by S. L. Wright
I could relax.
The door suddenly opened and slammed shut again. I leaped to my feet, my body faster than thought, immediately on the defensive.
It was a cop, middle-aged but trim, staring intently at me. At first I thought he was one of the policemen who had come to the bar after I had been shot.
Then I really looked into his eyes. “Ram!”
“I have a uniform for you in my bag,” he said urgently, lifting the duffel slightly. “I can get you out of here now, Allay.”
I sat back down. “You scared the living daylights out of me. Why do you come busting in here dressed like that? Impersonating an officer is a crime.”
“I came to help you.”
I leaned back to make a point. “Thanks, but I don’t need any help.”
He watched me for a few moments, taking in the fact that I had been lounging when he popped in. “Do you know what’s going on out there?”
My eyes went back to the window. “No, I’ve been stuck in here for hours.”
“Some of your customers at the bar are talking to the news. It’s demon this and demon that. They’re comparing you to Cherie, and they found out the church gave the bar to you, so they think this proves the resurrection was some kind of hoax. They’re running wild with it.”
“That’s better than people believing it was a miracle.”
“Allay, why did you say you’re a demon? Of all the words you could have used!”
“But . . . isn’t that what we are?”
“We’re angels, we’re fairies, we’re shape-shifters, we’re vampires . . . you could have said almost any mythical creature, and it was inspired by one of us.”
“What do you call us?”
He said a word, a slurring sound that clipped at the end.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Demon.”
“Well, then!” I stared at him. “If it walks like a duck, Ram ...”
“You didn’t have to call us anything, Allay. People don’t want to believe their eyes. If you had kept quiet, they would have started convincing themselves that it hadn’t really happened. Or they couldn’t think about it because it was too awful—your face was blown off. Most people block out things like that. The trauma of it is too great.”
I could have defended myself by saying I didn’t want to lie anymore, especially not to Lolita. But he didn’t care why I’d done it, he was too busy telling me that I shouldn’t have come out. “You’re the one who said demons are going to be exposed by the ERI. You said it was inevitable,” I intoned, mimicking his dire word.
“I didn’t mean it would happen to us. I can make sure you’re never exposed. And I can protect your friends, too, since that’s so important to you. All you have to do is deny what you said, tell them you were delusional, that the bullet must have been fake and it bloodied your nose. Tell them you don’t remember.”
“So you want me to sit around and wait for someone like Goad to be discovered by the ERI. You want him to be the demon poster child?”
“We have to leave the city, change personas—”
“No, thanks. I’m not done with the city. I like my bar.”
“Allay! You’ve never seen a pogrom before. They’re going to burn you alive on a stake!” He was serious, his aura flushed deep red in anger. He wasn’t trying to hide it.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t intend to be a martyr, Ram.”
“They’ve already got you in custody.”
“That door isn’t locked. I’m going to work with them. The NYPD doesn’t care if I’m a demon or not. Bless their hearts. They’ve seen it all. The only thing they care about is their corruption case.”
Ram groaned, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Why are you cooperating with the authorities? Who convinced you to do that, Allay? You’re making an enemy of Dread.”
“Dread is already my enemy. Look what he did with Cherie. I’m not going to let him get away with this.”
“Let me punish him, Allay. It will be a lot cleaner my way. Did you know they had a warrant ready for Commissioner Mackleby because of that call you made to him? They rousted a judge out of bed and got him to sign it. That moron taped his own phone calls—they have the one you made to him, threatening to expose him. They also have his calls to ‘the prophet,’ demanding his help to shut you up.”
“Wow . . . that’s better than I hoped for.”
“Allay, this is turning into a political scandal, with you at the center of it.” His voice nearly broke. “I didn’t know you threatened Mackleby so he would make Dread let me go. You didn’t tell me that.”
“That was when I thought you were Theo Ram. The first half of our relationship,” I reminded him. “While you were manipulating me into doing what you wanted. Oh, wait a second—that’s a lot like the second half of our relationship. I seem to remember you were prying into my secret about Cherie right before I was killed.”
“I’m trying to help you,” Ram insisted.
“I keep telling you, I don’t need your help. I can handle this myself.”
He sat down abruptly in the chair across from me. I doubted he was giving up, but he was smart enough to change tactics. At least I was catching on to him now. Sure enough, his aura paled as he got control of himself.
“I know this isn’t your fault, Allay,” he said more reasonably. “Who could expect Anchor to go off the deep end? I’m surprised Dread didn’t kill him earlier, but up until last weekend, he was a functioning addict and still somewhat useful.”
I shuddered lightly, thinking of the manic blankness in Phil’s eyes as he shot me. Functioning addict, my ass.
“Unfortunately,” Ram continued, “Anchor kept meticulous notes over the years, going back before you came on the scene. He was Savor’s human counterpart—she gives demons their marching orders, while Anchor was Dread’s deal maker with city, state, and federal officials. As a journalist, he could openly meet with anyone without it being linked back to the church. The cops are in the evidence room now, drooling over his spreadsheet. Dread was a fool—he controlled Anchor completely, but the vessel cracked.”
Phil had killed me, but that was too cold even for me.
“It will be his word against the prophet’s, if you drop this now, Allay. He’s so far gone no jury would believe him, even with his spreadsheet. But if you back him up, if you confirm everything, this is going to blow up in everyone’s face. Including yours.”
My smile deepened, and then I laughed. “I have to hand it to Phil. To think that the weak link in all this turns out to be guy who’ll bring down the Fellowship of Truth. I just hope Dread doesn’t have him killed before he can testify.”
“The hit has already gone out on him. But it appears Goad is no longer taking orders from Dread.”
“That’s even better.”
“Allay, that means there’s nothing holding him back from you. I got in here, no problem. I’m sure Goad could manage it with an offspring or two.”
I held up my hands, showing him how charged up I was from feeding off my patrons all night. “I’m ready for him. I’m tired of being frightened into a tight, little ball. I’ve made my decision, and that’s it. I’m coming out my own way.”
“You said you didn’t want to be part of Vex’s plans for resurrection, but now you’re doing it! You’re putting yourself out there to be the new messiah.”
“No, I’m not. Never that. There’s nothing religious about this. I don’t promise to save people’s souls. I’m just telling them the truth.”
Ram stood looking at me for a few moments, his aura flushed decidedly purple now. That dark bruised pain that came with only one name—Hope.
“I thought you were different from other hybrids,” he murmured. “But every one of you suffers from delusions of grandeur. Because you’re special, you think that it has to be about you. Who are you to give people the truth?”
That hurt. I didn’t think he was right. But it was a great description of Cherie
. “You said I wasn’t like Hope.”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
I realized I was standing up, and so was he. Now there was only hurt instead of adoration in his eyes. Why would he be hurt? Because I wouldn’t run off with him the first week I met him and say fuck you! to the rest of the world? This had to be about Hope again, always Hope. Like our entire relationship was an endless replay of a bad trip.
I almost said something I’d regret, but the door opened again. Kosciusko stopped abruptly when he saw Ram. My lawyer’s freckled face flushed and he seemed to grow taller. I knew this was what he would look like defending me in court, like a warrior in a business suit come to my rescue.
“What are you doing in here?” Kosciusko demanded. “You’re not questioning my client, are you, Officer? Because that would be a serious breach of trust.”
“I was asking Ms. Meyers if she needed anything,” Ram said easily enough, instantly back in cop mode. Always the consummate liar.
“I can take care of that. You go now.”
Ram nodded shortly, giving me a sharp look before he left.
The tension was so thick that Kosciusko looked from the door closing behind Ram’s back to me. “Was he harassing you?”
Yeah, sort of. “Not really. Nothing that needs to be dealt with.”
“Are you sure? Because they’ve promised to treat you with respect.”
I assured him that the NYPD had been nothing but nice to me, which was true. I hadn’t run into the ones on Dread’s payroll—yet.
Kosciusko sat down, gesturing for me to do the same. He opened up his fat briefcase. “The DA’s office has agreed to drop all charges against you in this case and any future prosecutions that arise out of it, in exchange for the testimony you agreed to give. I’ve got the statement ready for you to sign. Once you do that, you can walk out of here.”
“Did you work all night on this?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I went home and slept for a few hours. They were gathering the evidence to see how valuable your testimony would be, and apparently it is very valuable indeed. They would be most grateful for your help.” He looked at me closer. “You look well rested. Did you manage to sleep in that chair?”
“Demons don’t sleep.” It was so nice to be able to say that. “I mostly sat here bored. What time is it?”
“Six in the morning. I can get you some coffee, and a donut. I saw a box out there.”
“Demons don’t eat or drink. We live off the emotions of other people.”
His eyes narrowed. “So I heard on the news.” He reached down into his briefcase. “You might want to see this.”
It was the New York Post. The headline read PROPHET CONSORTS WITH DEMONS! A photo of me that looked like it was taken last night inside my bar by someone with a cell phone was splashed on the front page. The blood down my neck and white T-shirt was a stark black splash, and my eyes were wells of shadow in the dim overhead light. The other, smaller photo showed me flat on my back, my face a gaping wet pit.
“I look positively ghoulish! That’s awful.”
“The text isn’t much better,” Kosciusko agreed.
The story recounted how I had been shot and killed in my bar, and then it quickly veered off into a tale of a supposed love triangle between me, Phil Anchor, and the prophet. Somebody at the police department must have tipped them off, because it included details of my made-up affair with the prophet a decade ago, after which he gave me the bar in eternal appreciation for my charms.
Seriously? I wanted to gag. If they only knew Dread and what he was capable of.
The reporter managed to squeeze in the salacious details that Mrs. Prophet had returned penitent to her hubby just in time for Cherie’s staged resurrection, and that her former lover, Mark Cravet, remained mysteriously missing with his business summarily shuttered and emptied. It was all of the most lurid bits of the past few days, which the reporter had found and pasted together.
“Oh, my God. . . . Should I deny it? I mean, it isn’t true that Dread and I had an affair.”
“In my humble opinion, it’s best not to respond to anything the Post prints. Maybe you should get a publicist? I could suggest one or two for you.”
“I don’t have the money to pay for a publicist.” I gave him a sideways look. “How much do I owe you, by the way? You did a great job for me.”
“You made it easy by making the right choice. When that spreadsheet came in from Mr. Anchor, I was ready to applaud. You fell on the side of angels, Ms. Meyers.”
“I didn’t fall, Mr. Kosciusko. I jumped.”
19
“I wish you’d let me check you into a hotel,” Kosciusko said for the fifth time as we were leaving the station house. “Or I could drop you off at the bar. You can’t go back alone after all that publicity.”
“Don’t worry about me.” I turned and walked away, gradually transforming myself until I was a dirty blond with a rabbity face. I waved back at Kosciusko, who was staring at me openmouthed. But to give the guy credit, he raised his hand in return despite his shock.
As I turned the corner, my smile faded. I came out so I wouldn’t have to lie anymore. And here I was lying again by wearing someone else’s face. It felt so wrong.
I wondered if Ram was somewhere nearby, watching me. Watching over me.
Or was he through with me? Maybe he didn’t want me if he couldn’t control me.
That was fine by me. But it did hurt.
Over on Avenue A, the early morning traffic looked more like rush hour during the week rather than a Saturday morning. There were more backed-up lines at the lights and more horns sounding distantly. I should have asked Kosciusko if the bridges were still shut down to Brooklyn. Hopefully now that Cherie’s story was being openly questioned, that hysteria would soon fade.
But as I neared Avenue C, the sidewalk was so clogged with people that I could barely reach Third Street. I asked a guy standing on the stanchion of a streetlight, trying to see south, “What’s going on down there?”
“It’s packed right in front of the bar,” he said, not bothering to glance down.
His girlfriend tugged on his pants leg. “Let’s go, Ricky. There are too many people. We’ll come see the demon later.”
Me? I almost blurted out. These people were here to see me.
“I bet it gets worse,” the boyfriend retorted irritably. “Like with Brooklyn. By the time we tried, we couldn’t get across the bridge.”
I eased away, feeling very self-conscious about hiding.
I was tempted to turn on my heel and leave, but I could sense Bliss and Crave ahead. They must be inside my bar.
I wiggled my way through the slowly shifting crowd that spilled off the sidewalk. There was only one lane of traffic getting through, and white vans with satellite antennas were double-parked. Everyone was looking in the direction of the Den, their attention focused sharply on it. Most people held up cell phones and cameras, taking pictures of my bar and the crowd in front of it, lifting them up toward the windows on the second floor, searching for movement and craning to see the apartment inside. I was glad the curtains were drawn. Bliss had taken over up there for the past couple of days.
Then the people separated enough to give me a glimpse of the closed metal shutter over the front of the bar. Something had been spray-painted on it in black, red, and white. When I got closer, it turned out to be a man-sized pentagram splattering the shutter.
Nice. Now I was branded a witch, a devil worshiper.
I let the crowd squeeze me back away from the bar. I was a coward, I admit it. I couldn’t imagine going up to the door and brazenly opening it. I wasn’t sure if I could get inside before they stopped me, nor could I keep them from storming through behind me.
I fought my way back out, hating myself, hating what I’d done. That girl was right—it probably would get worse.
I turned down Second Street, passing by the row of apartment buildings on the south side of my block. People were looking down from t
heir windows at the circus that had erupted on their street, some were still wearing pajamas and rubbing their bed-heads.
I drifted down the inside of the sidewalk, keeping a sharp eye out for someone leaving. When a couple of teenaged Latina girls emerged onto their stoop, I quickly darted up and grabbed the door before it shut, telling them, “Watch out, girls. It’s rough out there.”
They skedaddled to get away from the lecturing grown-up. I made sure the door was closed behind me, then went through the inner door into the stairwell. It had a very high ceiling, with a staircase up the left. I went down the narrow hallway on the right to the back. Two apartment doors faced me, but on the underside of the stairs was a wood-panel door that led to the basement below.
I broke the old padlock easily. I left the door open so the tenants would see it needed a new lock. I didn’t need light; I maneuvered around the pile of lumber and the old stove to find the rusted metal hatch that opened into the backyard. A pin held it shut from the inside. I was out and in the backyard with hardly a sound.
It wasn’t much of a yard, only a dirt patch with weeds growing along the fences. I went over several fences, blessing my ability to heal when I jammed a big splinter into my palm and landed badly on the uneven ground jumping down. But I made it to my own backyard without any problems other than the dogs barking a few yards over.
I used my bench to climb down. Ram and I had been sitting there last night as he seduced my secrets out of me.
But brooding was out of the question as Bliss appeared in the window upstairs. She waved to let me know she was coming down.
I huddled against the back door—I was mostly blocked by the acacia tree, but there were some rear windows of the buildings along Second Street that I could see. I couldn’t tell if anyone was staring down at the demon sneaking into her own home.
“Hi, Allay,” Bliss said as she let me in.
I made sure the back door was locked, and the bars over the windows were secure. I had gotten in the back way easy enough, I was sure others would follow.
