Given the size of the SUV, it’s no surprise Phobos circles the block several times looking for a spot to park. I find it suspicious anyway, I find everything that he does suspicious. He trapped Cain, didn’t exactly lie about anything that I can tell, but I don’t know. I don’t know what might happen, if Phobos can be trusted, if anything about this situation can be trusted.
“What happens if Deimos shows up?” I ask. “I can’t fight him. Cain needs to do that.”
Phobos’ shoulders lift without his gaze breaking from an intense scan of the cars lining the street. He slows for a gap and frowns at the sight of a fire hydrant. “If Deimos shows up the whole plan’s off anyway. Praxis won’t go along with anything after that.”
“Will you release Cain? If Deimos shows up.”
Phobos turns his head to check his mirrors. He’s wedging the massive vehicle into the open spot regardless of the fire hydrant. “I suppose so. I’ll try,” he says. “Assuming our original deal’s still good.”
Tell him I’ll rip his pretty blond head from —
“Original deal’s still good when you release Cain. He won’t kill you. I’ll make sure of it.” It’s hard to talk over the echo of words in my head, somewhat easier because they don’t sound as much like Cain. I have his voice now, it’s mine to use, his rumbling snarl shapes everything I say. Cain has only a flat, hollow nothing to use inside his own head.
“How reassuring,” mutters Phobos. The hard spin of the wheel seems a practiced gesture, a well-honed understanding of the angles and trajectories involved in squeezing the oversized SUV into parallel impossibility. He cuts the engine and then reaches around to grab the tote out of the backseat. I wait for the locks to pop open before trying to exit the vehicle.
“I’m sorry about this,” I whisper. Maybe it’s soft enough Phobos won’t hear, since the car is between us. I step onto the sidewalk and fold my arms against the cold. I’m so quiet that I’m just mouthing the words almost. “Cain? Are you okay?”
Yeah.
Which tells me he’s not. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I already know what’s wrong. I guess I’m not okay either, so I’m not even sure why I asked. I know this isn’t okay. Nothing about this is okay.
Phobos joins me on the sidewalk and pulls a fat piece of yellow sidewalk chalk from the tote. He kneels beside the fire hydrant.
“What are you doing?”
“Avoiding a parking ticket,” he replies. Self-assured strokes produce impeccably straight lines, gently sweeping curves, I have no idea what he’s drawing but I can guess. When he straightens, a complicated circle of symbols surrounds the hydrant. A trio of straight lines burst from the bottom of the ring to point toward the curb.
I don’t see anything different. I still see an illegally parked SUV with only inches of clearance in front and behind. I suppose I don’t see anything different because I am different. Human, but different. Powerful, somehow, even though I don’t feel like it. I just feel scared as I follow Phobos along the dark, empty streets.
At the mouth of the alley, Phobos pauses. He turns to face me and has to tilt his head up slightly — Cain is taller than him. I’m trying not to think about everything being several inches elevated, about the strangeness Cain’s boots marching to the tempo of my stride.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to say a bunch of stuff you might not like, but that’s part of the plan. I have to convince Praxis, or this will never work. Let me do all the talking.”
Silence fills the space between us only because I’m waiting for Cain. I’m sure he’s silent because he’s waiting for me. Neither of us is okay, neither of us likes this plan, but neither of us could think of anything better. This is a miserable situation.
“Sure,” I say. The urge to add why not? to the end is overwhelming.
Phobos turns his head, looks back at the dark street and the line of parked cars. His expression is pensive, worried, I’d feel a lot better about this if one of us felt confident. I guess that needs to be me, then. I wonder if being a necromancer — a human — makes me somehow more powerful than all these monsters from the Otherside. This is my world, after all.
Somehow I don’t think that’s the case, as I follow Phobos to the rust-hinged steel door. I don’t think fairies and wizards and demon hunters count as dead things. My powers are over dead things. I’d need to kill one of them first, and I’m not even sure that’s possible. I’m pretty sure Phobos just tried to explain to me he’s immortal, ageless, he laughed when I tried to ask how old he is.
“Stand here,” Phobos says. He snaps and points to the ground beside him. I’ll give him a pass on being rude, considering how scared he looks.
Abel.
“Okay.” It’s an answer that works for both of them, as I stand beside and just slightly behind Phobos.
Abel, he’s going to —
“I need to put the other handcuff on you.” Phobos speaks calmly into the frantic overlap of Cain’s warning. “It’ll be temporary.”
I lift my hands and look at them. I let Cain get a good look at the dangerous pink fluff, the linked metal chain letting that empty cuff dangle. “Okay?”
No.
Phobos reaches, but I yank my hands down before he has a chance. I shove my hands into the coat pockets and take a quick step in retreat. “Cain says no.”
Phobos whispers, “We’re wasting time again. Praxis already knows we’re here, he’s not going to open the door unless –”
The well-timed interruption to prove him wrong is either a relief or a sign of disaster. A sliver of darkness appears. Phobos whirls to greet it with a big smile. “Hello!”
A heavy chain crosses the slim span of the opened door. “What is this?” demands a deep, husky voice. The warm tones are sharp, alert, but not overly hostile.
“A long story,” says Phobos. “May we come in?” The friendly tone comes across as suspicious. I’m in on the plan, and I think Phobos sounds suspicious.
“You may not,” Praxis replies.
“I can bind the necromancer as well. The demon’s already been taken care of, see?” A white knit glove flaps in my direction. His tone turns pleading, his smile sweetens. “I need your help.”
The cracked-open darkness doesn’t waver. “Where is Deimos?”
“Elsewhere. Not here. He doesn’t know I’m doing this. You know how he is.” Phobos shrugs, keeps smiling in that same offensively friendly way that is so suspicious to me. “A simple banishment, that’s all I want. I’ll be in and out. You don’t have to tell Deimos.”
“Yet I will.” The door eases shut enough for the chain to slide free. When it opens again, Phobos steps back to wave me through first. I don’t like that, but I do it anyway.
An oppressive waft of melting wax and incense greets me. Candles dance light and shadows into the curtained entry, and it feels like walking into a horror movie set. If Phobos referred to his place as hiding in plain sight, then Praxis’ place is stark contrast to that.
Once I’m inside, the steel door closes. Ominously with Phobos on the other side of it, so I hear the burst of his frantic, “Wait!” and then nothing else. I’m not sure if that means he’s in the alley shouting or not. The quiet calm of the dim, smoky room drowns out all other sounds except my own quick breaths and thudding heartbeat. Staying calm isn’t happening anymore for me, there’s just no way to manage it.
I could run for the curtain, try to run up the stairs, try to get myself into the center of that pentagram before Praxis tries to stop me. I could do that, but I don’t. Cain’s body stands there with me panicking away inside it, Cain himself silent so it panics me further, makes it so I start looking around at everything.
Praxis watches, arms folded and back straight, shoulders stiff. His weight’s cocked in such a way that I’m glad I didn’t try running. “Abel?” Uncertain, perhaps wary, with a steady frown pulling at the line the patch cuts across his forehead.
My head bobs up and down. Phobos wanted to do the talking. Explaining what happened, what we need to do, that was his part of the plan.
“Ach, what a mess.” His sigh holds a note of amusement, perhaps fondness for something. Maybe he likes messes. Maybe he’s going to help me. I peek sideways at the door, unsure what it means that Phobos isn’t part of this anymore.
Tell him to do the banishment.
My reaction to Cain’s sudden announcement is an obvious splash of surprise, an incredulous, “Without Phobos?”
Yeah.
“Can he be trusted?” I nod my head at Praxis, who doesn’t seem to mind the conversation I’m having right in front of him. He’s got a patient air of waiting to see what happens, a nonchalance that worries me as much as it reassures me. I’ve got the answer to my own question, I think, based solely off how unconcerned Praxis seems. I’ll take my chances with anyone who wants to approach this situation calmly.
Who the fuck knows.
Cain’s agreeing with me, I think, it’s hard without hearing how he feels about what he says. I nod anyway to acknowledge him. “I need a banishment,” I say to Praxis. “Will you help me?”
A dark brow raises, a dark gaze judges me with lopsided strength. Even the patch seems surprised, that black swath of mystery seeming to stare right at me. “You do not know what you ask.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I know that, but my body is somewhere on the Otherside. Whatever it takes for me to get it back, that’s what I want to do. So, if that’s a banishment, that’s what I want. If it’s another exorcism, that’s what I want. I want my body back.” I say. In Cain’s voice, but I’m sure it’s a sentiment he agrees with. Unlike what I say next, which is, “Please. Please, you have to help me.”
“Have to? No. I do not.” A slight smile softens the denial. “Yet I will.”
“You will? Thank you!” Without thinking, I react exactly like I want to react. As if this were my body — as if what I’m doing would be wanted, like there’s not a binding spell around my wrist. I move forward and throw my arms around someone willing to help me, someone who knows how to help me.
The height’s all wrong. Those several extra inches make this extremely awkward. The fact that I’ve just used a demon’s body to deliver this hug makes it extremely awkward. That I’ve still got my arms squeezed around this shock-stiff wizard makes everything so horrible.
The fuck.
I release Praxis, jump back. I lift my hands to my face, cover my mouth in horror for the strangled expression on Praxis’ face. “Sorry!”
His head shakes. “Ach, you are young.” Praxis turns and pulls aside the curtain. He gestures to the stairs. “Go, then. If you are certain.”
I look to the door again. I wonder if Phobos is outside in the alley or if he already left. I promised Phobos I’d take him with me to the Otherside — if I could. If I don’t explain that to Praxis, then am I technically following through on my word? If I go up these stairs without Phobos, if I get into the center of that pentagram without him, then I can’t bring him with me. I only said I’d do it if I could. I never said I’d make sure it happened. I only said I’d make sure Cain wouldn’t kill him, because I was reasonably certain I could do that.
I count the landings as I think about if I’m certain about this. I’m not especially certain about anything other than … Cain, I guess. That makes as much sense as anything. When I turn from the third floor for the fourth, I’m reminded of the first time I did this.
Then I felt desperate to make everything stop. I wanted my normal life back, but I’m not normal. I’m different. I didn’t understand that at the time, and Praxis tried to warn me. He gave me a lot of warnings. I’m not sure I followed any of them. I listened to the voice calling for me. I gave that voice a name, gave it a body, no wonder everyone’s referring to Cain as my demon.
When it’s time to brush aside the curtain, I’m ready. I’m certain this is what I want to do — right now in this moment, perhaps for the rest of my life. I’m not going to run anymore from being whatever it is that I am. I’m going to be the best at it. Dartmouth, MIT, CalTech, if all my other options at excelling are gone, then I’ll excel at this. Whatever this is.
Praxis joins me in the room without shadows. Ruddy, dark stains outline the star and circle of the pentagram, everything in the room looks the same as when I first saw it.
“The center?” I ask.
An insolent smile spreads beneath the eye patch. “The center,” he agrees.
The slip of the smile from my face matches the slow sink of my heart. This feels as much of a trap suddenly as the locked car doors, white gloved hands clutching the strap to a canvas tote. My gaze flicks to the curtain.
Do what he says. He’s not going to hurt you.
Cain’s voice is mine now, but these words are supposed to be his even if they don’t sound like it. I hold up my hands to stare at the pink handcuffs. “I need this removed. Phobos said he’d remove it before we crossed.” I look up to find Praxis watching. He’s standing next to the table. He’s holding the knife.
I take a step back and have to glance down quickly to make sure I’m not crossing one of the lines on the floor. I retreat along the outside curve of the massive circle. “Are you going to remove the binding?”
“Go to the center,” Praxis commands quietly.
It’s his serious expression, how he maybe looks reluctant now that I look scared. This is such a trap. Everyone knows it, I’m sure we’re all aware of how much this is a trap. Cain knows it, he’s telling me just to go along with it. I let him walk into this powerless. He can’t fight anything for me.
Abel, it’s fine. You’re close, go for it.
Soon as I step into the circle, a pull directs me to the exact center. I walk along one slanted line to reach it as if on a tightrope, deliberate heel-into-toe steps. My heart — Cain’s heart — pumps a loud and strong terror into the moment. My feet come together, I turn on a precise point to face Praxis. I lock into place, immobile as Cain trapped between the glass doors of the mall. The empty handcuff dangles against my thigh as I stand there, hands to my side, shoulders square.
I should have delayed longer. I should have told Cain yet again how sorry I am for having gotten us into this mess. I should have insisted Phobos remove the binding entirely. Praxis approaches holding the knife, and my fear vanishes. My panicked thoughts fade. My attention focuses as I’m caught up in the spell unfolding.
“Are you certain this desire is one you want granted?” he asks. He does not cross the circle. Prowling steps take him around the outside curve
Vibration pulls Cain’s voice from me. “Yes.”
Praxis continues along the circle and my awareness follows. My eyes do not, my head does not. I stay perfectly still, don’t move at all. He turns on the point of the star and comes forward.
Had a good run, kid.
Praxis comes to a halt in front of me. His hand lifts.
Fun while it lasted.
The knife descends in a gleaming streak of silver. No pain, no fear, only awareness and then nothing. Darkness, and fading, a glimmering sense of being enveloped in oblivion like rolling into a cozy bed. A separation, hollow and empty, anticipated resistance but nothing, all this nothing, not even a goodbye.