You’ll continue to benefit the community long after your death. I mean, not this community, but a community. Somewhere.”
She reached into her lab-coat pocket and took out a scalpel. She tugged a plastic cap to expose the blade. Its edge, honed to a razor sheen, gleamed under the kitchen lights.
“Wait a second!” Jake shouted. He thrashed against the hands holding him fast. “Wait, that wasn’t—there was something else!”
She paused. “Oh?”
“That disturbance, the one that pulled us out of the interview room? See, I wasn’t alone. I had this detective with me, from New York. She was investigating a serial case on her side of the river, and I thought our vics might be connected. Some uniforms were bringing a vagrant shoplifter in for processing. A hardcore ink junkie. You know what that is?”
“Ink?” Savannah smiled primly. “I’m intimately familiar with it. And?”
“And, well, this guy spotted her through the one-way window, broke free, and rammed himself against the glass until it fractured. Took five guys to bring him down, and he was still trying to get at her.”
Savannah tapped her goggles. The beams shifted to scarlet.
“Tell me everything.”
“Not much more to tell. We ran out to see what was up, he locked eyes with her and started screaming. He shouted that he’d read her.”
She tilted her head. “Like a book?”
“Yeah. Like a book. He said he knew she was going to die because he read the ending.”
She put the cap back on the scalpel blade.
“Now that,” Savannah said, “is interesting.”
She clicked her tongue twice at one of the pale and unblinking figures. He shambled off, then returned with a teak box in his outstretched hands, just big enough to hold a Christmas ornament.
Sworn to the Night (The Wisdom's Grave Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
