Dreams of Shreds and Tatters Read online

  :He is with us now. The bargain was interrupted, but the King will complete it:

  Rainer’s breath left in a rush. “So he’s all right? He’ll wake up?”

  Wings flared, shrug-like. :That remains to be seen. The King will decide if he returns to you or stays with us:

  “What do you mean? That wasn’t what I intended.”

  Ivory talons rattled. :That is hardly your concern now. You should be spreading His word, His vision. Already mortals dream of Him, and it is good. He is pleased with you, Chosen. Your offering is insignificant compared to that work:

  Insignificant. Blake. His throat tightened around a bitter reply.

  “I serve,” he said at last. It was the only answer he could give.

  :Yes. Unto death, and beyond: The angel turned to him with a scrape and rustle of wings, bathing him in its cold presence. Beneath cloying sweetness its scent was dark and musty. The smell of altars, of tombs. One attenuated hand reached for his face, tilting his head back. Its touch seared, but he didn’t pull away.

  :One setback does not diminish the service you’ve given. Know that He values you, and do not despair:

  Now he met the angel’s eyes, black and full of stars. The void pulled him in, chilled him till his bones would shatter. Then he fell through the other side, into golden light and the presence of his master. Beautiful and terrible, crowned in darkness and robed in flame. The smell of wine and hot blood washed over him, stronger than before, and the distant howls of the choir rang in his ears. Euan euan eu oi oi oi! Light poured into him, burning clean all the dark places.

  Then the vision was gone and the messenger with it. Rainer knelt on the floor of the loft, shaking and awash in sweat. Antja wept softly behind him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked as the lights returned, lowering her hands from her tear-slick face.

  He could only nod, trembling and speechless. He swayed and fell to his hands and knees. His flesh felt frozen through, but golden fire still pulsed in his veins.

  Antja slid off the sofa and crawled to him, heedless of the broken mug and spilled coffee. The light inside him pulsed hotter as she touched his face. She pulled him close and her heart beat hard and fast against his chest.

  He threaded tingling fingers through the weight of her hair, spilling pins across the floor. The smell of her skin dizzied him. Her pulse fluttered under his lips as he kissed her throat. She stiffened, and for an instant he thought she would pull away. Instead she let out a shuddering breath and kissed him.

  His hands tightened in her hair as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Thread popped. Her teeth sank into his lower lip and he tasted blood. Her necklace bit at his fingers as he reached for the straps of her dress. He tugged at the chain, and amethysts spilled across the floor in a glittering rush.

  She pushed him back onto the unforgiving floor. They would both pay in bruises, but for now nothing mattered but Antja and the fire.

  For a moment, it was almost enough.

  9

  Funeral Weather

  ON SATURDAY, ANTJA went to meet the devil at the crossroads.

  High noon, but already the sky hung low and sunless, swollen with a weight of freezing rain. Only hours left until Alain’s funeral. Until she saw the grave she’d put him in.

  Mourning black hid her bruised knees and the teethmarks on her throat and shoulders; makeup hid her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Her hands were steady as a gun-fighter’s, her reflection in shop windows straight and poised. Her boot-heels tapped a confident rhythm on the sidewalk. She only shook on the inside.

  Rainer had offered to come home with her, to pick her up for the service. She’d refused both out of pride, to prove she wasn’t afraid of monsters under the bed. He had enough to worry him. And the monsters would find her anyway.

  Rain beaded on her leather coat as she walked aimlessly through the downtown streets, trickling cold across her scalp. Her umbrella was in her purse, but the weather suited her mood. The brittle light dulled the gaudy Christmas decorations, robbed holly and tinsel and wreaths of their warmth and color. The people around her might have been ghosts.

  For a moment last night things had been the way they were, when Rainer held her like she was the only thing left in the world. When every night in a new rented room might have been their last. She’d never thought she would look back fondly on those awful months they spent running across Europe.

  The first pretty boy with a sob story who comes along. If she had known, would she have done anything differently? The answer was still no.

  She swallowed a bitter lump of self-pity. It wouldn’t serve her. Not with what she was about to face. Her neck and shoulders tightened just thinking about it.

  Come on, damn you. Come and talk to me.

  She paused at a corner to wait for the light to change. Even though she expected it, she jumped when the dark man appeared beside her. No one else so much as glanced at him.

  “Some people ask nicely when they want my attention.” His voice was a low rumble, a lion trying to pass as a house cat.

  “They’ll learn better.” The choice was mine, she told herself as her fists and stomach clenched. Mine alone. Mine to live with. The crosswalk chirped. She might daydream of gunfights, but there would be no showdown today. He led; she followed.

  “You called?” he asked when the reached the far sidewalk. He wore a different shape today. She’d seen half a dozen since he first appeared to her at a crossroads in Rouen years ago. Like all his faces, this one was beautiful: dark copper skin, strong bones, long black eyes. He might have stepped straight from an Egyptian tomb painting, never mind the bespoke suit. He burned against the dull grey day, too warm and vivid to be real.

  Der Herr ist mein Hirte, nichts wird mir fehlen. The Psalm was a distant memory, the days of attending mass with her family a lifetime past. She could barely remember the words. Muss ich auch wandern in finsterer Schluct—

  “Ich fürchte kein Unheil, denn du bist bei mir.” His voice rasped over her skin, like velvet against the grain. “Do you really think anyone is listening, my dear?” He gave her an indulgent smile. “And besides, I’m with you now.”

  Her fists knotted in her pockets. “What happened last night? What was that thing doing at the gallery?”

  “Sit with me.” He gestured to a bench by the sidewalk. Rain dripped from the sheltering trees, but the wood was dry. The weather didn’t touch him. His otherness was all the more unsettling for the mask of humanity. At least the things Rainer summoned made no pretense of what they were.

  “What happened?” She sat. No use in arguing. The cold ate away at her anger. All she wanted was rest. “You promised safety.”

  He shrugged, adjusting the cuffs of his immaculate suit. A gold and lapis scarab gleamed on his lapel. “You are safe, aren’t you? What have I ever done, Fräulein Schäfer, except help you?”

  “People died! I did as you asked and people died.”

  “I only suggested you open a door.”

  “Damn you. You sent them there, didn’t you? You brought the monsters.”

  He turned to face her, catching her in his obsidian gaze. Her reflection stared back at her, trapped in glass. “Those creatures are nothing to do with me.”

  She looked away. “Lies. You’re the father of lies.”

  He laugh was as lovely as his voice, warm and rich. “Hardly. Everything I know of deceit and duplicity I learned from your kind. I have no need of lies. I’m no more responsible for the monsters that killed your friends than I am for the creatures your lover calls. They don’t do my bidding.”

  “Whose, then?”

  His smile stretched. “Why? Do you think you’d like them any better than me?”

  She shuddered. The memories waited whenever she closed her eyes: the demons pouring into the room like ink, razor-edged shadows; the shock on Gemma’s face as they laid her open. The blood, the stink, the screams...

  “There’s so much moving beneath your world that you don
’t see, above and behind and beside it. Even your lover’s Brotherhood, for all their pomp and mysteries, have barely scratched the surface. The Yellow King, the lords of the Abyss, Leviathan in the depths, and so many others, all with their foolish followers. They play long games, and a great many pieces wind up broken. And forgive me, child, but you would scarcely be a pawn on their boards. You may not think so, but you were lucky I’m the one who answered you. And luckier still that I don’t draw the curtain back for you.”

  She looked down at her hands, clenched white-knuckled in her lap. The devil she knew. He was impossible to deal with on a good day, and it had been so long since her days were good.

  “You’re tired, Antja.” One dark hand lifted a stray lock of hair off her neck. She flinched as his scent surrounded her—myrrh and bergamot, sharp and bittersweet. “You should rest.”

  “Don’t say my name,” she whispered, her voice too small. His warmth lapped over her, driving away the chill.

  “Why not? It’s a lovely name, Antja Michaela.”

  No one called her that, not since her father died. “Don’t.”

  “But it’s my name now, isn’t it, as much as yours? You gave it to me.”

  Languorous heat spread from his touch and it was harder than ever not to cry. “I didn’t know.”

  “You knew enough to call me, enough to make the bargain. I never lied to you.”

  His thumb traced gentle circles on the back of her neck, taking away the pain. The sound of rain on leaves faded, along with the hum and bustle of traffic. Everything was soft and dreamlike, like she’d stepped sideways out of the world. It felt so good not to hurt.

  “Don’t do this.” Her voice caught.

  “Why should this be unpleasant? Have I ever failed you? You did what I asked of you. You should rest now, enjoy your safety.”

  “Safety? We could have died at the cabin. Alain died.” There, there was the anger she needed. Her first and best friend since they’d arrived in Vancouver—her only real friend besides Rainer. Her fingers clenched on the edge of the bench, splinters pricking her skin. The pain drove away the distraction of his touch.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize he was to be part of our arrangement. I would have been more than happy to renegotiate.”

  She twisted, one hand flying toward his face. He caught her wrist before the slap struck home, holding her effortlessly. A sliver of wood jutted from her palm, piercing the mount of Apollo. He plucked it out and flicked it aside. Before she could pull free he raised her palm to his lips and kissed away the bright bead of blood.

  “I get the impression you no longer want my help.” He sounded almost hurt. He lowered her hand, but didn’t let go. “Do you think your life would be so much better without me?”

  “I’m willing to try it.” Her voice was dry, but desperation tightened her throat. Desperation and panic. He had kept them alive. Could she really throw that away?

  Men and women passed them on the sidewalk, umbrellas raised, collars upturned against the cold, coffee cups steaming in their hands. Friends and families laughed together. Lovers linked arms. She wanted to scream at them, to make them look. So many terrors waiting for them, in daylight as well the dark. Why couldn’t they see?

  The devil watched her with heavy-lidded eyes. “It would be unkind of me to continue our relationship against your wishes.”

  A muscle twitched in her jaw. “Don’t toy with me.” Too late for that, damn him. She’d called him for answers, but he’d twisted her around and distracted her. She closed her eyes, fighting for composure.

  “What would you be willing to do, to end our bargain?”

  Tricks. Tricks and lies. She tried to squelch the hope that welled in her chest. The cruelest of all Pandora’s devils.

  “You won’t let me go. I can’t afford anything you would ask.”

  He glanced at her out of the corner of one eye, a smile glinting there that didn’t reach his lips. This was what the gazelle must feel when the lion closed in.

  “I’m sure you can find something to interest me. Be creative.” His voice dropped lower, until she felt it behind her sternum. “Think about it, Antja Michaela.”

  She expected him to vanish. Instead a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, the driver hidden behind tinted glass. The dark man stood, flicking a stray drop of water off his sleeve, and slid into the backseat.

  Antja sat alone on the bench long after the car pulled away, shivering in the freezing rain, with the smell of incense and oranges clinging in her throat.

  “we don’t Have to do this,” Alex said, watching Liz’s reflection in the clouded bathroom mirror. She paused, comb slowing through her damp hair. Cosmetics lent color to her cheeks and eased the sunken shadows beneath her eyes, but he could guess from the careful way she moved how badly she needed rest.

  “I do,” she said at last. “For Blake, I have to go. If nothing else...” She trailed off.

  He nodded. And if nothing else, he could go with her, despite the waiting sharp-toothed cold and the pain dragging at him. He couldn’t remember when his head hadn’t ached. He wished he had Liz’s skill with makeup—the artifice of health might have been a useful placebo—but even in his undergrad theatre days, he’d never learned the trick of it.

  Her eyes met his through the glass. “You don’t have to go.”

  “Yes, I do.” He turned away from the mirror and flipped open his suitcase to find a black shirt. He’d fallen asleep still twitching at shadows. He couldn’t admit that to Liz, but neither was he about to leave her alone with Rainer and Antja.

  He glanced back as he buttoned his sleeves and found her still watching him, agate eyes unreadable. He gave her a lopsided smile. “At least the weather’s fitting.”

  THE PATHETIC FALLACY was still in effect when they joined the mourners on Capilano View’s soggy green lawn. Haze swallowed the mountains, turned pine and cedars and bone-bare maples into towering grey specters. Umbrellas sprouted like black plastic flowers from the sod.

  The grave was a scar of dark earth against the wet grass, the headstone nearly lost beneath swags of flowers and mementos. A young woman next to Rainer wept softly; another man looked as if he’d have flung himself onto the turned earth, but the mud would have ruined his coat. Others gathered opposite Rainer’s group. Antja stood apart from all of them, wearing her rainsoaked clothes like a penitent’s sackcloth. Alex wondered what the factions and divisions meant.

  He shifted his grip on the umbrella, the patter of rain on plastic drowning the eulogy. Liz huddled close against him. At least she didn’t go in for histrionics—he’d been the one to look after his mother at Great Aunt Kathryn’s funeral, and he’d never seen such a case of the vapors. The Priors were more inclined to dramatics; the McLures tended to stoicism and bitter inebriation.

  Someone else took a turn extolling Alain’s virtues. Alex wished he felt a little grief, if only for Liz and Blake’s sakes, but he suspected Alain might still be alive if he’d been more careful in his choice of friends. Unkind, but maybe not untrue.

  If he had died in that hospital in Boston, the dry voice of his devil’s advocate asked, did that mean he would have deserved it? Would Samantha have paid for his funeral?

  He put an arm around Liz’s shoulders. He knew better than to use a person as an amulet, but for the moment she was warm and solid and reassuring. “Next time we’re going to the Bahamas,” he murmured, “or the south of France.” She made a disapproving noise, but the corners of her eyes crinkled.

  A moment later her gloved hand tightened on his elbow. “Look,” she whispered.

  He followed her gaze to a shadowed copse of evergreens, and the dark-coated figure half lost in their gloom.

  “He should find a new routine,” Alex muttered, trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation in his stomach. “Repetition is so dull.”

  Liz left the shelter of the umbrella, her boots leaving dark prints in the wet lawn as she started for the trees.

&n
bsp; “What are you doing?” Alex fell in beside her, skirting the crowd. Everyone else was too focused on the eulogy to notice them.

  Her chin lifted, dangerously stubborn. “Looking for answers.” But before they had a chance to find any, the man vanished into shadows and mist. Liz’s breath hissed through her teeth. “Damn.”

  Alex caught her arm when she would have kept going. It didn’t take clairvoyance to see the danger in following a stranger into a dark wood. The wind gusted, whipping rain under the umbrella.

  Antja looked up as they returned to the service. No artistry with waterproof makeup could hide her red, swollen eyes. “Someone you know?” she asked.

  “No,” Alex said. “We were hoping you might.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you for coming,” she said after a moment. “I’m sorry about last night.” Her gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance.

  Sorry for what? he wanted to ask. That half-glimpsed black shape still haunted him. He could have written it off as a hallucination, but she had seen it too.

  The last eulogy ended and the bereaved began to disperse. Some drifted in ones and twos across the grounds, but others stayed close to Rainer.

  “Are you coming back to the gallery with us?” Rainer asked Antja, including Alex and Liz in the invitation with a tilt of his head. Mostly Liz—his eyes lingered on her a heartbeat too long, just enough to get Alex’s hackles up.

  Antja shook her head. “Maybe later.”

  Rainer frowned but finally nodded. His conspiracy of bedraggled ravens followed him toward the parking lot. What did you call a plurality of goths, anyway? A draggle? A misery?

  “Come with us,” Liz said. “Have something to drink and get out of the rain.”

  Antja’s smile was bitter. “I seem to have come down with a case of martyrdom. It’s the Catholic upbringing.”

  “You should consider C of E,” Alex said. “We advocate tea and cake with the vicar and appropriate raingear.”

  She blinked, raindrops glittering on her lashes. Then she laughed—it brought color to her cheeks, but her humor dimmed quickly. “You’re probably right. Even so, I’m afraid I’ll pass. Thank you all the same.” She crossed her arms and glanced toward the grave. “I need a moment alone.”