by Cecy Robson
I pat his knee with my quivering palm. “No. It’s not you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
We startle when Ryker pounds against the wall. His knuckles are already shredded. I don’t know how many more blows he can endure before the skin tears from the bone.
I clear my throat and try to steady my voice. “Stevie don’t worry. Ryker isn’t going to hurt you.” More wall beating ensues, shaking a black and white photo of a city landscape above the flat screen. “But just in case, I want you to stay away from him.”
Stevie jumps when the photo falls and the glass shatters. His head whips in the direction of the door as if Ryker will tear through. Slowly, he returns his attention back to me. “You got it, Liv. No problem.”
He tosses the remote. Game Over flashes on the screen. Nice. Real nice.
“Why can’t he just go?” Stevie asks. “Shit. He’s been losing it for days.”
“He’s still weak from his fight with hounds. Materializing from the apartment, finding his food, and bringing it back here takes energy―”
“Here?” Stevie asks, his face aghast. “Ryker is going to eat here?”
I bury my face in my hands. I don’t like this situation any better than Stevie. It scares me. I’m barely eating, much less sleeping, images of Ryker standing over my bed keeping me up at night. “Stevie, with the amount of Death lurking around, Ryker has to return here to eat. It’s the only safe place for him. If he doesn’t, the Cù-Sìth or something else will find him at his most vulnerable.” I stand, debating whether to share the rest.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You look, I don’t know, guilty.”
“It’s nothing,” I mumble. I take in the Hudson, trying to calm. Darkness claims the river save for the distant city lights and the full moon trickling their glow against the waves. There are no boats and the current seems oddly restless. I wonder if it can sense Ryker’s pain . . . and maybe mine.
Stevie leans forward, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm them. “Liv, you told me you’d be straight with me. If you have something to say. Just say it, babe.”
I slump onto the couch and cover my face when Ryker snarls. I mean to sit carefully, except my rattling knees aren’t having it. “Ryker waited too long to eat. He’s in pain as result and unable to heal. If that’s not bad enough, his pain is intensifying his hunger. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yeah,” Stevie says, his pale face losing an extra shade of color. “Death is getting whacked from all directions and we’ll be seriously screwed in the eye sockets if he doesn’t get some soon.”
Thanks for the visual. “Ah, yes,” I say. “Something like that.” I cover my ears when Ryker releases a vicious bellow. I don’t know how much more he can take.
“Why do you look so bummed. Livvie?” Stevie asks. “I get that you’re scared, but why are you all, guilty like?”
I don’t want to admit what I do. For now, though, Stevie and I only have each other. “I think Ryker waited to eat because of me.”
“Huh? Why would he wait, knowing how much it’s going to hurt?” Stevie asks. He rubs his hands more frantically. “You said he’s been the Ankou for like, a century. He must have known this would happen if he didn’t keep on top of his eating habits.”
I stare at the hall leading to Ryker’s bedroom. The door has begun to rattle from his snarls. “We were spending a lot of time together, Stevie,” I say, remembering when we were getting to know each other and when he wasn’t so scary. “We trained here, we worked at the office. We were always together. Always.”
Stevie keeps his head in the direction of the hall where our bedrooms and Ryker’s office are located. “I thought you moved in when I did. How was it he was always with you . . .” His gaze travels back to me. “Oh, I get it. You and him are together.”
“It’s not like that,” I explain. “As the Ankou, his power allows him to assist others with their mourning. Dahlia’s death triggered a lot of repressed memories. Ryker would appear in my room at night to comfort me and allow me to sleep.”
“So, he was always with you.”
I nod. “Yeah. He was.”
What sounds like a car smashes into the bedroom door, splintering the frame. We jump to our feet. Silence overtakes the small hall and creeps into the living room. I run to the bedroom, my feet heavy as if encased with cement and the door appearing to move further away.
I crash into the door. It won’t give. I pound it on it, “Ryker, Ryker!” I twist the knob and shoulder the door. “Stevie, help me. I have to get in there.”
We ram our bodies against the door. It takes three solid tries for the door to swing open.
We stumble in. Sheets from the bed and bloodied bandages litter the floor. I scan the suite and charge into the bathroom.
Ryker is gone.
I step back into the bedroom, my movements slow and unsteady. A strange scent thickens the room in a coat of black dust, swirling into the air and filling it with dread and sorrow.
“D-do you feel that?” Stevie stammers.
“Yes.” I barely speak above a gasp, my arms begging to wrap around me and protect me from the circling misery.
Stevie backs out of the room, snagging my hand and taking me with him. “What is it?”
“It’s death,” I answer. “It’s mixing with the remains of Ryker’s torment.”
He shivers. “How do you know that, Livvie?”
“I can feel him.” I can. I’m just not sure how.
Below us, something heavy hits and rolls in opposite directions. I glance at Stevie. The smeared eyeliner rimming his light brown eyes clashes against his skin as his pallor worsens.
“Ryker’s back,” I rasp, my vacant voice widening his eyes.
“Th-that was quick.”
Stevie doesn’t quite finish speaking when my fingertips slip from his. I hurry toward the curved metal steps, stopping at the top at Stevie’s quaking voice. “Livvie, I don’t think you should, you know, watch.”
I remain in place, wondering if he’s right. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
Stevie follows. He’s afraid to be alone, not that he’s dying to see what Ryker is up to.
My bare feet touch the cool metal, barely making enough sound to matter, but managing to rack me with chills just fine. I grip the railing, steadying myself before taking that next step. Down and around I go, pausing briefly when the ceiling still obstructs the floor below.
The way the staircase curves, my next few steps will offer a direct view. I take a breath, build my courage, and continue forward.
Ryker lays sprawled on his belly, his restored armor in place. The hood of his cape cloaks his face in darkness. I’m not certain if the hood fell that way or if it’s an attempt to mask his shame. I’m not even sure if he knows I’m here. But I am. And nothing on Fae or Earth could prepare me for what I see.
The scythe lays discarded to his right. Blood stains the blade crimson and drips onto the polished wood like the soft fall of rain. I damaged the floor with my magic and weapons more times than I could count. Yet in my eyes, the tiny red droplets mar the floor beyond repair.
Except it’s not the blood, the scythe, or Ryker’s body my gaze locks onto.
It’s his meal, the translucent form of a forty-year-old man.
I recognize the man from the news. He’s Don Fleycher, Washington DC’s infamous serial killer, still dressed in his prison-issued coveralls. Don spent decades murdering runaway teens he lured back to his home with the promise of food, money, and salvation. Seventeen bodies. That’s how many were found buried in his backyard. Most were young girls, the youngest barely twelve. Girls, likely escaping their own nightmares before Don showed them the true meaning of hell.
I can’t imagine the pain he inflicted. But I see his.
What remains of his hair bats against his shoulders as he crawls away, sobbing. “No. Don’t hurt me. No!” Vaporous saliva pools from his mouth and drizzles against his beard. “Please, man. Plea
se. I don’t want to die!”
He doesn’t know he’s already dead.
Ryker snatches his ankle and hauls him back. Don tries to dig his nails into the floor. His fingers ghost over the surface. He scratches the air wildly, his cries morphing into high-pitched squeals. “Help me! Jesus Christ, help me!”
The staircase rattles with how fast Stevie races back upstairs, his feet pounding the floor above until his bedroom door slams shut and his sound system blasts at full volume. He doesn’t want to hear the screams.
Neither do I.
Ryker’s grip fastens on Don’s thigh and he yanks him to him. Lustful growls thick with want and anticipation barrel from Ryker’s chest. He rolls Don onto his back and drives his knee into his gut, keeping him in place. With his left hand, he clutches Don’s throat, squeezing it tight and silencing his shrieks.
Don writhes, smacking Ryker’s arm with his hands that flutter through, unable to suppress his wretched blubbering and chokes. His gaze begs Ryker for mercy.
If Ryker hesitates, I don’t see it. He lifts his right hand. A ribbon of azure mist entwines the length like a deadly serpent. He strikes, puncturing through Don’s chest and into his heart.
Don buckles, a pained gasp of air leaving his lungs.
His eyeballs cave inward.
His tongue lolls.
His teeth fall away like pebbles, deep into his throat.
With each licentious breath from Ryker, Don shriveles inward, the muscles of his arms sinking and tapering against brittle and snapping bones.
I squeeze the railing to keep me upright. This is Ryker. The real him. Who he will always be.
I didn’t recognize his torment before. Not like I do now. It takes me seeing how he survives, how he eats, to fully understand what he is.
Maybe now I can find the courage to grant him mercy.
In a way, I can’t wait. No one deserves to live like this.
Ryker shudders, moaning as the last of Don Fleycher vanishes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, is bullshit. There’s no dust. No anything. Just the Grim Reaper hovering over what once had been.
“God.”
Ryker gradually straightens. He hadn’t noticed me. He does now that I spoke. He lifts his hood slowly and drops it behind him, meeting me with pitch black eyes that scream of murder.
Chapter Twenty- Three
Stevie watches me, perched on the large boulder outside Bill’s beach house in Glen Cove. My magic shoots through the whip, the tip striking each rock he places along the sand with a loud boom. One by one the large rocks explode, falling like hail against the mini-waves as if they can’t wait to feel the Atlantic’s cool sting.
I don’t hit each one on the first try. But I’m getting closer.
Ocean water softly soaks the pebbled beach. Stevie slides from the boulder when I polish off the last one. “Cool. You want to try smaller ones this time?”
I yank my whip back and spin it at my side, just like Ryker first demonstrated. The flicks of my wrist are now second nature, exactly as he intended.
It just sucks he’s not here to see it.
It’s been four days since I’ve seen or spoken with Ryker. The morning after I watched him eat, he told me Stevie and I were moving to Glen Cove. That was it. Still shaken from what I saw, I didn’t argue. I should have. Now, it’s too late.
Too late to call.
Too late to text.
Too late to say I’m sorry.
Ryker thinks he disgusts me.
He’s wrong.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Huh?” I ask.
Stevie picks up a flat rock and tosses it into the ocean. It skips twice before the ocean swallows it. “Ryker,” he says. “You miss him. I can tell.”
He’s right. Life misses Death.
“I think we need time apart.” I shrug. “It happens even amongst the best of friends.”
I never imagined I’d be so honest with a fifteen-year-old boy, except for now, Stevie and I only have each other.
The dim sun crawls along the horizon, warning our fun in the overcast October sky has drawn to a close. Jane’s wards don’t extend onto the beach after sunset. We need to hurry if we intend to stay safe. “It’s late. Let’s head inside.”
Stevie throws another rock. This time, it skips four times. “We still have a good five minutes, but if you’re not up to it, it’s okay.”
He knows my mind is elsewhere and doesn’t push. I try to smile. “I think it’s enough for today, Stevie.”’
He pinches his face. “I wish you’d do me one and call me by my nickname.”
“Anthrax?” I ask.
He grins. “It sounds sexy when you say it.”
“In that case, let’s get back to the house, Stevie.”
I laugh when he mumbles a curse and back up, winking before sprinting toward the house. It’s my way of challenging him to a race. He bolts, fighting to catch up. I increase my speed and prance over the row of boulders, the sudden burst of energy making me quick and graceful.
One day I might stand a chance at winning. Not today. Dragon’s blood does race through Stevie’s veins. The little dickens beats me to the back steps of the brick terrace.
Stevie grins, proud of himself. “Since I won, again, I say we take Mamacita out for a spin tomorrow. We can use the portable ward we use for running.”
Mamacita is Bill’s candy apple red ’63 Corvette convertible. He told us that the house was ours, but the garage was “off limits.” Of course, that’s the first place Stevie rummaged through, fully expecting to find boxes of vintage porn.
I wish he found porn. It beats his obsession with Mamacita.
I cock my head. “Nice try. But let’s go with no, never. I want to live.”
Stevie’s been eyeing up Mamacita since first pulling off the protective cover and unveiling sex, power, and the speed of sound on four asphalt burning wheels. He gaped at the shiny little minx (complete with custom plates!) for five full minutes before daring to touch her smooth and perfect body.
I’ve never cared much for cars. But damn, I don’t blame Stevie for his preoccupation with Mamacita. Every night after dinner, he sits in the front seat, itching to open the garage door and start it. He finally found the keys. Sadly enough, I hop in beside him, imagining what it would feel like to hear her sweet engine purr.
“Come on, Liv. You know you want to.”
“I know no such thing.” I laugh. “Besides, I’m not sure how good the portable ward will work. Jane designed it to keep us hidden on our runs. It’s not meant to hide anything at break-neck speed. Not to mention, if we took Mamacita out, you don’t have to worry about the Cù-Sìth finding us, Bill will kill us himself.”
“Liv, Bill doesn’t have to know.” He waggles his brows, making me giggle.
I stop laughing when the gray sky darkens to black.
Stevie loses his grin and we hurry up the steps. The last trickle of sunlight dissolves as I shut the door. We breathe a sigh of relief when the reinforced wards hum and enclose us in their protection.
Stevie tosses his jacket over the couch. “Can we have the steaks tonight?”
“That sounds like a good idea,” I reply. “They’ve been marinating since last night so they should be perfect.” I clip my whip to my belt and wash the grime from my hands at the kitchen sink. Since leaving Jersey City, I always keep my weapon with me. I even sleep with it tucked under my pillow. While it’s not the same as having Ryker with me, it offers a sense of security in his absence.
Stevie rummages through the industrial sized fridge. “Can I have the beer that’s in here?”
“Nope.” I flip on the rangehood. Mamacita may get me hot, but this six-burner stove is a close second.
“There’s a whole case of Heineys in here,” Stevie bemoans. “Bill won’t miss one.”
I slice the Portobello mushrooms while garlic and olive oil heat. Stevie stands in front of the fridge with the door open, continuing to argue. I let him. I
f this is all he has to complain about, it’s a big improvement.
I toss in the onions I diced earlier. Bill must entertain a great deal. The terrace, like the kitchen and rest of the house, is massive. I think his home is the biggest house on the block. I want to say he earned everything the right way. Except I don’t know who to trust anymore.
“Do you want a salad with dinner, or do you prefer steamed spinach?” I ask.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?”
I set a cutting board and a knife on the center island. “I am, but that doesn’t change my mind about the beer.”
“You know what your problem is?” Stevie asks.
“No,” I reply. “But I’m sure you can’t wait to tell me.”
He chuckles. “You’re Life and all, but you don’t enjoy it.”
I stir the garlic and onions as I allow Stevie’s words to sink in. “I did once, as much as I could considering my past.” My thoughts wander to Ryker’s request to kill him. “Given what’s happened, it’s a luxury I can no longer afford.”
Stevie bustles about, setting the table, and very much unaware how the conversation affects me. “Wait and see, Liv. I’ll make a delinquent out of you yet.”
Smart kid or not, Stevie is a fifteen-year old boy, not girl. If Stevie was a “Stephanie” I’d pour my heart out, demand comfort food, and have her channel surf for the most gut-wrenching chick flick she could find. Still, Stevie has a good heart and I can’t stop my smile. “Yeah, yeah. So, do you want salad or not?”
Stevie reaches for a mushroom and pops one in his mouth. “I’ll take a salad, but no raw onions.” He quiets, blushing a little. “The onions make me sneeze and, I, uh, don’t want to start a fire.”
I whip around. “You’re releasing flame?”
He shrugs, his cheeks fully pink as he pulls the salad greens from the fridge. He places them on the opposite counter as if they’re made of glass. “I still can’t maintain a stream, but I’m getting close. I’ve been practicing in the shower.”
I squeal and throw my arms around him. “Stevie. That’s awesome, your first fire!”
