I don’t waste any time taking off down a long corridor with rusted fixtures on the walls and more bizarre graffiti. Frightening painted faces leer down on me as I turn the bend and follow another corridor into an even darker recess of the mill. I have no idea where I’m going, or even if I’m headed in the right direction. A number of large pipes overhead block the light that normally pours through the skylights, so I find myself stumbling along in the near dark as I search frantically for a way out.
Another bend and I nearly pitch down a long flight of metal stairs—just stopping myself at the last moment by grabbing the rusted railing and hanging on until I find my feet. The railing gives a little with age, and I feel my heart drop down somewhere near my toes as I steady myself.
The darkness behind me breathes. I can hear her coming for me. Slowly. Steadily. As if she has all the time in the world. And perhaps she does…
“Little flower…!” she whispers from down the hall, and her voice sounds like the sough of the wind.
Letting go of the railing, I swallow my fear of the dark and falling and take the stairs two at a time even though the whole staircase rattles in a disturbing way as I hurry down. Jesus, it must be two stories down! Halfway there, I pass the support wall and recognize the big hangar where I first confronted Sister Marie. Its vast, moon-dipped wetness actually looks inviting after what’s happened up there in that sarcophagus.
I shiver and want to cry out in outrage when I think about her on top of me, licking me…
Xtabay moves supernaturally fast. I can feel her at my back before I even reach the bottom. I jump the last ten feet or so, landing hard—and funny (but not in a ha-ha way)—on the concrete below. I feel my ankle turn and I grunt as I roll to the floor. Despite the sudden shock of pain, I scramble up before she can land in front of me and stop me from leaving.
I’m so stupid. I’ve forgotten she can fly.
Long before I limp even halfway down the throat of that vast hangar, Xtabay lands weightlessly in front of me like some beautiful pale bird descended to Earth. She seems taller now—closer to the titan-like image I saw in my vision. And her eyes are all blackity-black once more. Her hair, now streaming down over her shoulders, moves in a way that seems almost alive. But it’s what she’s wearing that stops me dead in my tracks.
Not the T-shirt and wrap from before. Not the tight-fitting white dress from my dreams.
No, she’s wearing a gown that I first mistaken for buckskin. But it’s not. The fabric is crudely sewn together with black thread, but I don’t even have to wonder if it’s made of patches of all different shades of human skin. I know it is. Some of the patches even have distinctive tattoos still inked on them. Around her waist, she sports a thick brown leather belt with the flesh of human limbs rubbing together as she moves, and around her neck a collar with what I’m terrified might be human penises. Her long earring, just brushing her shoulders, and the braces on her wrists and upper arms, are made of tiny, delicate, bleached human bones, like those you might find belonging to an infant.
She still smells sweet. But under that odor I detect it—the sweet putrefaction of human remains.
And I cower before her because I know this beautiful and awful creature of night is going to kill me.
56
“LITTLE FLOWER.”
I stay crouched down, my arms up in defense, unwilling to move—until she speaks again.
“Little flower, stand up.”
Slowly—very slowly—I lower my arms and straighten up. I honestly expect to see a raging black inferno of anger in Xtabay’s eyes, but they only look on me emptily—sadly. Tears course down over her brown cheeks. She looks so despondent that, for one second, I actually feel my heart break for her. I think how lonely it must be for her. To live—but to not really be alive. To be the goddess-servant of whichever powerful witch controls her. I can’t help but wonder how far her high priestesses have forced her to travel to do their bidding. And, of course, what terrible acts they have foisted upon her.
“You’re not…not angry I ran away?” I ask.
She blinks away the tears, but they cling to her long lashes. “I could never be angry with my fire flower.” Moving closer, she lifts her arms slightly and presents her open palms to me as if she is inviting me to step into her strong embrace. I might even have done it—were it not for her smell or the sight of those ghastly human remains on her. “Do you not understand? I love you, little flower. And I would never destroy something I love.”
I turn my head as a glimmer draws my attention. At a distance, I see Sister Marie. She is still in the same position she was in when Xtabay froze time, body contorted as she lunges toward the place where I was lying, arm fully extended, the shining athame at the end of it aimed to pierce my heart. We are still in the time lock Xtabay initiated a few hours earlier. All the while we’ve been together, the world hasn’t moved on at all.
Swallowing my surprise, which feels like a marble in my throat, I point to Sister Marie. “And her?”
Xtabay turns her head slowly and in an entirely mechanical way to look at her servant and high priestess. But her eyes remain emotionless.
“She’s your high priestess!” I press, hoping to undo all this through sheer reason. Maybe I can convince Xtabay to return to the witch who controls her and forget all about me. Maybe we can settle this reasonably. “The two of you were doing so much good! She needs you to stop all the people hurt—”
A sudden gust of wind drowns out my voice. Xtabay is gesturing toward her priestess. The wind suddenly claws at the frozen Sister Marie as if it has all the power of a hurricane. It wraps itself around the witch’s paralyzed form and flings her carelessly against the farthest wall.
As if she were truly a stone statue, Sister Marie shatters into thousands of pieces. And the impact is so strong, it flings parts of the woman in every direction. A large shard of Sister Marie’s head actually bounces off one wall and flies toward us, bouncing along the concrete floor and shattering once more before it comes to rest, finally, on the floor between me and the goddess.
It’s half of Sister Marie’s face, her lips still stretched in a scream of rage, her eye glaring up at me accusingly.
I can’t help myself. I take one look at her remains and start screaming my guts out.
57
I’M STILL screaming when Xtabay grabs me up in her arms—and her hair!—and, together, we rocket up toward the roof. The lurching sensation makes me sick to my stomach, and I vomit compulsively over Xtabay’s right shoulder as my stomach is slammed up into the bottom of my rib cage. Thank god I haven’t eaten anything in hours—it’s just stomach acid. But still…
With a groan, I tilt my head back, which is a bad idea. I see the skylights rushing toward us. That makes me scream again, but the glass explodes outward long before we reach it, falling away in glittering shards, and we pass safely through the ragged hole that remains and up into the sky beyond.
My whole body freezes up in fear as the cold night wind rips through my clothes and hair. All I see are stars on black night, and I have a horrid fantasy of us continuing upward until we break through the atmosphere and I can see the Earth drifting far below. The thought makes me sick.
But when we’ve reached an altitude so high my eyelashes feel like they are freezing and it actually becomes difficult to breathe, Xtabay finally slows down as if she senses my discomfort. Together, we hang in midair. And despite the fact that I’m terrified of her—horrified by the thing I’m clinging to with its raw, stinking human skin-dress—I find myself too frightened of falling to let go.
“Oh, my little flower,” she coos, raising a hand and running it through my hair, which is furiously flying around my face. “Look. See. All this I can give you.”
The wind dries my eyes, making it hard to see, but through the blur, I recognize the whole west end of Philly laid out around us, a mass of blocky and often ugly and unnatural shapes surrounding us on all sides like false mountains full of insignific
ant pinpricks of light. Traffic and trains cut long rivers of smeary light through the frozen metropolis, but even from up here, I can tell from the look of it that Xtabay has stopped time over the whole city. Perhaps she’s done it over the whole world.
“I…I don’t want it,” I answer her question truthfully. It’s so cold, my teeth are practically chattering. “Wh-why would I want th-this?”
She draws me back so she can see my face. That makes me panic, but she keeps her powerful hold on my arms even though I’m sure I’ve peed myself, I’m so scared. I kick out reflexively, but there’s no purchase.
“My lovely,” she says, tears in her eyes. “All these things I will give you, if you will only worship me. I will give you castles to live in and jewels to wear. The humans will be your brides and your victims.” She sighs and closes her eyes as a smile spreads across her face. “And, together, we will make it all burn.”
I gape at her in horror. “I don’t…I don’t want to burn it!”
She opens her eyes. Xtabay is as placid and pretty as a picture—some demonic Madonna up from hell. But now she looks slightly confused, like a child struggling to grasp a complex concept. “Of course you do. You have dreamed of the burning. You have dreamed me to your side, little flower of fire and of pain. You have summoned me in dreams. And so I have come.”
I gape at her. I had no idea…
Her face grows strangely desperate as she pulls me to her so our breasts are pressed together and our faces are inches apart. The odor of decay surrounds us both. “You are of Ha-Shaitan’s blood.” She sounds desperate now. Angrier. “And the Ha-Shaitan has always been the ally of the Xtabay.”
“I didn’t…I’m not…” I don’t know how to explain that this is all a misunderstanding. “I didn’t call you!”
Xtabay loses her serene smile. Now, she just looks disappointed. Scorned. And hell hath no fury…
“You called. I answered. And, together, we’ll make them burn.” She eyes flash with black fire. “We will make them all burn!” Her voice is rising to a pitch that hurts my ears. Her look is one of pure hunger. Pure hate. “We will make the humans burn for us. And it will be a pleasure!”
“No!” I scream, the high-pitch of her voice raking across my brain like cat claws. I even start to fight her embrace, despite the fact that the fall will kill me. “I don’t want this!” I say, screeching hysterically now. “I don’t want you, witch bitch!”
Xtabay grows very still. She looks confused. Hurt. “You…refuse me?”
I have a moment where I think, Oh, shit. Shit. Shitshitshit…!
But I’ve always been self-destructive. I’ve always had that in me. And perhaps, after all, she is the one sent to punish me for my sins. Perhaps this is all meant to be. So I tell her the truth, “Yes, Xtabay. I refuse you. I don’t love you, and I never will.”
She closes her eyes, and I see the blood leaking out from under her eyelids. I think she will scream. Instead, she says in a maddeningly calm voice, “I have seen many futures, fire flower, so I want you to know this one thing: You will never know real love in your whole life. Not as I could have shown it to you. Goodbye, Vivian.”
As I expect her to, she drops me.
58
AS I fall to my death, I think about the bad things I’ve done. There is a lot to think about. It’s a long way down, after all. The fall itself is weightless and almost pleasurable. For a few seconds, I seem to hang upon the upper currents. But then, inevitably, I plummet back to earth like the fallen angel I always knew I was.
Strangely, my last thought before impact is of Nick, who knew and loved me perhaps best of all. He knew what I was. He knew I was a bad person, but he still loved me despite it all—perhaps because he, too, knows what it’s like to be a bad person trying to do a few good things in this world.
I don’t feel the impact. And for that, I’m grateful.
Maybe, somewhere out there in the vast, uncaring universe, there really is a merciful god.
59
I’M DRIVING the jeep up a rocky, badly paved road. Good ol’ PA and its shitty back roads. The winter was particularly bad, so, naturally, the roads are all worn down and potholed from salt and the almost nonstop clawing of the snow-movers. I think of a popular joke I heard in high school: We used to have bears but they all fell into the potholes.
But it’s not winter now. It’s early summer—Memorial Day. The trees are green and lushly filled out, and the wildflowers and weeds are growing in waist-high tangles on the sides of the road. The mosquitoes are terrible, as usual—and I think a bee got into the car somewhere along the way. I rumble along the last half-mile stretch of road until I reach the old, restored Victorian at the top of the mountain.
Several cars are parked on the gravel drive. I slide into the last open spot and cut the engine and get out. Big mistake! The stifling May heat hits me like a fur blanket, and I can feel my tank top sticking to me in a wholly uncomfortable way while I maneuver the Igloo cooler out of the back of the jeep.
“Hey, sis, let me give you a hand with that.”
I look around and see Nick moseying down the steps of the Victorian. I give my big brother a huge hug in greeting and a kiss on the cheek before I let him take the Igloo. “What in hell did you make this time?” he asks with a laugh. “It’s like a thousand pounds!”
“Cheesecake, key lime pie, and two different puddings—for the kids. Banana and chocolate. Don’t drop it!” I warn him as he carries the heavy-ass cooler up the stairs to the house.
“You know you didn’t have to go nuts.”
“Bro, I’m a baker. I always go nuts. You know that!” I laugh, giving him a playful slap on the arm. Like he doesn’t know me by now.
Inside the house, I hear the thump of footsteps descending rapidly from upstairs. Seconds later, Nick’s two boys come rampaging down like kaiju stomping a part of Tokyo flat. One has a Super Soaker and is shooting his brother in the chest while both boys scream at the top of their lungs.
Nick doesn’t even look surprised. He just steps between his sons and snatches the toy away from the older of the two. “That’s enough of that. If you get the floor wet, your mom is going to have a fit, men.”
The boys groan in unison so Nick points to the door. “Out!”
“He started it!” the younger boy yells.
“I don’t care who started it. Give your Aunt Vivian a hug and then go outside if you want to roughhouse.”
The boys rush over and I drop to my haunches to give each of them a quick hug. “I made you guys your favorite,” I whisper in their ear. “Banana pudding!”
“Cool!” the eldest says.
The younger one turns to Nick. “Daddy, can we—?”
“No pudding till after dinner. I said out! Now!”
Nick has that deep, strong voice that gets everyone’s attention. He’s not angry, but he does mean business. The boys relent and follow each other out, kicking, moaning, and making a dramatic exit—but not before the eldest grabs the Super Soaker and shoots his little brother in the ass, making him scream.
I shake my head. “God, they are a handful.”
Nick sighs in agreement. “I’d say they take after me, but they’re actually more like Morgana most of the time. Or maybe Dad. Yeah, they are definitely more like Dad.”
“Is he coming?” I ask as I follow him into the kitchen.
The cutting board is set up and there’s a vegan lasagna in the oven for those who don’t want to eat off the grill. I can smell it. Nick does all the cooking in the house because Morgana isn’t talented that way and is usually too busy running their shop to handle the household. That’s Nick’s department—not that he minds. He works from home anyway, doing Tarot readings online, so it works out well between them.
Nick shrugs as he starts stuffing the refrigerator with my offerings. “Not sure. You know Dad. Says he might come, then he doesn’t. Or says he isn’t, and then he shows up unexpectedly.” He rolls his eyes. “He’ll probably show with som
e nineteen-year-old floozy on his arm. Remember Christmas?”
I laugh at that. Our dad is a real man-slut, and I’ll be the first to admit it. Over Christmas, he had one girl on his arm and one calling him on the phone—continuously. It was a riot, watching him trying to sort out his tangled love life. Hell, he showed up drunk at Nick and Morgana’s wedding and actually had the nerve to try to kiss Morgana—not that Nick’s wife would ever put up with such lothario behavior.
I sigh, wondering if I’ll ever have a relationship like theirs. Honestly, I never thought they would mesh as well as they have. But I’m proud of them both—even if Morgana and I have never been what you might call BFFs.
With the desserts cooling in the fridge, Nick leads me out to the deck where a long redwood trestle table is set up under a colorful yellow and white sun umbrella. The grill is gently smoking on one side, with a small patio bar on the other. Morgana is mixing drinks and she rushes the first—but certainly not the last—margarita into my hands. Down in the large, attached yard, I see Josh has beaten me here and is running around with his nephews, wetting them good with the Super Soaker while Tiger barks and jumps excitedly between them all.
I sigh as I settle back on a sun lounger and try to catch an early summer tan. Nick and Morgana laugh about something that went hilariously wrong at work. In the meantime, Josh works his way back up to the deck with the two boys in tow. Morgana gets the boys some waters while Nick splits a six-pack of Budweiser with Josh and the two men go to work grilling the hamburgers and steaks. Nick calls over that the food will be done in five, so Morgana and I slip back into the kitchen to fetch the salads.
To the Devil a Daughter (A Vivian Summers Investigation Book 1) Page 24
