Ghosts & Echoes

by Lyn Benedict

  Faintly, even as she clawed uselessly at the feeding tube, scoring her own skin, she heard Strange say, Acceptable. Keep your little would-be witch.

  Relief seared her, weakened her just a little bit: Whatever happened here tonight, Zoe would live. . . .

  As a slave. But you won’t. Demalion won’t. Wright won’t. Maybe they’re already gone, and you’ll miss it. As if to emphasize the voice’s point, she heard Demalion kicking at the table; it sounded entirely too much like death throes.

  Sylvie shuddered; the barbed tongue re-formed no matter how she clawed at it, ghost plasma immune to all her human determination and strength. She was conscious of her soul being drawn up, fed on, peeling out of her flesh like her marrow being cored from her bones.

  The god of Love had taken a piece of her soul once to shore up his own. He had returned it once he no longer needed it.

  She didn’t think Strange would be so generous.

  Her head ached, her body felt smothered, and her heart kept to irregular bursts of panic. She was going to die. Wright was going to die. Demalion—

  There had to be something she could do, besides lie here and feel her soul ripped out.

  As if a ghost could do it, her little dark voice growled. When a god had to ask permission . . .

  She’s doing it, Sylvie thought. Eros had just been polite about it.

  She’s not doing it very well, the little dark voice pointed out.

  Sylvie relaxed, calm suddenly, even as a particularly vicious pull on her soul woke pains in places she never knew had nerves at all. Strange sighed above her, the sound tired, frustrated. Exasperated.

  Not doing it very well, indeed, Sylvie thought. She was Lilith’s human daughter, and she didn’t yield. She wasn’t unconscious, wasn’t lost in the lich ghost’s memory of death, wasn’t giving in. . . . She could still fight.

  The faint taste of victory receded as fast as it had come. She could fight, felt like she could fight this ghost forever, but Demalion couldn’t. Wright couldn’t.

  Sylvie clawed at the ghost’s connection again; this time, the tongue felt nearly real, nearly flesh, as Strange poured all her effort into devouring Sylvie’s soul. And flesh was something she could fight.

  Stop fighting me, Strange complained.

  Sylvie growled, her voice a ragged whisper beneath the constriction. “You’ve not seen fighting yet.” She let go of her death grip on the hungry hold Strange had on her, stopped throttling the flow of something intangible, and scraped her hands along her own skin. Searching.

  The cloth bags of graveyard dirt were gone, one dropped, one in the water, but Margaret Strange’s ashes had been shoved in the nearest Ziploc. Sylvie found the plastic bag; clammy, greasy, a gritty weight. She punctured the bag with torn nails, and flung a handful into Strange’s face.

  “That’s your bones,” she snarled. “You’re dead. You should stay that way.”

  The ghost recoiled; the ash blowing across her surface and sticking, like sand to wet skin, like metal filings to a magnet. It wasn’t destroying her, wasn’t dissipating the spirit as the grave dirt had done for Li or the lieutenant, but it was . . . working in its own fashion, reminding Strange of what it was like to be flesh.

  The ash seeped inward, sketching bones beneath the ectoplasm, creating vulnerabilities—old bones could ache, old bones could break—Sylvie kicked hard at the ghost’s forming skeleton, got purchase, and felt impact race up her own shins. Margaret Strange stumbled back.

  Sylvie scrabbled for the rest of the bag. If one handful could slow her, bring her to a shape that could be harmed . . .

  Getting as close as she could—she wanted all of the ash to hit Strange—she ripped the plastic apart. Bone scrap and ash flew outward, carried on the evening breeze and zoomed in on Strange like hornets.

  Strange twisted, flickered, shrieked, and slowed. Bones sprouted and grew like kudzu, opaque, brittle, a faint hint of organs ghosted into place. All vulnerable. All mortal frailties in an untouchable spirit.

  Matteo’s iron chair, abandoned when he attacked her, loomed close, and Sylvie grabbed it, grunted with the effort, and swung it as hard as she could. Wrought iron, and she couldn’t get it off the ground more than a foot, but it smashed satisfactorily into Strange, through the ectoplasm, and juddered hard against bone. The ghost . . . fell, her shin-bones cracked, her knees out of place.

  She flailed at the stone, howling, and Sylvie sagged over the chair, breathing hard, willing herself to swing it again. And again, as many times as was needed to pulp bone. Her hands shook; the lich ghost might not have stolen her soul, but the fight had exhausted her. She tightened her grip on the chair, sucked in a breath, and heard its pained echo in another gasp.

  Demalion. Another breath. Her name on his lips, a sibilance barely voiced. “Syl—”

  His body was a taut arc of pain; his soul being torn out, though the general’s ghost was nowhere to be seen. Gone translucent. That close to success. That close to erasing Wright and Demalion, and digging a new home for himself in Wright’s flesh. The general reeled back for a moment, looked startled and sated, a man finding his pleasure sooner than he expected.

  Demalion screamed, his voice rough and full of despair.

  “Hey, General!” Sylvie said. Her heart felt frozen in her chest, terror for Demalion girded round with scalding rage.

  Odalys swore, and rose from her seat, paced a tight circle within her salt shield, her prison. She wouldn’t stay put much longer, and there were Strange and Zoe yet to deal with. . . . But Demalion . . .

  Sylvie remembered the bag she’d dropped, unwilling to risk hitting the joined spirits of Wright and Demalion. That risk seemed a hell of a lot smaller now, when they were going to be lost anyway if she didn’t act.

  The bag felt like lead in her hands, heavy with her fear and exhaustion, with the potential for this to go so wrong. The general growled, pressed as close as a lover to Wright’s body; his eyes glimmered at Sylvie with hatred.

  She could feed that, she thought, get his attention, maybe draw him away. “Looking for your lieutenant? I left him dead in the pool.”

  The general stiffened, raised his head, animal-bright eyes narrowing. His lips curled up, bared teeth. “You—”

  “Guess you’ve been off the battlefield too long,” Sylvie said. “You’ve forgotten how to look out for your men.”

  The ghost took one furious step forward, and it was enough. Sylvie smashed the bag down at his ghostly feet; the dust plumed upward, and the general billowed and dissolved.

  She hissed in satisfaction, but then Demalion went limp, and Zoe screamed, recognizable even through the gag. Sylvie spun and wanted to scream herself. Couldn’t she catch a break?

  Strange had pulled herself forward, crawling toward the nearest refuge she could find. And the bones that had allowed Sylvie to hurt her allowed Strange to claw right through the salt ring surrounding Zoe. Clawed her way up and bit deep into Zoe’s neck. Zoe screamed again; loud, shrill, rising, and angry. There was nothing of fear in it. Only a rage that echoed Sylvie’s. Zoe was her sister after all.

  Zoe’s hand found freedom, just that bit too late, and flailed at the ghost, tore at her gag. “Sylvie!”

  Odalys kicked her way out of her own salt ring, and Sylvie wished very badly for her gun. But wishes were meaningless—the gun stayed wet and waterlogged, lost in the pool.

  Odalys said, “I propose a deal.” It wasn’t what Sylvie had expected, and she shot Odalys an incredulous look, turned to help her sister.

  She didn’t get far; a muttered word from Odalys, a splash of her own blood, and in the pool, Matteo twitched and started rising. “Zombies are inelegant,” Odalys said. “But often useful. Let’s make a deal, Shadows. I walk away, you get to save your sister from Strange. You don’t hunt me, and I don’t slow you down, just enough—”

  There was a wail in the air, a banshee shriek that Sylvie thought was Strange, then the peacocks, then realized—police sirens, headed their wa
y. Odalys’s gaze flicked toward the door, toward escape, and Sylvie felt relief and dread in equal measure.

  Backup and a threat of their own. What would the cops think when they came through the house and found the corpses sprawled in chairs, on the stones, on the table—

  Demalion groaned, and it was a sweet, sweet sound.

  Zoe and Strange still battled, and Matteo rose out of the water, not slow at all.

  “Muscle memory,” Odalys said. “The easiest zombies of all. All instinct. Finishing up what they started. He wanted to kill you. Make the deal, Shadows. Save your sister.”

  Sylvie dodged Matteo’s lunge, his hand ripping at her jacket, her hair—it stung but was harmless. He kept himself between her and Zoe, between her and Strange. . . .

  “Odalys,” Sylvie said.

  The woman hesitated, half in shadow, the amulet in her hand glowing softly, a small telltale glimmer.

  “No deal.” Sylvie burst into motion; Matteo was between her and her sister? Fine. She could get rid of him by taking out the necromancer who controlled him. Odalys, necromancer, businesswoman, civilized killer—she squeaked in shock and surprise when Sylvie closed on her, turned, and ran.

  She didn’t get far, her high heels useless off the stone. Sylvie tackled her long and low, sent her sprawling against the raised roots of a strangler fig, and snatched the amulet from her hand, snapped it in half—it was old bone and brittle.

  Odalys twisted and clawed, waking to the animal side of what was happening, but it was too late. Sylvie punched her hard between the eyes, knuckles first, twisting her wrist for that extra snap.

  Odalys went satisfactorily limp, dazed and passive. Sylvie dragged her back out to the pool, ignoring the sirens coming ever closer. Odalys shrieked as the saw grass and mulch tore at her skin.

  “You think that hurts?” Sylvie said. “You should try getting your soul munched on. Oh, wait. You will.” She frisked her quickly, efficiently, ripped off anything that might be a protective amulet, and dragged her back toward the pool, back toward Zoe and Strange.

  “I bet Strange will like you even better,” Sylvie said.

  “No, please,” Odalys said. “Please!”

  “You’ve got the perfect package after all. Looks, not too old. Even a healthy bank account.”

  In the light, she could see Zoe still struggling, still fending off Strange, with a determination that didn’t surprise Sylvie at all.

  Lilith’s daughter. Awake. An unyielding will.

  She hadn’t wanted Zoe to know about the Magicus Mundi, but at least her introduction to it had woken that strange part of Lilith’s bloodline that was determined to survive and win at all costs. It was saving Zoe’s life right now.

  “Please!” Odalys shrieked, and Sylvie threw her down.

  “Oh, shut up,” Sylvie said. “I’m not feeding you to Strange. I want her dead and gone even more than you.”

  She shoved Odalys against the table, picked up one of those iron chairs again, and staggered forward. This time, she’d crush Strange’s skull. This time, she’d do so much damage that even a ghost would give up and die. . . .

  Strange’s ghost screamed.

  All of them froze. Police sirens had nothing on the sound of something dead and in agony. The sound rattled Sylvie’s bones, made her eyes sting and water, her nose bleed.

  Strange flailed; her nails grew long, deformed, and gouged at Zoe’s face.

  “Fuck you,” Zoe whispered, past the constricting tongue about her throat, plunged through her skin. Blood streaked her jaw, her cheekbones in thin rivulets. “You’re nothing but hunger. Nothing but slime and memory.”

  It didn’t sound like her sister’s voice at all, sounded like Sylvie’s own internal predator, that little black voice. Implacable. Refusing to be beat. Lilith’s legacy awake in her sister’s blood.

  Zoe gritted her teeth, her jaw a knot of effort, and she drove her free hand into the ghost’s chest, shattering brittle, ghostly ribs, and closed her fist around a ghostly heart. In that frozen moment, Strange cried out once more, a sound entirely inhuman. It spiraled up and up, so sharp Sylvie expected it to pierce the clouds, completely unconstrained by the human need for breath. A sound of purest pain.

  Strange’s back arched and split, ripped apart from the inside as Zoe squeezed hard, squeezed tight, and pulped the ghost’s faded heart. Something like blood rolled down Zoe’s arm, dark, smoky, clinging. Strange’s expression of fixed hunger went blank and shocked, the face of mortality on something long dead. Her body—ectoplasm, bone, memories of organs and muscles—burst over Zoe’s skin, sinking in as if it were no more than a splash of water.

  Zoe sighed, her eyes wild and bright. “A girl could die of waiting,” she said hoarsely.

  “What—” Sylvie couldn’t take her gaze from her sister. From her sister’s flexing hand, stained red to the elbow from a ghost’s blood.

  “Winner. Loser. I decided which one I was going to be when I was thirteen years old. Cut me loose.”

  Sylvie rocked back on her heels. “No.”

  “What?”

  Odalys had staggered to her feet and was nearly to the dark shelter of the bushes. Sylvie waved a dismissive hand at Zoe, and said, “Odalys.”

  Odalys flinched, her gaze jumping from Zoe to Sylvie and back. “What did she . . . What are you? What is she?”

  “Lilith’s human brood,” Sylvie said. “It has its perks. Now, sit down.”

  The woman stopped in her tracks, collapsed where she stood.

  Soft, the little dark voice scoffed. Odalys’s hair was full of dirt, bits of glittering salt. Her white shirt was shredded at the shoulders, and she was limping.

  “Stay there,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got some things to do.” Maybe there was still time.

  The police sirens cut off; flashing lights seeped toward them.

  Never time enough.

  She surveyed the scene with increasing dread. Three dead teenagers, one unconscious Chicago cop, one pissed-off teen, and Sylvie’s gun in the pool. Odalys would try to spin this, make herself the victim; her expression was already shifting from fear to calculation.

  So Sylvie’s priority had to be—

  She freed Demalion, pulled him up into a sitting position, tapped his face. “Demalion. Come on, come on.”

  “Ow,” he murmured. “Not one of our better dates.” Despite the wry humor, there was nothing of amusement in the lines of his face. His closed eyes were deep shadows; his lashes tangled cobwebs.

  “Never mind that,” she said. There were footsteps in the drive, approaching the house. Zoe fidgeted, working her way up to a real temper tantrum. “Pick a body,” Sylvie said. “Matteo or Jasmyn. Hurry it up. Younger than you might want, but hey, you could be a girl this time around. Not Trey. He’s defective. You don’t want to jump in and die again.”

  Her voice shook. They really didn’t have time for this. But she could help Wright, help themselves at least a little. One less body lying around if Demalion left Wright now.

  “You need a bridge of some kind,” Odalys said. “It won’t work.”

  “Did I ask you,” Sylvie snapped. “Besides, he did it before, and he’s at his best under pressure, aren’t you? C’mon, Demalion—” She shook him. He winced away.

  “Stop it.”

  “Missing the boat here,” Sylvie hissed. “The cops are going to show up, and they don’t like the walking dead.”

  She shook him again, trying to shake his eyes open. It worked; but the expression in them silenced her, made her heart pound. It looked like guilt.

  “No point,” he finally said, made the fear real. “I’m alone in here. Wright’s gone . . . devoured.” He levered himself off her lap; she sprang up, paced the contours of the patio as if she could find Wright’s spirit hiding under the lawn furniture. Her throat ached.

  Zoe said, “Could I please get untied?”

  “You got one hand free by yourself,” Sylvie snapped. “One to go. Get to it. I’m busy.” She
rubbed at her face; the salt on her bloody palm stung her eyes and made them water. Sickness soured her belly, tasted of flat metal in her mouth. Her hands twined, seeking the comfort of her gun, but it was drowned like Wright’s hopes. What she was going to tell Alex, so convinced Sylvie always saved people . . .

  “I can’t believe you’re upset I saved myself!”

  “I can’t believe you walked into this in the first place!” The spurt of rage was welcome, and if the cops hadn’t made the scene at that moment, walking out of the house, backlit by the interior lights into shooting gallery cutouts—generic men with guns—Sylvie would have happily sailed into a brawl to end all brawls with Zoe.

  Demalion groaned, rose to his feet; he was white-faced, clumsy, staggering with pain, weariness, and—she bit her lip—moving like a man who didn’t know himself. A tiny balloon of hope she hadn’t known she held burst. Alone in a strange body without even Wright’s subconscious to guide the long limbs.

  “So, Shadows, we found your truck. But I see you did, too. Nice of you to let us know . . .” Suarez stepped out of the light, took shape in the shadows, and Sylvie’s brain locked up, trying to decide if his presence was good or bad. It wasn’t his jurisdiction, and the cops behind him were his family. An incursion of Suarezes. She just didn’t know if they were coming to help her or to ensure she went down with Odalys.

  Adelio’s face was grim, studying Jasmyn’s body, Trey’s; he pointed at the pool. “That Matteo?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But we got the killer for you.” She gestured toward Odalys. It felt oddly like a kid brandishing a finger painting, hoping for praise.

  Odalys stroked her hair back, and said, “Please. You brought them here and killed them for involving your sister in their robberies.”

  Should have killed her, left her body in the woods for the animals to eat, Sylvie thought. Odalys sounded too damn plausible. Much better than the scrap of story Sylvie had constructed, which consisted of pointing a finger at Odalys, muttering something about drugs to explain away the teens’ bodies, then refusing to say anything else. The Key Largo PD might have believed her. Adelio knew better.