Living With the Dead

by Kelley Armstrong

  "He was scouting the third floor," the man continued.

  Irving thanked him and his footsteps continued. Hope shot into the office with the unconscious team member. The stairwell door creaked open before she had time to close hers. Her heel thumped the guard's arm. She carefully stepped over it and retreated into the shadows.

  It was useless, of course. Nast was hunting for this missing guard. He'd see the body through the open doorway. He'd turn on the light and then...

  Then what?

  Did she have a choice?

  Her heart battered her ribs, keeping double time with Irving's brisk, purposeful strides.

  She gripped the tranq gun. A hair tickled her cheek, caught in an air current. It tickled back and forth, back and forth, making every inch of skin creep, every muscle tense, like a guitar tuner, cranking her nerves tighter and tighter.

  Irving Nast's shadow passed the open door first. He strode past, eyes straight ahead, confident that his employee would come to him.

  Hope watched him, her gaze fixed on his shoulder blade, gun trained on his upper arm. A perfect shot. Just pull the trigger.

  She wasn't ready. Let him get past, while she took a moment to catch her breath, make a decision, yank that damn tickling hair out -

  She fired.

  Unprepared for the recoil, Hope was knocked back and, for a second, she thought she'd been shot. It was only as Nast faltered that she realized she'd pulled the trigger.

  As he fell, she shuddered so hard she nearly dropped the gun. It wasn't chaos bliss but relief, so sweet it felt as good as chaos.

  In pulling the trigger, she'd set her course. She'd shot him so now she had to follow through, had to kill him, as if in "accidentally" pulling that trigger, she'd absolved herself of responsibility for the rest. She had to go with the choice that she'd wanted to pick: their safety over the council.

  To protect herself and Karl, Irving Nast had to die. That wasn't the demon talking. It was her, because all this talk of her and the demon was an artificial distinction that she knew in her heart was bullshit. There was no Hope and the demon. There was just Hope, and she wanted the threat of Irving Nast eliminated.

  Then, as she pulled out the garrote wire, the zip of it slicing through the silence, she realized what she was about to do.

  Rhys blamed the council for her reluctance to kill Irving, which proved that he understood Expisco demons as superficially as he did werewolves. It had nothing to do with laws. It was more than conscience, too.

  Hope knew that taking a life was wrong. She felt that more deeply than Karl ever could. If she'd asked him why, when they needed to kill, he did it for them, he'd use that as an excuse: because he didn't mind and she did. The truth, as they both knew, was that the taking of a life was the one experience she'd denied the demon. Death was the demon's purest joy. A high like no other. If she took that life, would she find a new high? If so, could she live with that?

  Enjoying death didn't have Hope wandering palliative care wards or racing to accident scenes. Her addiction was fed by serendipity - she took sustenance where she found it and never sought it out.

  And yet...

  Here was where Hope's drive to find her limits ended. Here she looked down from the precipice and saw the rest of her life consumed by a blaze of temptation and self-loathing.

  She crouched beside Irving, garrote wire stretched between her hands. She knew she had to do it. Whatever the cost. Kill or be killed.

  She pressed the wire against his throat. His skin whitened along it. She imagined that furrow filling with blood. Would he wake up at the last second, his windpipe severed, life-blood pumping out, gasping for breath, seeing her sitting there, patiently waiting for him to die?

  Her bile rose. She swallowed it, burning down to her gut, adding to the roiling pit.

  She couldn't do it. She couldn't. Not like this. Why a garrote? Why not a gun or a syringe of poison?

  Was that what she wanted? A clean, quiet way to murder someone?

  No, if she had to kill, it should be like this, messy and raw and undeniable.

  She pushed down on the wire. A single spot of blood welled, then seeped along the wire.

  Make it quick. If it's quick he won't wake -

  Yes! If he didn't wake up, there wouldn't be any chaos.

  Hope picked up the gun, ready to give Irving a second shot of the tranquilizer. Make sure he was out cold and then -

  Her gorge rose again, bringing a fresh surge of bile. Sweat stung her eye; she swiped it back with a trembling hand.

  She couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. Had to. Had to. Had to.

  A crash from the stairwell sent Hope jetting to her feet. A thump, then another, the rapid bump-bump-bump of a body tumbling down stairs. A shout answered by a roar.

  Another crash. Another bump-bump-bump. A vision flash came. Karl had turned on his captors, sending them flying into the stairwell walls and tumbling down. Hope grabbed the gun and the wire, the thread zipping back into its case as she flew down the hall.

  She could say she was going to his aid, but she knew she wasn't. She was running, running as fast as she could. Running from Irving Nast to Karl, from the problem to the solution. Every pound of her feet drove a dagger of shame into her heart. But she kept running.

  Hope clamored over the body of one guard, then the second. The first was unconscious. The second? She didn't pause to check.

  The air throbbed with residual chaos. Every pump pushed the shame of her cowardice deeper into memory, gone but not forgotten.

  As she climbed to the roof, that chaos throb was like the faintest

  beat of a distant heart, that pulse coming stronger with every step, chaos reeling her in.

  "Where is she?" Karl snarled.

  "Put him down!" someone yelled.

  "Oh, I intend to."

  Hope threw open the door. Karl stood at the roof edge, one hand around Rhys's throat, holding him over the side. Two armed SWAT team members had their guns trained on Karl.

  Rhys hung there, unmoving. He was fully conscious, just staying very, very still.

  "Karl? I'm okay."

  He turned. The Cabal team still shouted orders. But he ignored them. His gaze traveled up and down Hope, assessing, as if, should she be injured, he might not rethink his threat to drop Rhys.

  The Cabal men - like good soldiers - gave her only the briefest glance, checking for weapons, then dismissing her. When they looked away she mouthed and pantomimed a message, telling Karl she'd come with Rhys, that he wasn't planning to harm her.

  He turned away before she was certain he got the message.

  "So your plan failed, did it?" he growled at Rhys. "Hope was smarter than you gave her credit for. Outwitted you and escaped. Don't expect me to give you another shot at her. That's not how I handle threats."

  Rhys's eyes saucered, a choked "wait!" burbling up as Hope flew forward, shouting for Karl to stop. He spun... and threw Rhys at the nearest guard as he lunged at the other.

  Rhys hit the first guard, bowling him down in a shower of gravel and dust. Karl knocked the second one flying. Hope ran for Rhys's gun, dropped near the door. She made sure it was loaded with darts, then shot both the Cabal men. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, but she managed... after missing once and lodging a second dart in Karl's pant cuff.

  Afterward, as she held a torn scrap of Cabal SWAT uniform to Karl's newly re-split lip, she said, "Next time you plan a fake out, warn me."

  "If I did, your reaction wouldn't be nearly as authentic."

  Rhys returned from dragging the second guard behind the rooftop shed. "I'd appreciate a warning, too, though I'll settle for not being used as a missile."

  Karl shrugged, committing to no such promise.

  Karl and Rhys hauled up the men on the stairs - both unconscious and given a second shot to be sure they stayed that way. Then Hope told them about the woman and the guard on the third floor, and said, "Irving came down looking for the guard."

  "And?" Rhys
prompted.

  "I tranquilized him."

  "And?"

  Karl's head whipping around. "What'd he ask you to do?"

  Hope touched his arm. "I didn't. Rhys says Irving will come back after us, and he's right, but that's when I heard you, so I left him."

  "Good. You two check for more guards. I'll look after Irving."

  "I-I can. I should."

  "No, you shouldn't. And you're not going to."

  He strode off to take care of it for her... as always.

  * * *

  FINN

  Finn hated to be ungrateful. But if there were people with other supernatural powers, he couldn't help wishing he'd been blessed with a more useful one, like teleportation. Having a phantom partner who had to rely on public transit seemed rather mundane. And, under the circumstances, rather frustrating.

  He'd sent Damon on ahead with Adams and the man Robyn had called Rhys. But when Finn lost their car in traffic, Damon had to bail, then hitch rides back to the spot where he'd last seen Finn, find him and tell him which direction Adams was traveling. Now they were stuck canvassing the area, searching for the car.

  Or, Finn should say, he and Robyn were searching. When Damon got near his wife, he was as useless as a twelve-year-old boy with a naked supermodel. He just sat there beside her in the backseat, staring and fidgeting, frustrated beyond reason, able to see and not touch.

  "Did you get her shoulder checked?" Damon slid to the edge of the seat and leaned over.

  "Couldn't. She seems fine with it, though."

  "Didn't I warn you that as long as Bobby's conscious, she'll say she's fine? She needs to see a doctor."

  "And she will, as soon as we're done. That's her decision."

  When Finn had first started talking to Damon, Robyn would look up sharply, listening just long enough to realize he wasn't speaking to her, then nod and turn her attention back to the window. After a few exchanges, she'd caught on to the tone he used with Damon and stopped looking up. A fast learner. A fast adapter, too, already acting as if she'd spent her life around people who talked to ghosts.

  "She looks good, don't you think?" Damon asked.

  Finn looked at Robyn in the rearview mirror. She did look good. But a grunt seemed the safest answer.

  "She seems to be getting back on her feet," Damon said.

  Finn could agree with that, too. He had no idea what Robyn had been like before or after Damon's death, but the woman beside him - keenly watching out the window, stopping periodically to pepper him with questions - was far from the shell-shocked widow he'd expected.

  "Hold on," Robyn said.

  Finn hit the brakes.

  She jolted forward, then gave a pained smile as she adjusted her lap belt. "I thought that would be less alarming than screaming 'Stop!' I was just going to say I recognize this area. Ahead is that bookstore I told you about, where we first saw the boy."

  "Rhys's son."

  "Why would he bring Hope - ?" Her chin jerked up. "Hope was on the roof when his son jumped. She was trying to talk him down."

  "But Rhys wasn't there."

  "He's clairvoyant, remember?"

  It took Finn a moment to make the connection. Apparently some people were adapting to this stuff slower than others. "That means he gets a, uh, vision of people. In the present. So he could have seen Hope."

  "He did. He said as much in the motel. If he blames her for him jumping and he's taking her back there now..."

  "Direct me."

  She did.

  Robyn led Finn to a medical office building. There were three vehicles in the lot. One was the car they'd been tailing. There was also a van and a car that Finn thought he'd seen earlier.

  "Is that the van they put Marten in?" he asked Damon.

  "Uh..." Damon popped into the front seat for a better look. "Shit. Yeah. It is."

  He parked at the far end of the lot. "Get closer and take a look."

  When Damon left, Finn picked up the radio receiver.

  "What are you doing?" Robyn said. "That's their car. They're inside the building."

  "I know. I'm calling for backup."

  "What?" She shot to the seat edge.

  "I've just confirmed that's the van your friend Karl was in. That means we have a potential double hostage situation, possibly with two separate and hostile parties. I can't go in there alone."

  "Fine." She grabbed the door handle and wrenched. "Unlock this."

  "Calm down."

  The moment the words left Finn's mouth, he knew they were the wrong ones. Now she turned her glare on him, her eyes flashing.

  "I am calm, Detective Findlay. Calm enough to know that you're going to sit on your ass while my friend's life is in danger, and calm enough to know that I'm not going to do the same. Now open this door."

  "I need backup. Standard - "

  " - operating procedure." She twisted the words, wringing out a bucket of contempt. "Fine. You follow procedure, except on one point. You forgot to lock this door and I escaped."

  "The longer you fight me, the longer it's going to take to make this call." Again, regret dogged the words. It was a perfectly logical thing to say, and it came out sounding perfectly condescending, like when a kid got frustrated and the teacher made him sit in the corner with a singsong "when you can behave, you can rejoin the class."

  Robyn slid back in her seat. Her arms started to fold, then she thought better of it and let them fall by her sides. When Finn hesitated, watching her, she said, "Place your call, Detective."

  Damon leapt into the passenger seat, making Finn jump.

  "Put 'er in reverse and peel rubber," Damon said. "They're on the way out."

  Finn backed from the lot.

  Robyn shot forward again. "What the hell are you doing? They're still in there."

  "Whoa, Finn," Damon said. "Talk to her."

  Finn explained quickly as he found a spot to wait and watch.

  "Who's coming out?" Robyn demanded.

  "Hope, Karl and that guy," Damon said, and Finn relayed.

  Damon climbed into the backseat. "What'd you do to her?"

  "Nothing."

  "You did something. She's furious."

  "Are Adams and Marsten coming out as hostages?" he asked.

  "Change the subject, huh? No. They appeared to be with him willingly. I think stopping here was a trap for those SWAT guys. They rescued Karl and disabled his captors."

  "Disabled?"

  "Knocked out. Tranquilizer guns." Damon's attention turned back to assessing his wife. Par for the course, but Finn had been with Damon long enough now to know he'd turned away a little too fast.

  "What else?" Finn asked.

  "I counted five guys in those SWAT uniforms, all unconscious now. There's one suit, too. And a woman. A bystander, I think, but she's okay."

  "I meant what else did you find? What aren't you telling me?"

  "Hmm?" He looked up. "That's it. I'm just... still processing, I guess. Tranquilizer guns. This is truly some weird shit going on, Finn... oh, there they are."

  Through a stand of trees, Finn watched the trio head for a car.

  "Robyn?"

  "Hmm?" Polite, but cool. A petty grudge might be beneath her, but from her tone, Finn knew he'd slid from ally to enemy. Or at least obstacle.

  "That guy." He pointed. "Is that Rhys?"

  She moved along her seat to the window. "Yes."

  "Da - Uh, David?"

  "Nice save," Damon said, with a look that warned him against slipping again.

  "Go with them," Finn said. "This time, if you lose me, keep going. Get their final destination, then rendezvous here."

  * * *

  HOPE

  Once they'd gotten rid of the Cabal tail and Karl was free, Rhys apparently considered their partnership at an end. He assured Hope and Karl that he'd look after Adele and find a way to clear Robyn's name. Hope told him where he could shove his assurances - she wasn't leaving him until she had Adele.

  It took som
e negotiating, but he finally agreed Adele could be tried by the council, as long as Hope and Karl played bodyguard on his kumpania visit, which she suspected was what he'd hoped for all along.

  When they left the medical offices, Karl was behind the wheel, Rhys in the passenger seat, Hope in the back.

  On the way Rhys finally decided to tell them about the kumpania. Maybe that had something to do with Karl pulling over on Mulholland Drive and demanding to know everything before he went any farther, the looming cliff edge an unspoken echo to his earlier threat.

  "Kumpania," Rhys said. "It's a Romany name."

  "Gypsy?" Hope asked.

  "Right. The original members likely were, and the current bulibasha, Niko, claims to be a direct descendent."

  "Bulibasha?"

  "Leader. Romany again. Supposedly the kumpania started in the Old World and came to the New World fleeing the pogroms. The kumpania likes its mythology. No one much cares how accurate it is, as long as it's a good story."

  "And everyone in the kumpania is a clairvoyant?"

  He directed Karl to take the next turn. "A full clairvoyant manifesting powers. The kumpania was created for two express and interconnected purposes: preservation of the bloodline and preservation of the power. Preservation of power includes strengthening it through training and avoiding the curse of madness."

  "Can they do that?"

  He took off his ball cap and raked his fingers through his hair. "They've found that elusive happy medium, which works for most. And if it doesn't? The kumpania doesn't permit deviations from its core principles."

  "You think they kill anyone who shows signs of going mad?"

  "The kumpania presents itself as a community idealizing clairvoyant life. But they have more in common with a cult than with a commune, including strict indoctrination, severe restrictions on their members' movements and the willingness to kill to protect the community. Which is why Adele has no qualms about killing cops. It's the kumpania way. Preservation of self at all costs." He set his cap on the seat. "Which is not to excuse what she's done. The kumpania isn't a cult of murderers. In her case, it's merely a mitigating factor, something to consider."

  "Which the council will."

  He nodded and went quiet. That was all the information she needed and, she presumed, all they were getting. But after a moment, he went on.

  "The second concern of the kumpania is the preservation of the bloodline. All kumpania children have two fully clairvoyant parents. That inbreeding, though, causes genetic problems, so they regularly infuse the bloodline with outside clairvoyants - durjardo. That's where I came in."