Once you stopped caring about being polite, things got so much easier. And if she was going to get the stupid, inconvenient as fuck parts of behaving ethically, she might as well have some fun with the rest of it.
“I do not want to date you!” She pitched this just under a yell, but in the hush, it was a klaxon. Brett had gone dead-white, and his mouth moved a little. She lifted the stapler, and his gaze focused on it.
The look of sudden fear on his bland, blond, plastic face was incredibly satisfying.
“What’s going on here?” Funke scurried around the corner, his potbelly preceding him. Today he wore a blue pinstripe suit, but his tie was askew and his scalp glowed through the few graying strands he combed religiously over its dome. In meetings he was always rather gentle, but his interdepartmental maneuverings were said to rival a shark’s.
“Him.” Em pointed the stapler at the supine, now-quivering Brett. “That’s what’s going on here.”
“What the…” Funke started smoothing his tie. He did it whenever a meeting veered off track, too, and Em’s irritation reached truly cosmic levels she hadn’t felt since high school. “What on earth is he doing on the floor?”
“Trying to steal my office chair.” It was as good an explanation as any. She grabbed for her purse and her coat, scooping her phone up. There wasn’t much room, but as soon as she twitched in Brett’s direction, he began frantically squirming away. One of the chair’s arms speared him in the groin, and his writhing was, she could not lie, deeply satisfying.
“Where are you going?” Funke swayed from foot to foot, trying to process this. “Emily? It’s Emily, right? Where are you—”
“Becky.” She half-turned. “Check the payments on the 88-C1 sheets. Brett here has been embezzling from the company.”
Becks shut her mouth with a snap. At least no moss grew on her. Dawning comprehension lit her face. “That’s why they weren’t lining up!”
“You’re welcome.” Em stepped over one of Brett’s legs. “Mr. Funke, Becky can show you exactly what’s been going on. I suggest you fire this guy, but that’s academic.” Another deep breath of stale air, the boiled coffee in the break room, cheap hard-as-nails nylon carpet adding its own scratchy component to the mix.
It smelled a lot like freedom.
“Academic—” Funke was struggling to catch up.
“I can explain!” Brett all but howled, but Becky was already back in her chair, pulling up the requisite sheets. Maybe she’d get a nice raise from this. Maybe, just maybe, Brett would be fired and the good guys would have won a round. Maybe things would work out the way they were supposed to.
It could all happen without her, though. She was done.
“Yes, academic.” Em settled her purse on her shoulder as her phone quit buzzing. Oh, May, do I have a story to tell you. “Because I quit.”
Shows Mercy
It took longer than he liked—almost a day of patient tracking—to find the dying priest. Finally, though, his patience—and a healthy dose of luck—led him to the seething mass of a poorer part of the city and a motel that rented, from the look of it, by the hour. So soon he had begun to distinguish what they called poverty; its glaring amid the rest of the plenty was obscene in a way no other mortal act could approach. The tall, dispirited building all but slumped on its bones, its parking lot jammed with the cheaper types of cars and a reek of tobacco smoke, exhaust, and desperation as well as burned food in each corner.
It was, Hal thought, a terrible place to die.
Tied to a severe wooden chair that had to be brought into existence to serve Hal’s need, the lean, black-clad priest blinked groggily. Possessed of a broken nose, bruising around both eyes, and with his mouth slack from the drugging incense Hal had wrapped this entire small room in, he looked even younger than he had before. Only mortal, after all. And his faith did not proof him against sorcery older than his pale, meek, risen corpse-god.
Take care of him. Make sure he’s okay.
It was almost miraculous the man had managed to retreat here, considering the amount of internal damage Hal had inflicted. Perhaps he could thank his god for it.
Hal’s hands plunged into the priest’s body. Rearranging, melding, cauterizing, sealing the worst damage, reshaping the organs into their proper configurations and settling them back in their cavities. He could have done this invisibly, true.
But he wanted the man to feel it.
“Diabolus…” The priest coughed, blood spraying from his lips. “They…said witch. Jezebel’s Brood.”
“Your kind are still murdering women for that old tale?” Hal shook his head. His fingers tensed, and the priest screamed, a low hoarse sound robbed of its true volume by the fact that one of his lungs was half-full of fluid. “And you would have killed her.”
“They…proof…” He stiffened, and Hal exhaled, a long slow sound that filled the room with cardamom and smoke.
Power leapt to obey him, cleansed the stink of blood and loosed bowels, and he drew his hands slowly from the mortal man’s body. “Their proof does not concern me.” He let the man breathe a little, glancing up at the window. The curtains—cheap, mass-produced, but still more solid than many in rich homes of Cavanaugh’s time—ruffled a little as they felt his attention. It was a good thing Emily was not here. She would glow against this backdrop like the pearl she was, but a gentle woman should not see what he had done.
Perhaps she would even be disappointed. He had set out to heal the man, certainly.
But he had not done it painlessly.
The mortal sagged in the chair, the ropes holding him upright. His eyes glittered, feverish but sharper now that the agony was receding. The tattooed picture on his chest—the face of a condemned man hung on an instrument of torture—peered out through his torn-open cassock and the white shirt beneath; they were covered with dried blood, vomit, and other matter. “Deus,” he whispered. “Deus, misericors—”
“I am not your god. Nor am I one of your demons.” Hal stood, unfolding slowly. “The woman you would have killed asked me to spare your life. That shows mercy, does it not?”
To give him credit, the mortal did not beg. He did not even look hopeful. His chin rose defiantly. He coughed, the fluid burbling in his lungs. This place had a filthy sink, an even filthier commode, and the bed was ridden with vermin.
Yes, Emily should never see something like this. Even this world, so clean and full of marvels, was not, at its heart, very different from Cavanaugh’s. One had merely to dig, to lift a corner of a curtain, and gaze underneath to find the squirming of maggots.
Hal focused. The priest retched and a slick flood of clear fluid tinged with crimson poured from his mouth and nose. When it was over he heaved and gasped, sucking sweet, blessed air in.
He waited for the priest’s breathing to even out a bit. “I shall ask you only once, Priest, and should you choose not to answer, her mercy will not apply.” Hal gazed down into the mortal’s face. “The names of those who hired you. Their locations. All the information you possess that will lead me to them.”
He did not add that he could tear the knowledge from the mortal by force. It was only a question of method, and how…merciful…Hal wished to be.
Do you know the difference between right and wrong?
“They…” The priest coughed, rackingly. His ribs, no longer shattered, moved as they should, and he squirmed uncomfortably in the chair. “Sophics…lied.”
“Yes.” Hal clasped his hands, rubbing his second right finger over the ring’s stone. It was a pleasant sensation, to remind himself he was free. He waited on no command but his own.
“Do you swear…in the name of our Father, and by Solomon, Yevjoha-eh, Elohim?” Another string of syllables garbled into incomprehensibility by ancient, finger-sore monks tracing them laboriously in tomes kept under lock and key, the secrets of a Church intent on retaining temporal power by any means necessary.
Even the worst.
The words almost made him
laugh. Gibberish, even though someone must have some talent because the man’s bullets had borne a charge of power. Hal nodded, taking care to keep his expression serious. “I swear on your God, the god of the brothers of your Order of Saint Bartholomew and the Redemption, that those who hired you sent you to kill an innocent.”
In all senses of the word.
“Murderers.” The priest’s face lit with dull anger. It was amazing he had enough blood left to suffuse his cheeks with such color. “Apostates.”
Hal listened as the words continued. He was physical, now, and the words spilling from the man’s mouth turned him cold. The Fratres had indeed sent this man, and lied quite convincingly to him. For them to take such a risk…
He had left subtle, invisible safeguards upon a sleeping Emily, but they would not be enough. As the man continued babbling, spilling names, Hal inferred even more from what was left unsaid, and what the priest conjectured. Her last…request…of him would muddy the tracks leading to her door, but the Fratres had expended this much effort, there were certainly more nasty surprises meant for his former—no.
His bearer. His Emily.
“And I swear on Christ’s holy wounds,” the priest finished, his teeth grimed with blood and a crust at each corner of his mouth, “that I shall visit vengeance upon them for their lies, their corruption, their—”
Oh, that is very good. Hal interrupted. “Yes.” He made a slight inward motion, and the bonds holding the man in the chair slip-slithered, snakelike, free, coiling watchful on the floor. “I rather think you will. Tell me one last thing, Priest.”
“Get thee behind me,” the man whispered. His eyes had grown round. They begged for miracles until they saw them, his kind. Then they reached for their weapons.
And that suited Hal’s purposes nicely. “What do you need, in order to accomplish your vengeance? Speak quickly.”
Complicated
“You did what?” May’s jaw dropped. Em motioned her in so she could shut the door. The takeout containers on the counter sent up a lovely steaming smell of Chinese food. Moo goo gai pan, General Tso’s chicken, broccoli beef. She’d even gotten eggrolls, because god damn it, if her ship was going down she was going to enjoy herself before the waves came over the deck.
Em winced. Her imagination just worked a little too well. “I quit.” Getting into yoga pants and another sweatshirt had been the only redeeming feature of the whole damn day.
“Uh.” May, unwinding a chartreuse scarf from her ruddy head, went straight for the cabinet over the fridge, lifting herself on very tip-toe and feeling about for the emergency booze.
Em locked the door and tried not to sigh too loudly. “It’s on the counter. Eat first, please.”
May let out a long, low whistle. “Wow, swanky! When did you get the espresso beast here?”
“Bonus from work.” Em headed for the bottle of Laphroaig on the counter. Another jolt of it would go down really well right about now. She’d already had one waiting for May to arrive, and the comforting warmth in her empty stomach was very nice but wouldn’t last long.
“Right before you quit?” May’s coppery eyebrows went up. Today she was even a little conservative—black swinging skirt, black tights, a hot-pink velour top and her hair piled atop her head with careless artistry. Except for her bacon-and-egg earrings. Those were pure May, and a relief to see.
Em shrugged. “It’s…complicated.”
“I’ll bet.” May whirled on her toes, set her heels down firmly, and scrutinized Em from top to toe. “Start at the beginning.”
I can’t. “Why don’t you go first? You said you had news.” Em realized she was punking out as soon as she said it.
May eyed her, the sunny smile falling away and that serious, pinched look—the same one worn when Em finally admitted outright she was divorcing Stephen—turning her at least ten years older. “No,” she said finally. “You don’t get to do that.”
Huh? “Do what?”
“Redirect me like that. You quit your job. That’s like the Pope turning Scientologist.”
“Wouldn’t that be a trick. Come on, this’ll get cold.” But Em halted, crossing her arms defensively.
“You’ve been weird since the party.” May’s forehead was well and truly wrinkled now, and she had that look. That terrier-sees-a-rat look, the expression that meant flighty, irresponsible May was about to indulge in one of her fits of stubborn poking because she knew something was off, goddammit, and she was going to find out what. “Did something happen?”
“I got a little drunk, that’s all.” The conversation was not going the way Em had intended. “Look, May, I’ve had a really…a really bad day, I need to come down from it before I go over the chowder-to-cashews, and I want to hear some good news. Which I’m suspecting you have.”
“So it was you.” May grinned, but the shadow of worry didn’t leave her big baby blues. “You sneaky little bitch.”
“He’s been calling me asking for your number, I just haven’t been able to pick up. What’s his name, Jake? What’s he like with clothes on and coffee in his manly paw?” Em reached for the cupboard that held the plates. “Tell me how it went and if you like him, then I’ll spill my guts.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Em lied. She’d already decided no word of a genie was going to cross her lips. The last thing she needed was May actively doubting her sanity.
She was doing that just fine on her own. Even, and especially, with the damn espresso machine sitting there, gleaming and secretive.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” May got down tumblers, slopping amber liquid into both of them, and Em winced again. The last thing she wanted was another hangover. Although…if getting drunk had started this, maybe a bender would make it all go away? “So,” her best friend continued, rustling the bag and peering at the takeout cartons, “I see your standard order hasn’t changed. And there’s eggrolls, you must be feeling daring. What did you get me?”
“Moo goo gai pan.”
“I love you. Marry me.” May batted her eyelashes, took a hit off the Scotch, and began her tale of walking into her usual coffee spot a bit early because this Thursday had turned out to be a half day…and finding Jake the Ontario Stripper in pressed khakis and a buttondown, tongue-tied and blushing. It was a good thing she’d only been scheduled to work in the morning, because she didn’t go back to the office. They’d ended up at the aquarium, naming all the fish things like Bertie and Megalookoko, and May had another date with him tomorrow night.
Sushi, of course.
Em listened, made interested noises, and asked all the right questions. All the time, picking at her General Tso’s, she was trying to come up with an explanation that didn’t sound like she’d lost her goddamn mind.
“So now it’s your turn.” May set down her chopsticks and took another sip of Scotch. “Start at the beginning.”
“I…I bought this—”
Oh, crap, Emily realized. I’m about to tell her the truth.
She braced herself, but just as she did there was a soft, polite trio of raps, and Emily’s heart leapt up into her throat. It’s him. He’s come back.
But that was stupid. He would just appear, wouldn’t he? And why should that particular prospect make her feel funny and lightheaded and sort of…
“Wait a second,” she said, and May was already on her feet, turning to look at the balcony door. Dark had fallen, and their reflections were moving, because the slab of glass was sliding smoothly along its runners.
“Is someone hiding on your—” May sounded delighted at the prospect, and Em lunged for the breakfast counter. Her phone, and May’s, were right there.
Pop! A sharpness, burying itself in her back.
What the fuck? She grabbed for her phone, her fingers turning into clumsy sausages. Her back was suddenly very warm, something spreading from whatever had hit her. Was she shot? She didn’t hear anything—
May let out a horrified gasp. There was anot
her thock, and Em’s feet tangled together. She went down hard, her head just missing the edge of the counter. Everything turned blurry.
“Yes,” a man said. One crisp little word. Something nudged her shoulder, and her body wouldn’t obey her. She spilled onto her back, staring through the sudden fuzz.
Lank, very dark hair, way too long, falling in ratty strings around a thin, dead-white face. He was skinny and very pale, and there were pockmark scars on his cheeks. The gun he was holding—a rifle, maybe, pointed at the ceiling like they did in action movies—looked very big, and the way he handled it showed little familiarity and a lot of distaste. His mouth moved, but it took a while for the words to come through the warm, soft cottonwool filling her head.
“Well, that is rather a bit too much.” He was wearing, of all things, a dark suit that looked like a tuxedo, and clicked his tongue a little. His left hand, hanging at his side, twitched.
The first finger on that hand was a small, long-healed stump.
Pretend to Be Mortal
The fire roared, taking a deep breath of cool night air. Hal grabbed the priest’s arm and hauled them both sideways, dancing through time and space at once. They resolved into the physical just outside a building the sign proclaimed as Charenton Hall, which was also burning merrily. Inside were financial records and all manner of paperwork, which Hal had absorbed quite handily after a group of security officers had been dealt with.
The grenades the priest had supplied were gloriously efficient. Hal could even see the utility of manufacturing them in certain situations, now that he grasped their chemical components.