“Alright, so. There’s the easy way or the hard way.” Cain tosses a balled-up sock up into the air. The rolled together knot of cotton arcs toward the ceiling and descends. It tumbles as a blue dot to follow, but instead Cain eyes the hall.
“I talk us out of here.” Cain snatches the falling sock without pulling his gaze from the door. “Or you talk your own way out, I’ll follow. I can try for the assist, but I’m not sure what good this bitch’s word is going to be about shit inside your head.”
We’re sitting in room thirty-seven, the dead girl’s room, and Cain’s using her body to talk to me. I’m almost tempted to stand in the hallway pointing. Look, the dead girl’s talking to me. A demon’s inside her. I’m a necromancer, this is my demon, I’m not making this up. Do you want to come meet the wizard I know? You’ll probably get stabbed by his demon hunter boyfriend, but that’s only if my demon doesn’t kill you first.
I think Cain asked me a question. “What?”
Cain’s laugh sounds oddly high-pitched and giggly. I’m having a hard time hearing him, understanding him, focusing on what he’s trying to tell me. I’ll do whatever necessary to get out of this place, to make this stop, but I have no idea how.
A soft ball of cotton hits the side of my face. I look down at the wadded sock in my lap. I wonder if I was supposed to catch it.
“Easy way it is,” Cain says.
I lift my head. Cain’s scowl is all wrong, too, in the dead girl’s face. He’s sitting on the floor against the dresser, Marcia’s body arranged in a modest stretch. She looks good, for a dead girl. It must’ve been a clean enough death. I’m glad, that’s nice, I hope she didn’t suffer. Her life hurt enough that she wanted out, I understand that. Maybe I’ll ask Cain about helping her.
Cain watches me with a level frown, a persistent worried line creasing Marcia’s thin brows. In the lull of the afternoon, between lunch and dinner, with Cynthia and Jamil both in session, it’s the stolen hour he’s found to get me as alone as I can be in a place like this. The door stays open, someone checks on me like clockwork, my complicated world wants to keep me here, but Cain’s getting me out. He’s not ignoring me, he’s not waiting for a different necromancer, he’s here to help.
I feel like skipping, shrieking, I want to run along the halls and jump up and down screaming to anyone who can hear that I’m not crazy, I didn’t make this all up, Cain’s real. He’s not a collection of thoughts and feelings inside my head, he’s not a delusion. He’s right here, he found me, my demon found me, and he’s going to help me escape.
Cain looks at the open door and then lifts an appraising, calculated look across the ceiling. “Think there’s cameras?”
I tilt my head back to look up at the ceiling as well. Shaking my head is awkward thanks to the angle.
“Yeah? Good,” says Cain. The bouncing soprano of his voice is disorienting, same as the shape of his smirk within Marcia’s bland features. Cain hoists to his feet and motions me up as well. I stand, and Cain only comes to my shoulder in the dead girl’s body.
“Can’t close the door, body check every fifteen minutes — Alright. Fuck. Guess the easy way’s a bit harder than I thought.” Cain grins with cocky self-assurance, although the squiggly line between his brows stays in place. I hope he’s not hurt.
“This might get messy. Might not even work, actually, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Cain glances at the open door. “Not too late to tell me to fuck off. You sure about this, Abel?”
I’m nodding, but Cain frowns as he watches the agreeable up and down bob. I should say something, ask him to explain or tell him the truth, which is I don’t care anymore. Whatever he has to do, that’s fine. I’m sorry for it, I really am, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but if Cain needs to kill people to get me out of this place — I’m okay with that. I’m okay with doing whatever it takes to get my life back. All those times I thought I’d rather be crazy than a necromancer, I was wrong. Deeply, irrefutably wrong.
Trying to convey all that to Cain seems impossible. I don’t know what words to use, how they sound or what shapes my mouth needs to make them. Everything I want to tell Cain stretches in all directions like a vast, endless sea, yet no matter how much I scoop it simply leaks and dribbles, refusing to be caught.
“Please,” is what I say. “Cain, please.”
The dead girl’s eyes widen to show white all around the warm, brown irises. It’s hard to tell she’s dead, looking at her up close like this. It’s nearly impossible to tell she’s Cain, given the soft, tender arrangement of her expression. “Alright, kid. Alright. Let’s get you out of here.”
Cain looks sideways to the hall. One of the staff meanders past at a distressingly slow pace. I’m sure I’ll be asked about this later in therapy. I probably shouldn’t be seen talking to the dead girl.
“Don’t let go,” Cain says. “You got that? Don’t let go. Claw my arm off if you fucking have to, just don’t let go. I want this easy.”
The dead girl’s left hand slips into mine — delicate, thin, with dainty white crescent nails and a soft, smooth palm, but Cain’s strength accompanies the tight, squeezed grip. Less reassuring is the sudden cold sweep, the plunging chaos of sound and sensation unraveling. Bright and dark overlap with jarring urgency. I think I know what’s happening though, as my thoughts and feelings become everything and physical reality melts into nothing.
Clarity strikes with faster and faster frequency in reverse echo of the strobe light flashes. Icy tendrils give shape to the strange, uncomfortable outline of my own body. A disturbing lack of concern collapses into sharpened understanding. I should be panicked, to realize I’m hand-in-hand with a shadowed outline in a shadowed world. I should be alarmed to recognize the Otherside surrounding me, but I’m not. I’m relieved.
The lightswitch-flip of my bright, living world to the dark, sterile nothing of the Otherside matches another flip, a better one, a desperately desired one. Drugged, foggy stupor vanishes. The abruptness hits like a physical slap, a non-literal smack between the eyes to clear weeks of murky, muddled thinking.
Outlined shadow stands in front of me. I turn my head and recognize very little else, even given the obscuring darkness. The gently-undulating wisps of smoky seem wispier than usual. I’m not sure what that means.
“Cain?” I whisper.
From the shadow in front of me comes a gravel-voiced, “Hey, sweetheart.”
Alarm jolts through me for how exhausted he sounds. Flat, worn, threadbare in ways that hurt to hear. Following close is the realization I can actually hear him now, I can hear Cain’s rough-tongued bite instead of the dead girl’s perky sweetness.
“Cain, what do you need me to do? Besides not letting go, I mean, can I help?”
A pause follows, silence and then the slow rumble of Cain chuckling. He murmurs softly, “Good to know you’re here after all, princess.”
The light, flippant effort does little to mask Cain’s relief, his worry. It’s hard not to throw myself over the petite shadow he’s occupying at the end of our joined hands. It’s hard to stay calm, now that I’m not drugged into stupidity, but I’m trying. I know I can’t panic, I remember when Cain and I did this before, when I obliterated that motorcyclist. Clawing his arm off might literally happen if I’m not careful.
“Fifteen minutes until someone notices you’re missing.” Cain’s quiet tone underscores the chilling urgency. “Let’s make them count.”
The small, girlish outline of shadow steps toward the door. I follow cautiously, unsure of my body. The insubstantial darkness around me lacks definition. It’s as murky and muddled as my thoughts were, leaving me uncertain where I am despite knowing where I must be. I must be walking with Cain along the hall, but it barely feels as if I’m moving at all. It barely feels as if I’m anything besides thoughts and feelings.
Cain tugs on my hand. “Keep moving,” he whispers.
I nearly blurt out how? before thinking better of it. Something tells me it’d be dangerous to start questioning what I’m doing. I should focus on doing it, instead, and not worry about the how of something impossible.
Droning cadence forms a dull awareness of other voices speaking. I keep focused on Cain’s hand, his firm grip, the bone-crushing intensity that reassures me of physical reality. Warbling nonsense gains a sharp increase in volume and proximity.
Cain stops walking. The shadowed outline trembles and shudders like a videotape turned fuzzy, a shock of jarring lines distorting the basic shape. A stinging discomfort that verges on agony radiates from the tight clasp of our hands for a moment before fading.
“I’m being released today,” Cain declares.
The nonsensical reply carries a bewildered note of doubt.
“Yup. Today. Right now, I’m being released. You can look it up.” Cain’s pleasant, agreeable tone drips with sarcasm, and I wonder how it sounds coming from the dead girl. He continues in the same mockingly unhelpful way, “First name is shut up and let me go, spelled f-u-c-k y-o-u. Last name is hurry the fuck up, spelled g-o t-o h-e-l-l. Got it? Need me to repeat it?”
Despite the rude horror of what Cain’s said and how, he gets a polite, friendly response from the speaking stranger.
“Yup. Got my suitcase,” Cain says. “I’m ready to go. Car’s waiting on me. Through these doors? So kind of you.”
Cain’s efforts at talking his way out would be amusing, if not for the gritted-teeth snarl bleeding into the words. The longer this goes, the worse he sounds. I hold my tongue and focus only on keeping near Cain as he shuffles around. I can tell he’s trying not to move too much, trying as well to keep his left hand near walls and corners. I’m not sure what might happen if I overlap with one of the shadows that isn’t Cain. Certainly nothing good, nothing I want to have happen.
When Cain starts walking quicker, I try to keep pace. It’s hard, on us both I think, because Cain’s breath picks up a ragged edge. I’m pulling context from nothing and maybe the vague memory of arriving here, a long hallway, closed doors to either side. From the opposite perspective, it seemed a worse walk than descending into the hellish depths of the lake to find Cain.
Excitement shoots through me as I realize how close we are to the outside. It’s not much further, I think. Past the hallway there’s a reception area, maybe a vestibule, I’m not sure I actually remember what it looks like. I was drugged for that part of things.
Cain’s hold provides a continuous, painful reminder of my body. It throbs outward from my palm, the blistering agony almost reassuring. Less reassuring is Cain’s harsh, tormented panting.
“Fuck,” he gasps. The shadow of the dead girl’s head turns frantically. Cain starts walking at what’s barely under a run. “Fucking — people, everywhere!”
He staggers to an abrupt halt and then darts sideways. The jerking motion pulls at the joined grip of our hands. His fingers tighten around mine. I hear Cain grunt, but the interlaced knot stays strong. I try desperately to remember what’s around the hospital, where Cain must be, but I’m coming up blank. I have no idea where we are. I’m sure it won’t help Cain if I point that out.
Cain stumbles to a stop. He hunches over, staticky and wavering in a way that’s terrifying. I don’t want to know what happens if Cain lets go or disappears on me.
He growls something that might be a name, an endearment, or profanity. It’s a warning and question in one either way.
“Ready,” I tell him.
Here to there transition abrupt like blinking brings me back to reality. Sunshine, warm pavement, the unpleasant aroma of grime and trash. The nook behind a dumpster provides temporary shelter for us, a small sliver of shadow that Cain’s found tucked aside from the bustle of city streets.
More disorienting than the abrupt return to my living, breathing world is the necessity of becoming a living, breathing thing once more. I struggle to find and set a smooth rhythm for my lungs.
Cain’s hand slips from mine. He drops to the ground and braces an elbow into the pavement. Hoarse, hacking coughs shake the dead girl’s slight frame, and it’s her pitched groaning I hear instead of Cain’s deep rumbling. The tormented from Cain shatters into something wretched and wet. I look down. He’s coughing blood. That can’t be good, nothing can be good about the splatter of crimson ruin. The dead girl’s thin nails dig into the filthy alley pavement as Cain gasps and chokes. I hope he’s okay, even though I’m sure he’s not. I’m sure he’s hurt, it’s pretty obvious he’s hurt.
The sluggish, numb trickle of my thoughts should be more alarming. I’m with it enough to register a lot of deep concern without actually feeling worried or scared. I feel fine. It’s awful for Cain that he’s suffering like this, but my spaced out, drugged stupor forms an inescapable cage of apathy.
I look along the alley. One side dumps into the street while the other end stretches toward a parking lot. A spin of sirens nearby stirs nebulous concepts of further concern. I wonder if I’ve been noticed missing yet. Probably, they’re probably searching the hospital for me right now with low-key urgency. They’ll look in the library, the day rooms, creative therapy, they’ll check my room and maybe Jamil’s room, maybe Cynthia’s room. It won’t take long to figure out I’m not in any of them.
Cain sucks in a ragged breath and shudders it out, more or less smooth. He pushes upright and wavers into a heavy lean against the wall. He’s shivering head-to-toe despite the strong, sunny warmth.
I spent long enough thinking about it that the question comes easy. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy keen, sweetheart.” Cain’s sharp grin lacks edge in the dead girl’s freckled face. He spits a frothy mouthful of scarlet saliva. Flecks of blood over his chin disappear into the hard scrub of his hand. He is clearly not okay.
I should have realized what a dumb question it was. I’m not sure why I asked. I try for something else, something more helpful. I can’t think of anything though. I don’t have a car to direct Cain to, no wallet on me, not even my cell phone. Just me, my body, the trashy lounge clothes I’m wearing. Cain’s in yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt, he’s in the dead girl’s body. I wonder if there was anything else we should have brought with us. I wish I’d thought to change clothes. I don’t like these sweatpants.
“Sorry,” is what I say. Which is less helpful than if I said nothing. I’m aware of that. I’m aware of how exceedingly useless I am to Cain right now. I’m oddly fine with it, even though I know it’s probably not okay.
Cain’s reply is a shrug, quick and uncomfortable. The gesture’s accompanied by a snapping sound. His shoulder rolling back into socket, I think. I didn’t mean to pull his arm hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, but I must have.
Cain looks along the alley with a plucked-together, worried frown. I think it’s meant to be his scowl. The dead girl looks more dead now, her face thin and pinched, the skin beneath her freckles a waxy-white pallor.
His shoulders roll, his neck pops, Cain shakes himself together and sighs. “Alright. Let’s go.” He staggers sideways like a drunk before managing a straight line.
I follow him with the assumption he knows where he’s going, even though I suspect he doesn’t. He pauses at the alley entrance to take in the stretch of street in either direction. Obviously he’s lost.
My mom has to drive three hours to visit, we’re nowhere near my home or anything I recognize. I went to the art museum here once on a school field trip. I want to say the museum’s somewhere downtown. I’m not sure that’ll be useful to Cain. He probably isn’t interested in looking at post-Impressionist masterpieces, even if the collection here is supposedly one of the best.
Cain checks over his shoulder several times, either to keep an eye on me or to look for anyone pursuing us. Someone’s going to notice me missing, but I guess it’ll take them a while to acknowledge I’m not anywhere inside the hospital. It’s a very secure building, a lot of locked doors and key cards needed, a lot of people supervising the exits. It’s not possible to walk out in the middle of the day. Sneak out at night, maybe, but simply walking out the front door in broad daylight? Not possible. It’ll take them a while to realize I’ve done the impossible. I wonder if anyone will be surprised. They shouldn’t be. I’ve made a life for myself out of doing the impossible.
“Jackpot,” Cain says. He grins over his shoulder at me, but I have no idea what he’s spotted that will help us. I don’t see any tarp-covered retro sports cars, no massive black SUVs, not even a rumbling old sedan. It’s just hospital complex stuff, pharmacies, business towers, residences, just a crammed accumulation of a strange city street.
Cain leads me to a set of revolving doors and makes sure we’re not separated for even the short sweep into the lobby. I’m not sure what he thinks might happen. Maybe I’m just so out of it that he’s worried I might wander off in the wrong direction.
The awkward shuffling spits us out into a hotel, that’s what Cain’s found. There’s a tasteful armchair arrangement and complimentary coffee bar. I can see the glass-encased business center. Pleasant music plays. It’s a nice hotel that Cain’s found.
He walks to the front desk. I start to drift after him, but Cain glances back As the front desk clerk approaches, Cain’s eyes flick to the coffee bar. His head nods that way as well, rather insistent. I have no idea what he wants with coffee, but I guess I can get him some.
Cain watches me leave before turning his attention to the front desk clerk. A brittle, cheerless smile spreads across his face. I can’t quite hear what he says, but I’m sure it’s rude and demanding despite the pleasant, drifting tones. The dead girl’s voice shaping Cain’s words is too strange, so I’m glad to be over here messing around with a paper coffee cup.
I have no idea how Cain likes his coffee. Sugar and cream? Just sugar? Just cream? Straight black? As I pick up an artificial sweetener packet and flip it around in my fingers, I realize Cain probably doesn’t want coffee. He just wants me out of the way. He’s walking around in a dead girl’s body, but I’m the weird-looking one. I probably look exactly like what I am, an escapee from a juvenile psychiatric ward, whereas Cain barely looks dead. No one’s going to look at Cain and assume he’s a demon possessing a corpse. That would be crazy.
When Cain comes over to collect me, I’ve got the useless coffee no one wants and he’s got a hotel key. He waggles it at me with a grin. “Guess what, sweetheart? Indoor pool. Won’t that be nice?”
I can’t believe Cain’s suggesting we go for a swim. I don’t have a swimsuit, I’m sure he doesn’t, I don’t even want to go swimming. I barely want to be holding this coffee cup, but I carry it into the elevator with Cain all the same. Maybe I should drink the coffee, maybe it’ll help me feel more alert. I doubt it. I doubt antipsychotic tranquilizers can be negated with a few sips of French roast.
“Figure we’ll go tonight,” Cain says. He pokes the elevator button for the fifth floor.
For a lack of better response, I hold out the coffee cup. Just in case.
Cain glances over with a strange expression, like he’s unsure of what I’m offering him. Surely paper coffee cups were invented before Deimos killed Cain in the seventies. I push the sliding cover on the lid, like maybe that’s the part that confuses him, but Cain doesn’t make an effort to take the cup from me. I guess he doesn’t want coffee. I suspected as much.
The elevator opens. We step out into the landing. Cain checks the room number written on the keycard sleeve and then leads the way to our room. I’m curious how he managed to talk his way into this. Probably the same way he talked his way out of the hospital. At least no one’s died yet, except Marcia, but her death wasn’t my fault.
Cain frowns as he examines the door handle. He stares at the keycard and then checks around to make sure I’m the only one watching him get outwitted by technology.
I realize I should help him at the same time Cain figures it out. He taps the card around at the handle enough trying to find a slot that he inadvertently sets off the sensor. The indicator the light switches from red to green with an accompanying metallic click.
He shoves the door open and motions me through. He closes the door once I’m inside, which is a little concerning, it’s a lot concerning, except I hear him unlock the door almost immediately. He pushes the door open, closes it, waits for the lock to reset, and then unlocks it once more. Cain’s playing with the lock now that he’s figured it out.
“Well, that’s bullshit,” Cain says. He comes into the room finally, closes the door with both of us in the room.
There’s two beds, a desk, an armchair, the television above the cabinet likely containing the mini fridge, and a window above the air unit. It’s all very nice, almost luxurious, clean and cozy, colorful, warm, it’s a vast improvement in every way from the hospital. The beds are covered in fluffy white comforters with a narrow strip of decorative bedspread across the foot. I sit on the closest one.
Cain goes to the window first and draws the curtains closed. He tosses the room key on the desk. Something about the situation tickles the back of my mind, the clear-thinking parts buried under all the drugs. Something about me and Cain and a hotel bed.
I stare at Cain. Am I going to have to explain that the dead girl’s not my type? I’m not sure which bothers me more, that Cain’s body is female or that it’s a corpse.
Cain regards me with a steady frown and crossed arms. “If I fuck off for a bit, are you going to do something stupid?”
I shake my head. I can’t think of what possibly stupid thing I could do in the hotel room by myself. I don’t plan on leaving. I’m fine waiting here. I don’t want to get caught, I understand the risks.
“Good,” he says. Cain looks to the other bed and then turns his head to look at the entry.
I watch as Cain explores the room. He finds the mini-fridge and microwave in the television cabinet. He checks the door and slides the chain into place. Next he pokes into the bathroom and toggles the light switches. I hear him run the sink and turn on the hair dryer. He walks back out and pulls open the closet door.
“Fantastic,” he announces. I’m not sure what about an empty dry-cleaning bag and some wooden hangers he thinks is so great. Maybe demons like small, enclosed dark spaces. I’m not sure why else Cain would go inside the closet. That seems a strange place for him. Even stranger is hearing him call, “Holler if you need me.”
I sit there for a minute or two, but nothing happens. Cain’s inside the closet, or maybe it’s like Narnia in there now. I’m not sure which is more disturbing, the idea that Cain’s walked through the closet to somewhere else or that Cain’s just standing inside the closet for unknown reasons. I’m both confused that Cain hasn’t explained this and completely understanding of the fact he hasn’t. I might not understand the explanation if he tries. I might forget it in a few hours.
Eventually I get to my feet. I walk over to the closet and listen at the door for a bit. Cain’s quiet, if he’s in there. The idea that he might not be is terrifying. Maybe if I open the door that’ll be enough to convey to him I’d prefer we stick together right now.
I open the closet door. There’s a body wedged into the corner like a hastily-hid murder victim. Pasty-pale skin, a glassy stare in a stiff expression, withered cheeks and hollow sockets, slacked-open jaw. The dead girl looks incredibly dead without Cain inside her. He left the body wadded on the closet floor like a cheap suit.
A scream chokes in my throat. I stagger back from the grim discovery and slap at the closet door enough times it swings closed.
Not looking at the dead girl is immensely calming. The fact that I’m drugged is calming. That I’m sharing the room with a corpse, a dead thing’s body that Cain stole — not so calming. I decide to sit in the armchair. It puts me in the corner furthest from the closet.
I turn on the television. Everytime I look away from the closet, I think I see movement from the corner of my eye. I start staring at the door, rather than the television. I’m pretty sure the dead girl’s body isn’t going to crawl off without Cain, but I’ll keep an eye on it until he returns. Just in case.