Plenty of shadows fill the room, and plenty of light as well, in ways that seem normal until I realize there are no candles, no overhead fixtures. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time, given the heavy wood furnishings, the stuffy velvet upholstery, the arrangement and feel of the room. A curtain sweeps across a doorway to the left. The coziness of the space better reflects that someone lives here, unlike the alley-side entrance I’ve used before.
I’ve brought one shadow along with me, my friend, who stands dark as soot in the gentle glow. Deimos forms another spot of dark in his head-to-toe black. He stands with his arms crossed, lips firm and brows peaked beneath the long fall of his bangs. For a moment I’m terrified he sees me, but then I realize he’s glaring at Praxis.
Phobos hovers nervously around the paired armchairs occupying the corner furthest from Deimos. An open book lies face-down on the small, round table between the two chairs. It gives a blatant suggestion that Praxis may have been here waiting, and given the tension in the room that seems entirely true.
An expectant pause hangs in the air. Each of them is anticipating the other will speak, I realize, and perhaps the smart thing to do would be to let that happen. If I was doing the smart thing, though, I wouldn’t have come here.
“Hello,” I say.
Deimos takes a wary half-step back. His gaze flashes over the small room. “Necromancer,” he hushes.
“It’s Abel,” I correct him.
The downward flick of Deimos’ hand brings a slim blade into his palm. Praxis takes a step toward him, and the sideways snap of the demon hunter’s gaze is just as sharp as the knife he’s holding. Praxis disregards the knife and glare alike as he gets closer to Deimos.
“Enough, suflețel . Put it away.” Praxis takes hold of Deimos’ upper arm.
Fury twists the delicate, dangerous lines of Deimos’ expression as he glares up at Praxis, but the knife whisks out of sight with another flick of his hand. “Explain,” he demands. Despite the anger coloring his expression, his voice stays the same short, clipped rasp. It’s a dry sound, hoarse and raw, the texture rough like sandpaper.
Phobos grips slender, pale fingers into the velvet upholstery of the chair he’s hiding behind. “So, funny story, you’ll never believe who I ran into at the mall today. Right? More tragic than funny, I suppose –”
“I banished the demon,” Praxis says. He lets go of Deimos’ arm, though their expressions stay clashed and crossed. I think this is a lovers’ quarrel. How awkward, and incredibly dangerous, because Deimos flashes with a sudden fury.
“Mine!” His snarl is more of a raw squeak. I’m the only one who flinches when Deimos strikes. A rather harmless fist smacks into the larger man’s shoulder. “Told you! Mine!”
“You already killed him once.” Phobos’ placating tone carries a ring of desperation. “Do you really want to spend limited eternity holding a grudge?”
Deimos’ sharp, steady glare indicates that’s likely true, as does the accusation he throws in a low, venomous growl. “ Killed me .”
Brittle silence follows. Phobos and Praxis exchange a knowing look, so clearly this information only comes as a surprise to me. I’m not sure why it’s a surprise. I shouldn’t be surprised, given what I know of Cain. It seems entirely reasonable for Cain to have killed Deimos.
“Enough,” says Praxis. Firm and resolute, with his hand on Deimos’ arm again despite the hard, murderous stare this earns him. “I told you once before, enough of this with him. It is over.”
“Not over,” Deimos insists. “Never over.”
The stiff lash of Praxis’ tone conveys terrible finality, despite the softened hush. “End this, or we are ended.”
Shock ripples over Deimos’ expression, breaking up his anger for a moment, but then he’s plunging brows and howling fury. “Wouldn’t!”
I’m with Deimos, that it seems a bluff, despite the way Praxis shakes his head like it isn’t. Across the room, Phobos stands frozen with an awkward half-smile slapped in place. He’s clearly decided to try hiding in plain sight from the bickering lovers, and that seems likely to work. The way Praxis and Deimos stare at each other leaves little room for anything else.
A slow rumble builds in Deimos and gains pitch and intensity along the way. Frustration bursts from him as a short, wordless cry. He shoves both hands into Praxis with ineffective rage before he turns to storms from the room. The whisk of the curtain gets followed up by a steady thumping up the stairs. I expect a door to slam, when the pounding footsteps silence, but of course there isn’t one. I’m not sure how a curtain could get slammed closed.
“Well,” says Phobos. “That went splendidly. Entirely less bloodshed than I expected, although –”
A single glance from Praxis shuts him up. The same commanding lopsided gaze sweeps the corner where I’ve been standing. “This trouble has been long coming,” he says.
The absurd urge to apologize strikes me, even though I’m pretty sure I’m a victim in all this. “I just want to know where Cain is. I want Phobos to remove the binding,” I say. “You leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone… I don’t have a reason to want Deimos dead. Or, more dead –” I can’t believe Cain didn’t mention the incredibly important detail that the demon hunter out to kill me was already dead.
Realization flows over me like an icy wave. I hurry for the curtain with my friend’s hand held tight. I sweep my other hand to catch the fabric and instead wisp right through, the curtain or me or perhaps us both being made of smoke and not substance. When I try to simply walk through it, however, I can’t. The wispy curtain resists my efforts with startling effectiveness.
If Deimos is a dead thing, and I’m a necromancer, then really I shouldn’t be afraid of him. He should be afraid of me. Except this curtain’s between us, and I can’t even figure out how to get around that simple of an obstacle. Everything I don’t know outweighs what little I do know, so I’m not sure why I thought even for a second that I’d be able to take control of the situation.
I turn to find Praxis watching me — actually watching me, because he shifted the eye patch over. In the flickering light of the room it’s just a scarred-over socket that I see, but I remember the red outlined glow that greeted me at the door. I’ve pretty handily been caught trying to leave the room unnoticed, so I point at the curtain rather than deny anything.
“Why can’t I go through here?” I demand. “I want to follow Deimos. I want to talk to him.”
“Good luck with that,” says Phobos. “I’ll save you the –”
“If he’s dead, then maybe I do want to make him more dead,” I say. “Maybe I’ll do that, if you don’t help me get back Cain. I’ll make Deimos more than dead. I know how. I’ve done it before.”
Rationally I’m very aware that making threats is a stupid thing to be doing, when I have no way to carry them through, no understanding of why Cain and Deimos keep murdering each other, no real plan to get myself out of this mess. I wish being a necromancer came with an instruction manual, because I’ve been told a lot about how powerful I am without actually feeling very powerful.
Praxis seems unimpressed with my efforts at being threatening. After a moment of watching me, he moves the eye patch to the left again. “Is it your desire to make an enemy?” he asks quietly.
Immediately I know the answer to that is a resounding no. Even if I knew what I was doing and had Cain with me, I still don’t think I’d want this wizard for an enemy. “I don’t want any enemies,” I say, quite truthfully.
A slow smile spreads over Praxis’ face. “Nor do I.”
“Me neither,” says Phobos.
As if anyone in the room cares, and he shouldn’t have said anything. It gets me to thinking, even though I know I can’t think too much about Phobos crashing his massive SUV into my friend. Much as it’s my fault for ruining my friend’s life, it’s arguably more Phobos’ fault for accelerating through the red light to kill him. But I can’t say that, I can’t even think that.
“How then is this to be done, without an enemy made?” Praxis poses the question like a riddle to match the sphinx-like quality of his smile. I don’t think he’s truly amused. His gaze keeps going to the curtain, to where Deimos went. I don’t think I’m the enemy he’s most worried about making.
Phobos slides closer to the door. “Don’t think you need me for this, do you? Deimos is down for the day, so –”
“Stay.” Praxis gestures to one of the armchairs. Abrupt, stiff motions drag Phobos into the offered seat. It’s a pleasant-seeming moment laced with danger, since it’s an offer that can’t be refused. It gets paired with an equally soothing and irrefusable, “Tell me of this new trouble.”
“I let Deimos talk me into doing the hit-and-run maneuver. I know, you said to leave Abel alone, clearly he has difficulty listening, clearly I have problems saying no. Surprise we all already know, this demon is that demon, reverse possession, I told Abel I’d help him if he took me across with him, I sent Deimos on a wild goose chase and took the goose home with me, I had a dumb plan, you ruined it, I honestly thought it might work, obviously not.” The speed at which Phobos spills his guts is almost impressive. He barely pauses for breath.
Praxis stands beside the table with his fingers lightly rested across the splayed cover of the book lying there. The yellowed pages and plain brown exterior indicate the book’s age matches the furniture, and definitely everything in the room is multiple times older than me.
“Ach, what a mess.” Praxis shakes his head. “Have I not explained to you enough the restraints of the spell? Abel cannot help you.”
“You don’t know that,” Phobos shoots back. “He’s a necromancer, you’re not. That has to count for something. He crossed when Deimos did the exorcism, you were able to send him across –”
Praxis lifts a finger from the book cover, and Phobos quiets immediately. Genuine sympathy carries in the way Praxis says gently, “The spell cannot be altered. It would not have worked, this plan. You may try, if you so desire, but this I assure you. Only time will release you.”
“But –” Desperation claws over Phobos’ expression. He slumps in defeat, shoulders drooping. His protest is soft and deeply pensive, “But I’m sick of waiting.”
I step closer to the two of them but stay well out of arm’s length. I’m scared to remind them I’m listening, scared of what it means that apparently I can’t help Phobos. I’m not sure I have any bargaining chips, besides destroying Deimos, and I’m not even all that certain I could do that. Somehow I don’t think so, now that I’m actually thinking things through. I doubt Praxis would have let me close to Deimos at all if that were the case.
Praxis turns consoling as he asks, “It is only — how many years?”
“Twenty-four,” Phobos says gloomily. “I have twenty-four years left.”
“Not so many,” offers Praxis.
Phobos shrugs without lifting his gaze from his lap.
A sigh escapes Praxis. It’s a practiced sound of knowing when an argument’s been lost, even if he’s got the right answer. His head turns toward the curtain, where he saw me standing last, even though I’m across the room. “Now to untangle this,” he says.
“I’m here,” I say. It seems the polite thing to do.
Praxis adjusts accordingly. He stands straight and tall, shoulders squared like he’s braced for something. Immediately I know he’s got the answers for me as well, and I’m not going to like my set anymore than Phobos and Deimos liked theirs. It’s bad news, whatever he has for me, I know it’s bad news.
“I cannot summon you the mortal plane. How it is that you returned before, that is how you must return again. I do not know what name to call,” Praxis says.
He lifts a hand to plead for silence, even though I’m still trying to make sense of what he’s said. “You cannot tell me now, so do not try. The one to call you back must know your name. As I understand this,” he adds, as a further warning. “Yet I could be mistaken. I am not a necromancer.” Praxis smirks ruefully, inviting me into an inside joke that I’m clueless about.
Only after I’ve nodded for a bit do I remember to say, “Okay.” It’s not okay, at all, but I at least understand it. Perhaps not the inside joke, where this wizard sounds apologetic for not being me, but I understand that I’m stuck on the Otherside. For now, at least. Hopefully not forever.
“What about Cain?” I ask, when nothing further gets volunteered.
“I will help you,” Praxis says reluctantly. “To release the demon, you need only find him and remove that which binds him. Walking the spiritual plane as you are, this is what you must do, if you wish to release this demon.”
“Okay. Okay. So, first I free Cain, then I go home. Great. Where’s Cain?”
Praxis and Phobos suddenly exchange a knowing look, a highly suspicious look. I wait with growing impatience and terror, because no one’s mentioned anything yet about where Cain might be. I thought he’d be here, where we crossed, but I don’t think that’s the case.
The silent negotiation between them ends with Phobos’ grimaced effort at a smile. “So, funny story,” he says. He looks somewhere to the left of where I’m standing. “The thing about that is we don’t know. We don’t know where your demon went, just that he got banished, so…”
Phobos edges lower into the armchair and grips the upholstery. Praxis stands very tall and straight. Both of them look incredibly frightened, in this incredibly frightening moment, as the lights in the room flicker all the stronger. If this were candlelight, it’d be a gust of ominous air doing all this frenzy. Instead I realize it’s me, I’m doing this, I’m freaking out enough to do this.
Realizing my shattered emotional wavelength is about to shatter Praxis’ house makes me stop. The calming breath I draw in happens because of habit only and doesn’t need released. Gradually the glow of the room stabilizes. Phobos flicks his gaze around with the same frozen, terrified smile.
“Abel,” says Praxis. He sounds remarkably calm, considering I might set his house on non-literal fire. Or maybe literal fire, I certainly don’t know what all I’m capable of doing so anything seems reasonable. “Abel, this is not to say he cannot be found.”
“How am I going to find him, then? How do I do that?”
I’m tempted to try for whatever fire-setting powers I can when Praxis and Phobos exchange another reluctant look. Phobos takes up the explanation, which starts with a shrug. “Demon summoning is so not something we have a lot of experience doing, you know. I mean it’s entirely possible there’s a way for you to find him. Praxis, was that your first time banishing a demon?”
Praxis’ answer requires a lengthy pause first. “It was.”
I focus on his uneasy expression, rather than Phobos’ guileless smile. “What aren’t you telling me? What does it mean that he’s been banished? If I can find him, then he’s somewhere, so where is that? Where do demons go when they get banished?”
“To wherever it is they were before.” Phobos answers, despite my questions being directed at Praxis. “You summoned him, Praxis banished him, he’s back where he started. I don’t know where that is, Praxis doesn’t know where that is, getting dramatic about things won’t change that. He’s wherever he was, wherever he died, wherever that is. It’s certainly not here. You’re wasting time bothering us.”
Phobos’ dismissive, bossy tone is rude to the point of insulting, but I don’t think that’s why Praxis stiffens expectantly. I think it’s because Phobos just blurted out more than he should.
“Where he died,” I say. “You mean, where Deimos killed him.”
I know I’m right by the swift exchange of glances — Phobos guilty, Praxis annoyed — neither of them wanted to admit that my situation wasn’t so hopeless as presented.
“Assuming no one killed him after Deimos,” Phobos says. “Then… yeah.”
Silence follows. Terrible and awkward, because I know without anyone needing to tell me that Deimos intends to keep the location secret.
“When?” I ask. “When did Deimos kill him?”
Phobos shrugs and looks up at Praxis, who worries together a frown. I realize he’s having to think about it. I see him look down at his hands and realize he’s having to count. Phobos realizes the same and shrugs again, less dismissive. “Around the same time Cher divorced Sonny and recorded trash for a bit. When was that? Seventy-six? Seventy-seven? Somewhere then, maybe, is when Deimos came back.”
I find it a bit ridiculous they can’t give me a straight answer to such a simple question, but fortunately it aligns with one of the rare times Cain gave me one instead. Stretching before me are my endless stupid questions, each one a little piece of the puzzle I’ve been putting together for years. I’m grateful for the fact I’m a non-breathing, seemingly-invisible presence in the room. My silent epiphany requires no dramatic gasp, and they can’t see my sudden bursting grin.
“Okay.” It slips from me a bit too brightly. I don’t think either of them finds my tone unusual though, despite the swapped glance between them.
“The best thing to do is just go home,” Phobos says. “Skip finding that demon. If you really want another one, they’re not that hard to summon. Well, no, they are, but that didn’t stop you the first time.”
“I thought you wanted to stop me from summoning demons,” I say. I’m suddenly suspicious this might be some kind of trap. “You said Deimos was right to want to kill me.”
“Yeah. That’s Deimos,” says Phobos. “He hates necromancers. He hates demons. Your demon, in particular, but it’s like we just agreed. No one wants to make any enemies here. I’m not looking to fight any moral battles, that is so not my thing. Kill hundreds of people if you want. Kill thousands of them, if you can. Raise an army of the undead, see how well that works out for you, or try taming a demon if that’s more your speed. I don’t care what you do, Abel, so long as you don’t bother me with it.”
Despite a disapproving frown for how Phobos worded it, Praxis nods his agreement. “This life, what it is you can do, it is yours,” he says. “I am not to judge how it is used.”
That seems an entirely reasonable position to hold for a wizard whose house contains a door to the Otherside and a pentagram made of blood. Confusing as I find all this, there’s a certain soothing simplicity to it as well. I suppose in a room full of monsters, no one wants to be the first to start pointing fingers.
“So we’re done here,” I say. “Unless you think Deimos will tell me anything.”
A nervous, tittering laugh escapes Phobos. He glances up at Praxis’ unhappy scowl and quiets. From Praxis I just get a solemn, “He is not to be involved in this.”
So much warning carries in the husky, soft-spoken sternness. Immediately I respond with, “Okay. Okay. I understand.” I think if I try asking again to speak to Deimos about Cain, I really will make an enemy of Praxis despite my best efforts.
I only asked to seem less suspicious, because I don’t need Deimos to tell me anything. I know where to find Cain. I know exactly where to find Cain, if he’s back where all this started. The trick now is getting there, but I’ve got a plan for that. I’ve got my own chauffeur and bodyguard, an all-too-willing guide, the best friend a necromancer could have while stuck on the Otherside. He followed me into this nightmare, refused to leave me, and as we leave Praxis’ place I make a silent promise that no matter what happens next, I’ll find a way to help him go home once it’s over. Somehow I’ll find a way to help him. I’ll find a way for us both to go home, after I find Cain.