by Lyn Benedict
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 way. 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 wa
iting,” 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.
“Oh, please,” Zoe said. “Like she’d bother. She makes me clean up my own messes.” She smiled shakily at the young policeman who knelt to untie her hand and ankles. “Besides, I didn’t do anything. It was all them. Some freaky type of pyramid scheme where they got paid for bringing in new would-be burglars. She’s all about the freaky initiation rites—”
Sylvie tuned her sister out, focusing instead on Suarez, on Demalion still testing his balance with as much success as a newborn colt.
“Nothing to add, Wright?” Suarez asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Demalion said. “The blonde’s your man. Sylvie tried to save our asses. Drugs and corpses. Freaky initiation rites, indeed. I blame TV. Too many shows about secret societies—”
Tried to save.
He might not have meant it, but it resonated like a body blow, reverberating in her bones. She held her hands out to Adelio; they looked worse than they were, bloody and shaking, clotting thickly where she’d collected dirt and salt in the wounds. “Can we do this someplace else?” she asked.
Suarez toed over a dark, soft splotch on the concrete; it flopped like a decayed frog—one of the Hands of Glory, gone to rot now that the animating ghost was gone.
“Tío—” Felipe Suarez said. “There’s no mark on the bodies.” He stopped talking as Adelio held up a decisive hand.
“If I send you home, will you come to the station tomorrow without fail to file your report? I’m already on a limb here.”
She shivered at the thought. Another report on her failure. To sit across from Lio, to look him in the eyes and tell him a lie about how she’d saved Wright . . .
“Lightner? We can do this at the station. Now, and all night long, if you’d prefer. You have a lawyer, right? I hear they’re expensive if you get them out of bed to tell them—”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Tomorrow.” So close to tears, she’d promise him anything if he’d just give her the time to put herself back together, to figure out if she was drowning in relief or guilt.
“What?” Felipe protested. “We’re not just letting them leave—”
“We can . . . trust her,” Adelio said. “She’ll be in.” The knowledge of her debt to him, that IOU he had brushed aside, lingered in his face. He was sure of her.
She wasn’t even sure of herself at the moment. What she’d done, what she’d wanted to happen. If Wright had been in charge of the body, would it have been Demalion who was taken by the general’s appetite? Had her decision to let Demalion steer the body made Wright vulnerable?
Adelio gestured them onw
ard, let the light from the house lead her forward. Demalion came to stand at her side, listing badly; gritting her teeth, she provided a shoulder. She couldn’t look at him. Too much guilt. Too much relief. Too much.
Adelio spoke quietly to Zoe, who was rubbing feeling back into her legs. Trust me, Sylvie thought, with all that entailed. It made her want to cry. That simple phrase that augured forgiveness.
Felipe held his hand out to Zoe, but before their hands linked—cop’s square hand, glint of gold in the light, Zoe’s blood-shadowed fingers—Sylvie snapped, “Don’t touch her.”
He recoiled; Zoe said, “Nice. He was just helping me, since you couldn’t be bothered—” But the look in her eyes was all about hunger and disappointment, an old and ugly expression on her young face. Sylvie shuddered, took Demalion along for the ride. Zoe had defeated Strange, had been drenched in ghostly blood; had she absorbed something with it?
Demalion whispered, “Trouble?” in her ear, a warm breath, a concern he wanted to share with her. She jerked away from him. Wright was dead, but it was hard to remember that when Demalion was walking around in his skin. She couldn’t allow herself to forget, couldn’t just accept it with wholehearted gladness. Wright was dead.
25
Postmortem
THE OFFICERS KEPT PACE WITH HER, SHOOTING HER RESENTFUL glances. They’d no doubt prefer her cuffed and in the back of a cruiser. Instead, they backed their cruisers away from her truck, allowed her to squeeze both Demalion and Zoe into the cab with her, and drive off, as if she’d just been visiting a party that had gotten out of hand. She stopped at the side of the road, just out of sight of the driveway, and waited.
“What are we doing?” Zoe asked. “I want to go home.” There was a tremble in her voice. Even Ms. Brat had a limit, and she’d reached hers.
“You’re the reason we’re out here,” Sylvie said. “You don’t get to make demands.” Unfair, she knew. She’d have come for the other teens, come to deal with Odalys and the Hands no matter what, but she wasn’t feeling forgiving.
