by S. L. Wright
“Come on in.” I used the excuse of opening the door to pull my hand away from him.
He felt my confusion. “Are you sure? You’re not mad at me anymore?”
“I’ll always be mad when you lie and manipulate me,” I assured him. “But we don’t need to stand on the street talking about it.”
I took him inside the bar instead of going straight up to my apartment. I needed to use the phone, even though I didn’t like being reminded of the last time we were together alone in the bar. I avoided looking at the bench under the back windows. The memory of how he had reclined on the bench so manly and satiated made my knees week.
“So you got what you wanted,” I said. “Dread got his resurrection.”
“I tried to stop him, Allay.” His tone was quiet, reasonable, regretful. “I gave you Dread on a platter, but you refused to end this. With him alive, this was always a possibility.”
“You want demons to be outed.”
“I would have preferred it if superstition and religion played no part in it. In this day and age, I thought it was possible that a secular explanation of who we are could have emerged. But the unknown is always the unknown. Even science can only penetrate the true mysteries so far: Who are we? Why are we here? What makes demons alive? I don’t know the answers to those questions. Maybe it’s inevitable that religion and our existence are entangled.”
He was drifting closer, so I hastily went around to the back of the bar. It felt more comfortable that way, with some distance between us. Last time he had stampeded me into sex without telling me about Cherie. “Now what?”
“It’s only just begun. The ERI machines are being manufactured now. They’ll start to be installed next month, and then Cherie won’t be the only one exposed. It will take some time. First they’ll see the unusual scans; then they’ll get orders to detain people who scan that way. Eventually they’ll get a demon into custody. There are more than two hundred of us now, so it’s bound to happen at some point.”
I sighed. “Imagine if it’s Goad. Or someone like Pique.”
“It’s out of our hands now.”
The way he said it made me stop and think. “Is it? Isn’t there something we can do to make this better?”
He raised one brow. “Only by killing Cherie. Do you want her dead, Allay?”
I swallowed. “No. This isn’t her fault. Dread’s to blame. Him and Zeal.”
To deflect him from the subject, so he wouldn’t realize I was trying to hide something, I turned to the phone. “I have to call Shock and let her know I’m back.”
“So you weren’t with Shock?”
His question was casual, but I didn’t want to go down that road. I smiled and dialed her number. This time the circuits weren’t busy, but her phone went straight to message. That usually meant she was inside a hospital. I told her to call the bar when she got a chance.
“Now what?” he asked, echoing me.
That was a good question. My first task was to hide the fact that I had just kidnapped Cherie with Mystify, so that meant I had to act normally.
“I’m going to open up.” I gestured to the shutter. The sound of people was getting louder. “Plenty of customers to be had.”
I didn’t mention I needed to replenish myself. That was obvious from my feeble aura. Cherie had taken so much from me that I was in serious need.
“Let me help.”
At first I started to shake my head, thinking he meant that he wanted to feed me himself, but then he added, “I’m not bad at pushing a broom.”
“Are you kidding?” When he didn’t back down, I said, “Sure, why not? The mop’s in the closet over there.”
It was a little strange opening up the bar with Ram. He was legendary, practically a god, and had experienced nearly the entire sweep of civilization. In fact, he’d been instrumental in the development of humans toward enlightenment and progress. But he restocked the toilet paper rolls as nonchalantly as Pepe.
To cover our lack of conversation, I turned on the news on the television. The twenty-four-hour cable channels were each covering Dread’s staged resurrection in their own way: Fox’s conservatives were denouncing it flatly as a hoax; their traditional Christian views were affronted by the very idea of a new messiah in their midst. MSNBC and CNN waffled around, trying to be “objective” while focusing on Cherie’s transformed looks more than anything else, comparing endless photos taken throughout the years. Bloomberg covered it from a financial angle: the city was groaning under the influx of too many people, including indigents looking for a miracle of their own. Now they were sleeping on the streets and jamming up traffic. NY1 featured eyewitness reports of trucks blocked miles away from where they needed to go, attempting to deliver supplies to stores and restaurants. The entire city was under siege.
Unlike Shock, Ram didn’t question my decision to open the bar. He had probably sat through a hundred sieges. What was one more?
As I watched the rush of ambulances at local hospitals, I wondered how Pepe was doing. He would probably be released soon. Even major abdominal surgery was practically a walk-in procedure with all the city budget cuts. I tried to call the hospital, but couldn’t get through. I couldn’t even reach my trusty management agent, Michael, to find out if he had heard anything.
So who shot me and Pepe in the bar? After Dread’s lies about the resurrection, I didn’t believe that it was Vex who had ordered it. Dread was protecting someone in his organization—who did he control who would have a reason to try to scare me?
It came to me so fast I almost reeled—Revel. My former lover had been ordered to protect me, and he was angry that I was running away from him rather than running to him for help. When things had reached their pitch, maybe he was the one who staged that shooting in order to drive me back into his fold along with Shock.
Dread had said it was a pro who dismantled the surveillance camera. Who better than the PI who originally set up the camera for Revel?
Now I had two things to accuse Revel of—turning me into a demon and shooting my bar. Suddenly his little trip to Uzbekistan was looking more suspicious. Why wouldn’t one of the richest demons in the world simply pay the asking price for the priceless manuscript and have it flown here pronto? Unless Revel wanted to get away from me for a while.
Maybe my allies were really my enemies.
Unnerved, I tried to call Glory. Instead of the emergency announcement, I got a recording that said the line was no longer in use. I figured it was a mix-up, what with the heavy traffic.
The only hint of Cherie’s kidnapping came from channel NY1 announcing a closure of First Avenue because of a series of medical tests scheduled at NYU Medical Center for the “miracle supermodel.” The traffic girl mentioned that the closures had gone on much longer into the afternoon than anticipated as officials waited for Cherie to show up. Ram didn’t appear to notice it.
When I went outside to unlock the metal shutter over the front of the bar, Ram silently followed me. He stood nearby scanning everyone going by and examining the windows across the street, watching over me. It made me more nervous than before, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Business as usual was the way to keep everyone from suspecting I’d had a hand in Cherie’s disappearance.
The low whoop of an alarm warned me. Up the avenue, the lights on a red-and-white FDNY EMT truck were flashing as it slowly forced its way through the backed-up traffic. It had to stop up the block, unable to get any farther. From the passenger’s side, a slight blond figure jumped down.
“There’s Shock.” Her signature was a welcome relief. I figured the other demons had bigger fish to fry than Shock, but it was good to see her safe. As Ram had said, there was no telling who would turn on each other during a time of chaos.
Then Shock saw Ram helping me push the shutter into place overhead. Her eyes narrowed and she slowed down her rush as she approached. I felt a pang of guilt, then lifted my head higher. I wasn’t going to avoid Ram just because Shock didn’t li
ke him.
I have plenty of better reasons to avoid him, and those aren’t working, either.
Shock crossed her arms, confronting me. “I’ve been calling you since two this morning, Allay, every time I could get through the lines. Where have you been?”
I glanced over at Ram, who was looking interested in the answer, as well. But Shock misinterpreted my look.
“Oh, I get it,” she said flatly. “You’ve been with him. Why couldn’t you call and let me know so I don’t worry all night? Or have you stopped thinking entirely?”
I bit off my instinctive denial. “Don’t be that way, Shock. Please.”
“You’ve made it clear that you don’t care what I think.” She glared at Ram. “Or you’d keep better company. First him, then Glory, then Dread . . . and look at what it’s gotten you.” She gestured to the people bumping past us, some staring at us curiously while others were clearly intent on some internal need that drove them forward.
“I can’t deny I’m responsible for letting this happen,” I admitted. “I should have killed Dread. Then none of this would have happened. I’ve lived for so long treading water that I didn’t act when I should have. I wish I could change that more than anything in my life, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.” Except for act when action was necessary.
But I couldn’t stay that out loud. I had to let them both think I was a bump on a log, carried along by whatever current caught me. I didn’t want them to think I could engineer Cherie’s disappearance.
Shock wasn’t paying attention to me, sadly enough. She was locked into a staring match with Ram. Then he smiled. “I’ve already apologized for nearly killing you, Shock—”
“Twice,” she interrupted.
“I’m sure I’ve apologized enough for both times. I remember it was a long twelve hours while Allay was sleeping off Bliss’s birth.”
“I don’t need apologies,” Shock insisted. “You’re a killer, Ram. And you’re not even up front about it. You hide and sneak around and ambush us—you don’t give anyone a fighting chance, do you? You’ve set yourself apart for thousands of years, thinking you’re better than all of us. And I’m supposed to trust you? I’m supposed to think you’re interested in Allay because she’s such a sweet person? She’s an infant compared to you. The only thing you want to do is mold her into a handy little tool that you can use.”
Taken aback, I shook my head. “Wow, Shock. Is that what you really think of me?”
She waved me off. “This isn’t about you, Allay. Don’t you get it? He’s the worst of everything that demons are—preying on gullible people, destroying them on a whim.”
“He preys on demons, not humans,” I pointed out.
“Allay, you’re a demon! So am I, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Our voices had risen and more people were watching us. Two guys overheard us and stared back over their shoulders as they were carried past by the flowing stream of pedestrians.
I had to calm her down. “Shock, I want all of us to get along, humans and demons. Can you come inside for a while?”
“You’re opening up the bar—you and Ram? I should have known. It’s a state of emergency, and you’re going to sell liquor. That should be a big help.” Without meeting my eyes, she turned away. “I’m taking another shift. I have to get back to work.”
I stared after her. Shock had never spoken to me that way. She had always been quiet and supportive, unemotional if anything. We had never fought like this.
I watched after her, knowing how much it revealed of my inner turmoil to Ram, but not caring. Shock climbed back into the truck, which had turned onto Second Street to avoid the backup on Houston. Just before it rolled out of view, Shock looked back at me, her eyes dark with hurt.
“Oh, no. ...” I felt awful, but I didn’t know what I could do to fix it. I couldn’t betray Mystify’s trust. And if I told her I hadn’t stayed out all night with Ram and admitted the truth about what I had really done, she would be even more appalled.
“Why did you let her think we’d been together all night?” Ram asked.
I sighed. “Because that’s really not the issue.”
“She doesn’t like how you’re changing,” he agreed.
“If I hadn’t changed, I would have died. I wouldn’t have killed Pique. She wanted me to do it even though I told her I’d be different. She didn’t believe me.”
“Shock has been the same from the moment she was born. Oh, she’s changed personas, but even those have been similar. She’s lived in that brownstone since 1905, going through the same routine, the same life over and over again. Isolating herself from everyone, including the people she works with. I’m not surprised she’s not good at dealing with change.”
I raised my hand. “I don’t want to hear you talk bad about her.”
Ram nodded, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
But inside I wondered—Shock and I had been living in an odd stasis. Was that why we meshed so well together? I hated to think that might be the foundation of our beautiful friendship.
I stepped inside the bar, looking around to make sure it was ready to open. Only the blackboard was empty. I didn’t feel like making up a funny-awful name of a special for today, though a Resurrection Rum Cocktail did leap to mind.
Ram went back to the pool table and paid for a game. As the balls cascaded into the shoot, I wondered how long he planned to stay.
Patrons wandered in, some as nonchalantly as if nothing unusual were happening, while others were full of stories about the disruption. It felt as if a lifetime had passed while I was underground, but I tried to act the same as usual.
But I kept one eye on the news that played instead of the usual music. Nobody complained. Most patrons dropped in, drank fast, and bolted again. The afternoon crowd was like a staccato fugue, and I learned quickly I had to snatch and grab energy wherever I could get it. Slowly but surely I began to replenish myself.
In every emotion I drank, all were tainted with some kind of confusion. I started to think about Mystify and how anxious he would be to sample the mood on the streets. The more I considered it, the more I was certain that he would probably leave Cherie alone at the condos while he went upside to feed. How could he resist the feeling that was most savory to him?
I only hoped he made sure to convince Cherie to stay below the surface.
The news cut to a live shot outside the Prophet’s Arena on the waterfront. First they showed a rather industrial view from the Williamsburg Bridge across the river to the arena with Brooklyn behind it, then a lovely reverse shot of the arena with the golden sunshine reflecting off the river between it and the Manhattan towers downtown. The rooftop park on the arena was lush with full-grown trees, and vines were hanging thickly down the sides.
I hurried to turn up the sound. “ . . . the site of last night’s miracle, according to the Fellowship of Truth’s leader. A few minutes ago, we saw Prophet Anderson’s limo arrive here for tonight’s circle. The top leadership of the church have gathered to commune with their new religious icon and the most famous member of the Fellowship of Truth, former supermodel Cherie.”
Images of Cherie were flashed on the screen, as they had been all day. They loved showing those last paparazzi photos taken just before she was turned, looking like a cadaverous mummy, and comparing them to her pristine face as it appeared now. Yet they kept repeating that genetic and medical testing proved that Cherie was who she claimed to be.
Cut to the interior of the arena, where the camera panned the packed interior. People stood or knelt in front of their seats praying, while whole rows sang together, swaying back and forth with their arms locked together. It sounded like the crowd was spontaneously trying to get a huge chant going round the audience, but it kept breaking down because of the sheer size. Confetti drifted in the air along with streamers; it looked like a big tent revival smashed together with a Super Bowl pregame party.
Dread entered the stage to thunderous applause. He l
ifted his hands saluting the thousands who had gathered at his command. He was probably going for “angelic” with his white suit, but reduced to a tiny size on-screen, he looked to me like a chef in search of his kitchen.
“How cheesy,” I muttered as all of the church luminaries took their place on the stage in the center of the arena. Lash was prominent among them, her smile plastered firmly into place. The forgiven wife, the fallen woman among the saints. The camera kept returning to her, which made me snicker when I thought of Dread watching this afterward. He wouldn’t like it that she had stolen some of his limelight, but clearly he couldn’t let her go.
Then Cherie was announced. The applause was even louder this time, drowning out the commentators. Cherie’s face was lovingly magnified on the JumboTron screens inside the arena, and on the television.
I drew in my breath. How did he get her back?
But as Cherie joined hands with Dread and closed the circle, beginning the chant, I realized something was off. Usually she barely bowed her head, as if she had an iron rod shoved down her spine. Even when we had walked through the tunnels, she bent stiffly like she had been drilled from childhood not to slump despite her height. But now she was hunched over like the most humble petitioner.
Everything was slightly off—her voice, the cadence of her words, even the perfect curve of her cheek. As the camera panned the people chanting in the circle, it was glaringly obvious to me that Zeal was not present.
At least, she wasn’t there in her Missy van Dam guise. She was posing as Cherie.
I glanced back at the pool table to see if Ram was watching. His eyes were narrowed as if he was seeing the same signs. But it wasn’t something that I would supposedly notice, so I continued watching along with my patrons. But inside I was gleeful—Dread’s plan was falling apart!
“Do you think they’ll cut off her head again?” one guy asked.
