“No! No, not at all. But come on. You know how mean people can be. How disrespectful. Isn’t it about time they all see how strong you really are? That while they’ve been discounting you, you’ve been more powerful and smarter than any of them?”
It hurt to say it. It hurt to realize how shitty that sounded, how much she knew he was thinking exactly that because she’d thought it. Because she’d thought, when she started training, that this would be her chance to show every person who’d ever hurt her that she could survive, that she could make something of herself far beyond anything they’d ever managed.
If she’d believed that, and if Mark believed it … just how fucking different was she from him? And he was scum. So what did that say about her?
“I am more powerful than they are. I am. I don’t need to prove it.”
“But if you don’t, how will they know?”
He hesitated. Time to turn the screw.
She shrugged again, looked away. Indifferent. “Hey, if you don’t think you can do it, that’s fine. Just put in your computer virus and be done with it. I just think it’d be better to really make them pay, really show them what a mistake they made, is all.”
He stood up. Had the gun’s barrel widened, because it sure as hell looked bigger than it had before. Or maybe it was just the anger on his face making it so much more threatening. “I can do it. Don’t tell me I can’t do it. You have no idea what I can do, you little bitch.”
She met his gaze with her own, willing her muscles not to twitch, her voice not to shake. “I know you can. So why not do it? Instead of just talking.”
Mark got up. He grabbed Jillian, shoved her at Chess, and started hustling them both across the room. Toward the other exit. She’d done it.
What else she could do, what else she might be able to accomplish … that was another story.
Down the metal staircase, across the empty floor. Past the lockers where Church employees put their clothing and stuff; did he know about that? Did he know about the rules about taking foreign objects to the City, how dangerous it was?
She hoped not.
Jillian lifted her head. “Hey, can’t—s’posed to be naked, can’t—”
Chess dropped her. Jillian hit the floor in an ungainly heap; her yelp echoed around them.
Mark turned back. “What the hell?”
“Sorry, she’s just so heavy.”
He shook his head and pushed the button for the elevator. It was waiting for them; the doors opened instantly. Chess got in, trailing Jillian like a spaced-out afterthought. This was it, then. Going to the City again, and this time alone. Or, not alone, but she might as well be. Alone with a psycho and a sleepwalker. And she had no idea if her vague plan was going to work, and even if it did, that was no guarantee she’d survive.
She wanted to talk during the six-minute ride down. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.
They hit the train platform; the cold fear in Chess’s throat intensified. She didn’t want to go back there, didn’t want to even step inside the City again. Didn’t want to die, and especially didn’t want to die there, where she’d have to stand looking at her own corpse until one of the Liaisers finally came down and discovered it. Didn’t want to be one of them, one of the mindless dead.
The train doors opened. They stepped inside. The cold iron, the pale blue light, the slow movement beneath them. Her heart pounded even through the syrupy happiness still weaving its way through her system; she didn’t think she could possibly be more grateful for that, either, because without it she’d probably be frozen in terror at the moment, probably wouldn’t be able to give Mark a conspiratorial smirk and say, “This is awesome. I can’t wait to see you at work.”
“I bet you can’t.”
Man, he was an asshole. But then she already knew that.
More hauling Jillian around when the train finally stopped. Chess’s heart beat in her throat and everything seemed so … so clear, so sharp, like everything she was seeing might be the last thing.
Which it might be. If her plan—which was admittedly shaky—failed, it would be. She’d never see this side of the City door again, never leave it again, never see the sun or the stars or buildings, never eat a hamburger or a chocolate bar, never have sex or dream. Ever.
She held Jillian up while Jillian fumbled with the lock. This time she watched what Jillian was doing, not because she needed to but because she was right there anyway. Watched Jillian turn the key a few times, felt energy push through her—through both of them—and back into the door.
It opened. And for the second time in a day, Chess walked into the City of Eternity.
Chapter Thirteen
It hadn’t changed. Well, of course it hadn’t. But this time she was at least prepared; it still looked horrible, ugly and cold, and it still made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and made her throat and chest tight, but at least her stomach was okay.
Maybe that was the pills, too.
Mark’s faced paled; even in the awful blue light she saw it. “This is—this is it? This is what it looks like?”
Chess smiled; it felt like an unpleasant smile, and she imagined it looked that way, too. “Yeah. Isn’t it peaceful?”
That he apparently had the same reaction she did didn’t surprise her; hadn’t she already realized she was just as sick as he was, or vice versa? So it was only to be expected. It still made her feel worse, though, down deep where the pill hadn’t quite reached. See, that was how bad her reaction was; it was the kind of feeling only a sick fuck would get. Normal people saw something completely different.
And here they came, the dead. Their glowing forms advanced, fast, even faster as they saw what Chess knew they would see: their clothing. Their weapons. Mark’s gun still in his hand.
Mark started to turn back to the door, but Chess was ready. She leaped at him, tackled him.
The gun went off. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
Didn’t matter. She hadn’t been shot, that was what mattered. Mark bucked beneath her, knocked her to the side; cold hard dirt beneath her as she swung at him. And missed.
He knelt beside her. The gun in his hand, pointed at her, his finger ready to pull the trigger.
She kicked at him, managed to hit him in the side. Dirt flew beside her head as his next shot landed there; he’d just missed her. Shit!
And her kick hadn’t done much to him, hadn’t knocked him over or even—apparently—hurt him very badly.
She rolled away, tensed for the bullet she wouldn’t hear, the short shock of pain before this life ended and the next one began. Dimly she was aware that the light around her had changed, had brightened; dimly she knew the ghosts were coming, they were almost there, and any second one of them would pick up her bag and start braining her with it. It was heavy enough, with a book and her flask and her pens and all of the other shit she carried, that she still wasn’t trustful enough to leave in her room.
She grabbed the strap, intending just to protect it from being taken, but even as she moved she decided to use it as a weapon, too. A hard jerk of her arm shot the bag itself into the air; it hit Mark in the side of the face. Thank fuck, that was lucky.
And the ghosts had arrived. Icy hands slipped through her head, her body; icy hands wrestled with her for the strap of her bag. Another gunshot, and another, as Mark did what any idiot would do and tried to shoot at the ghosts.
Good. If he was focusing on them, he wouldn’t focus on her. She managed to get up, clutching her bag, fighting as hard as she could but knowing that if another ghost or two found her—found it—she wouldn’t be able to hold on anymore.
Jillian was still on the ground, out cold. Mark was flailing a few feet away. The door was still open, the ghosts trying to get through the iron-chain curtain and jerking back in pain. Shit, when—if—she managed to get through it, some of them might follow. Unless she could slam the door fast enough behind her.
Mark’s screams echoed so loud in the s
pace, drilled into her brain and hurt. The gun went off again, and again, and his screams ended in an abrupt gurgle; she glanced over and saw him clutching at his throat, saw a ghost readying the gun to swing again. Obviously the ghosts found the noise just as irritating as she did, or maybe that one just liked to hit people in the throat.
No matter. She grabbed Jillian and hauled her to her feet. More glowing hands grabbing at her and failing, more glowing hands solidifying around her bag and pulling. Something hard hit her in the back of the head; she stumbled and almost fell, but managed somehow to stay on her feet. The door was only a few feet away, just a couple of feet.
Another hand grabbed her jeans. A real hand. Mark’s hand. Blood streamed from his head; his eyes begged her for help as his mouth worked soundlessly. Shit, that face, those eyes, the plea in them—
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t because he’d killed so many people. He’d shot Jillian. He’d planned to kill her. And the penalty for what he did would be death anyway; he’d be tried before the end of the month and dead within another month or two after that.
She couldn’t because she only had time to get herself and Jillian through that door, and if she stopped to help him, too, all three of them would probably die.
So she didn’t. Instead she flung herself through the iron chains, through the doorway, and slammed the door behind her. Hard. Hard enough that the sound of it slamming seemed to go on forever, the sound so final as Chess left Mark there with the ghosts he’d thought he’d be able to control.
The ghosts who would kill him.
Elder Griffin was waiting for her the next morning; he responded to her tentative knock almost the second her knuckles hit the wood, and opened the door wide with a welcoming smile on his face. “Cesaria. Good morrow. Thank you for coming.”
She curtsied in response. “Good morrow, sir.”
He led her into the office proper, gestured to a chair. The same chair she’d sat in several days before. Well, duh, of course it was; there was nothing sinister or coincidental about the fact that he kept certain pieces of furniture in his office. What did she expect, that he’d switch them every day?
For fuck’s sake, was she still that jumpy? She hadn’t slept at all, really; she’d pounded enough Coke and even some coffee that she felt okay, but still. Every time she lay down to close her eyes she saw it again: the City, Mark’s face, the terror in his eyes. Every time, she remembered how she’d managed to get to him, that she’d done it by understanding him and what he was thinking, and what that must say about her.
And every time, she remembered that she’d run out to his van before the Squad came back and taken Mark’s little bag of pills, and that it was in her own bag right at that moment. Close to her. Waiting for Friday night, when she could relax; waiting for a special occasion. She’d be careful with them; she wouldn’t let herself take them too often or when she was working, but she could have them every once in a while, couldn’t she? Just to celebrate.
Yes, she could.
“Cesaria,” Elder Griffin said, tugging her back from her thoughts, “I imagine you’re curious as to why I’m speaking to you, rather than Jillian or one of the Inquisitors.”
She shrugged. “Jillian’s still in the hospital, right?”
“No, she was released this morning. Trent and Vaughn are also home, thankfully. No permanent damage done.”
Mark had set a trap for them; they’d spent the night in a twelve-foot-deep pit he’d dug just inside his front door.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Chess said, because it seemed like what she should say.
He nodded. “Well. We have a few things to discuss. But first, I trust you are … well? Recovered from what happened?”
No. “Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. The Inquisitors were most impressed with your solution, and your manipulation of Mark. They wish to ask if you would like to begin formal training with them once this year is complete, and make the Squad your future home here.”
She bit her lip. Shit. No, she didn’t want to, not really. Didn’t want to work with someone else, didn’t want to have to follow some stupid fucking chain of command that seemed counterintuitive and rewarded plodding brainlessness.
But she had to admit … solving the case had been kind of cool. Knowing that because of her a murderer was no longer out there murdering was more than kind of cool.
Elder Griffin shuffled some papers on his desk. “Are thee unsure as to whether you’d like to join them?”
“I—I’m just surprised, sir.”
“Did you think you’d not be welcome, after the work you did?”
“I just—I don’t know.”
“Mm-hmm.” He tilted his head; his blue eyes pierced her, like he was considering something. “May I speak freely?”
“Of course.”
“Jillian came in to speak with me yesterday regarding you—well, I asked her to. She informed me that you seemed to be having some difficulty working with her, and with Trent. That perhaps working with a team was not the best situation for you.”
Her face burned. Why was he telling her this? Why would he want to—to hurt her like that?
She forced her face to stay still. She wouldn’t show him he’d upset her. Wouldn’t let him see that she even cared.
But after a second he continued. “I say this not to upset you. I say it because … well, let me be frank. I was pleased to hear it. I was hoping to—expecting to—hear something along those lines.”
Was he a lunatic or what? Why would he want her to be difficult to work with?
“You see, I’ve felt for some time, from speaking with your instructors, that I would very much like it if you would come join my department. I think it would be a good use of your particular skills.”
“A Debunker?”
He nodded. “You’d be working alone, of course. In charge of your own investigations—after your training period, but I feel confident you’ll have no trouble with that. Debunkers earn a salary which is admittedly one of the lowest in the Church, but the bonus structure can make it very lucrative indeed.”
A Debunker. She hadn’t really considered that one before; most of them were men. And the job involved dealing with people, having to interview them, spend time in their houses, study them. Not really her thing.
Elder Griffin seemed to see her hesitation. “Of course, it would mean working with me. And you do not know me, so I understand you’re hesitant, especially as I know the Squad provides better benefits, better perks. But Cesaria … I believe Debunking is just as important. I am trying to build our team, and get more women on it. And I believe … I believe we would work well together. I would like to work with you. I think you’d be good at the job, and would enjoy it.”
She’d work alone. She’d work with someone who actually wanted to work with her. Someone who’d heard everything Jillian said about her and still seemed to want her around.
And she wouldn’t have to see Jillian again, or Trent or Vaughn. Wouldn’t have to work for the Squad and wouldn’t have to work in the City.
“I understand if you want time to think about it. Please take all the time you require, or at least until the end of the semester. I can arrange to have you train with a different department first, if you’d like—”
“No,” she said, before she even realized she was saying it. “I mean, yes. No, I don’t need to train somewhere else, and yes, I will come work with you. Um, I’d like to. Yes.”
He smiled. He actually even looked relieved. Had he seriously thought she might not accept, had that seriously bothered him? “Excellent. I shall inform your training Elders.”
She stood up when he did, took his hand when he offered it. “Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you.” He led her to the door and opened it. “I look forward to working with you, Cesaria. Facts are Truth.”
“Facts are Truth, sir,” she replied, and walked through the open doorway into the wide, pale hallway.
What a contra
st that hallway made to the street corner in Downside on which she stood two weeks later. She didn’t need to be there, no. It wasn’t like it was necessary or anything.
But she had forty bucks in her pocket that she’d managed to set aside from her living expenses, and she’d managed to borrow a car, so there she was. Standing, just waiting, eyeing the guys standing on the corner who were eyeing her right back.
In a few more minutes one of them would come up and ask her. And she’d answer. Not because she had to. She wasn’t starting anything, wasn’t going to get herself hung up. She just … she hadn’t even bothered with the flask, didn’t need it, when she knew she had something else waiting for her. And that was a good thing. Especially now when she’d be officially entering Debunker training soon and there was so much to learn.
So that was something to celebrate. She was allowed to celebrate, right?
A bit of movement in the shadows; someone came toward her. She opened the pack of cigarettes she’d brought along, held it out.
He took one. Just a guy: average face, average height, dark hair, black jeans. Just like any other guy. “Thanks,” he said. “You need a ride?”
She swallowed. In the alcove he’d come from she caught a glimpse of another guy, a bigger one. Very big. Wearing a bowling shirt with black hair swept up in a DA, an angry look on his scarred face. He looked like he chewed rocks for fun or something, like he wasn’t smart enough to know any better; not pleasant. Must be the muscle, then. He was the kind of person she’d be getting herself involved with if she answered the question in the affirmative; he was the kind of life she’d be setting herself up for, and that should make her feel a lot worse than it did.
But then, nobody said she had to do this again. Maybe she wouldn’t. She could do whatever she wanted, because she was an adult, and she was going to have a real career. Right?
So she nodded, turning her gaze away from the scary thug and back to the guy in front of her. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I was hoping to find one.”
Yearning for your next fix?