“Do you think it’s locked?”
My hand clenches around the warmth of his. “Yes, and don’t touch it. Stay here with me, okay?”
His shadowed head turns to me, so I know it’s an invisible smile shaping the way he easily agrees. “Okay.”
The bewildering stretch of darkness in either direction provides little context, but I’m confident he’s lead me in the right direction. Proof exists in the hulking SUV that gleams like an onyx in the eternal nighttime of the Otherside. A bright circle of symbols glows and flickers beside it, a small bonfire to illuminate the scene and give it substance.
“Is this your car? I didn’t think you had a car. Did you buy a car?”
“No, it’s not my car. Let’s whisper though, okay?” I keep my voice low, keep a firm hold of his hand.
“Okay.” Pressure and gentle heat forms the sensation of him squeezing my hand. “Are you scared?” Gentle concern fills the words, he’s worried about me. My potentially dead best friend whose name I don’t know, he’s worried about me.
“A little,” I admit.
“Don’t be,” he says. I get another reassuring squeeze. “I’ll keep you safe.”
I have no idea how he plans to do that, being made of shadow that I shaped from memory, but it’s such a nice sentiment. He sounds so matter-of-fact, so honest and earnest. Bodyguard, chauffeur, attack dog, lifeguard and ladder, my guide through this nightmarish netherworld — “Was I a good friend to you?”
“The best,” he replies. He seems surprised that I’d ask, even after everything.
“I bossed you around all the time. I made you drive me everywhere, I dragged you everywhere. I oogled you at the pool. I went totally crazy on you. I became a monster. I got you –” I won’t say killed because I can’t think like that, not while I’m holding his hand. “I ruined your life.”
The outline of his head shakes back and forth against the darkness. “No way,” he says. “I know you get sad sometimes, Ethan, but please don’t think that. You didn’t ruin my life.”
This isn’t an argument I want to have with him, not now, perhaps not ever. I look along the dark oblivion that’s supposedly a street of parked cars. We’re wasting time, and I know it. I’ve made us stand here staring at Phobos’ clever means to avoid a parking ticket because I’m scared this means he’s here, that this is part of the trap somehow. That perhaps the whole scheme was a lie, beginning to end, because how could Phobos park his car on the Otherside and need my help crossing? I’m too scared to touch the car to find out if it’s solid or if I’ll wisp through it.
“Ethan? You okay?”
“Yeah.” I look to him. “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s, um –”
“There’s someone coming,” he says.
Not so unconcerned anymore, not so dreamy-sounding or unfocused, and he tugs me close. The hand with me attached goes behind his back, the other extends to the side like he intends to summon a weapon into it. For a half-second I wonder if he will, if I haven’t inadvertently created a monster to help me negotiate the unknown terrors of the Otherside. Instead I realize he’s just making sure I stay behind him, that he’s ready to push me back if I step forward.
Ahead of us is a swift overlay of motion, a shadow-on-shadow movement I have a hard time understanding or seeing. I try to track the roughly Phobos-shaped darkness approaching. “Does he notice you? Can he see you?”
“I don’t think so,” my friend replies. “He’s not looking this way at all.”
Trusting Phobos got me into this mess, either inadvertently or intentionally. He trapped Cain, but he was also terrified of Cain — it was obvious, trying to convince him to meet, that he genuinely was frightened of getting near Cain. Cain’s dangerous, obviously as a demon he’s something dangerous. I know all too well how strong he is, how tough he is, how eager and capable he is of fighting anything he needs to fight.
The SUV’s headlights flash without extending cutting beams into the darkness. In the sterile qualm of the Otherside, the vehicular beast is utterly silent, but I can tell anyway that Phobos has activated the remote start. The driver’s side door opens.
I raise my voice to call, “Phobos!”
The car door closes. A rush of motion cuts in front of the gleaming SUV. With substance behind him and the flickering light of the spell circle to give contrast, Phobos is a distinctly anxious shadow. His steps are light, frantic, his head turns with chest-heaving quickness.
“Phobos,” I call again. “Phobos, can you hear me?”
Warbled nonsense bursts in a tenor-pitched, breathless frenzy. His hand cautiously extends and sweeps the empty air. The gesture pulls close as he takes a step in retreat, tone turning questioning. I think I’m frightening him, or something already has, because he turns to flee. He scurries around the front of the vehicle. The driver’s side door opens, closes. A moment later the passenger side door pops open a few inches.
“Are we getting in?” my friend asks. “He says to hurry.”
“You understand him?”
“Um, yeah?” I’ve confused him with the question. “A little. Maybe, no, I’m sorry — I’m not sure what he means but –”
By the severe volume and short intensity, I can hazard some guesses at what Phobos shouts. The urgency is obvious and somewhere firmly on the spectrum of reassuring to suspicious.
“Don’t touch anything yet,” I warn my friend. I slip around from behind him and tentatively approach the cracked open door. The cold metal resists the brush of my fingertips less than it should but still more than I expect. I pull the door open enough to look into the colorful interior of the vehicle. The vegetable-splashed design of the canvas tote sitting in the passenger seat, the pink fuzzy dice and baubles dangling from the rearview mirror, and even Phobos — wide-eyed, pale, pretty and blond, stylish navy pea coat, white scarf.
I jerk my head back to check that the shadow-on-shadow reality of the Otherside still exists outside the car. My friend stands beside me with a patient air of waiting to see what I decide, if we’re taking the offered ride or not.
I peek through the cracked door again, so that Phobos’ fearful, wide-eyed gaze focuses. He lets out a held breath. “Get in the car,” he says. Each sound distinct, each word comprehensible.
“What about my friend? Will he be okay? Why can I see your car? How can I see you? How come I can understand you?”
“Magic, Abel, it’s all fucking magic — please get in the car,” Phobos says. The pleasant twist of his smile seems stilted and forced, but there’s genuine fear in the way he stares past me. Almost like he can see me, mostly like he can’t.
“Unlock the back. I’ll sit there with my friend.”
After a delay he says, “You’re being serious. You made a friend. How quaint.” Phobos lurches forward to awkwardly crawl over the console. I close the passenger door and then wait for the back door on the SUV to pop open instead.
I carefully guide my shadowed friend to the vehicle. “Go slow,” I warn him. “Keep hold of me, okay? Don’t let go.”
Phobos withdraws into the driver’s seat. Much as I want to keep an eye on him, I focus instead on making sure my friend’s capable of getting inside the vehicle. I’m terrified he might vanish in the light like a true shadow, but as he steps onto the silvery streak of the running board it’s nothing but obliterating darkness to shape him.
An uncomfortable half-crouched shuffle gets us both into the SUV. He scoots into the middle of the second row bench seats, and I use the opportunity to check out the folded-flat third row of seating in the large cargo hold. It’s empty, just a wire kennel taking up space. No sign of Deimos anywhere, which I suspected but wanted to confirm anyway.
Phobos flicks a curious, unfocused look over the shadow-occupied space next to me. Our tightly clasped hands rest on top of our pressed together thighs, because if I were sitting any closer I’d just be in his lap. The thought’s tempting.
“The plan didn’t work at all,” I say.
“It was a dumb plan,” he agrees. “Most of mine usually are.” A soft, pretty sigh escapes him, something light and airy like spring breeze. Phobos turns and sets the car into gear. He backs up a little and then aggressively swings the wheel. “It worked enough that I’m completely fucked. Deimos is going to kill me for this.”
His panicked tone seems half dramatic, half deadly serious. Out the front windshield I see only darkness, but there must be a street and buildings, there must be substance for Phobos to be driving like this.
“How come you need my help to cross if your car’s part of the Otherside?” I ask.
“That’s a stupid question,” Phobos says. Distracted, mostly, not even all that rude but merely pointing out the blunt truth. He nervously checks the mirrors like he’s expecting a high speed pursuit. “If the separation between the Otherside and here is normally a brick wall, think of this as being a chain link fence. Just because we can talk doesn’t mean there’s not still a barrier between us. And that brick wall has holes in it, or you can dig under it, or – this is a bad analogy.”
“I think I understand,” I say.
“I doubt you do,” replies Phobos. “If you truly understood it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Anger flashes through me, so that I wish I still had Cain’s snarl to use. My own biting scorn seems flimsy by comparison. “For someone who wants me to help them, you’re being a jerk about it.”
Phobos shrugs. “What do you expect? It’s not in my nature to be helpful. At least, not without getting something in return, and so far the only thing you’ve given me is a stress headache. I fed your demon, I gave him somewhere to rest — I even got you back to your body, didn’t I?”
“You made Cain eat cold soup and sleep on the couch. And Praxis was the one who helped get me across, not you.”
“If you want a better deal next time, specify some terms and conditions,” Phobos snaps. “Deal was I help you, you help me. Well, here I am helping you, and you’ve yet to help me. Do you really want to start breaking contracts this early in your career?”
I wasn’t aware I was starting a career in necromancy. I think abruptly of those stupid business cards with worthless contact information on them — or, rather, contact information without a physical address, a phone number, a connection to the real world. I think of an Instagram account with endless pictures of clothes on display racks and mannequins, the over-filtered bright photos of decadent cakes and sweets, not a single selfie or identifying detail. I wonder how my dad would react if I told him I planned to start a business talking to dead things.
“Are you helping me?“ I ask Phobos. I look to the window even though the passing darkness tells me nothing. “Where are we going?”
“To hide. I assume that’s helpful. If it’s not, I can slow down enough for you to tuck-and-roll,” says Phobos.
“I’m not doing that. You’re going to free Cain. He’s stuck where he crossed, right? With the binding still in place, and you said you’d remove it before we crossed.”
“I said –”
“You said you’d remove it once we were in the center.” I struggle to remember the exact words, the exact language of the contract so Phobos can’t wiggle out of it. “I said I’d bring you with us when we crossed if I could. Well, Cain and I crossed, and I couldn’t bring you with me. Technically I already fulfilled my part of the arrangement. I never said I’d help you. I only said I’d bring you with me if I could.”
The angry teakettle hissing Phobos makes seems harmless and cute in comparison to a demon’s shattered-rock snarls. I expect him to argue or snip something at me in return, but he doesn’t. He sits fuming in silent fury, eyes intent on the road.
Finally he bursts out with, “I’m not helping you free a banished demon. That’s crazy. That’s completely crazy. I’m not helping you with that.”
“Ethan’s not crazy.” My friend’s decided to interject finally, and he sounds offended on my behalf despite the accuracy of Phobos’ accusation. He leans forward some, tone turning anxious and soft. “You shouldn’t say that. Ethan’s not crazy. He just gets confused sometimes.”
Abruptly I wonder how many times my friend made this argument to someone behind my back. My mom, maybe, or his mom and sisters, because I remember all the desperate ways in which he wanted to believe me. He wanted to believe in me, at least, that even if none of what I saw was real, that I at least wasn’t clawing-at-padded-walls crazy.
I squeeze his hand. “Shh, it’s okay. Phobos knows that. And call me Abel around him, okay?” My whispering attracts Phobos’ attention. His head turns some, I see a frown pluck the edges of his mouth.
“But your name’s not Abel.”
“I know that, but –”
“Who are you whispering to? What are you muttering about?” Phobos demands. “Don’t try anything stupid. I’ve got this thing humming with so many wards and charms, you’d be an idiot to even think of it.”
“I’m talking to my friend,” I say. “He’s here with me.”
“Right. That makes sense.” Phobos’ crisp reply is followed by the driver’s window rolling down, the sheet of dark-tinted glass disappearing to reveal a terrifying lack of anything I can see besides darkness. Context for identifying what’s happening comes in the form of Phobos’ brief wave of his keychain into the empty space.
“I’m not doing anything to help you,” I say. “I already did my part of our agreement. I made sure Cain didn’t hurt you, even though you treated him worse than a dog.”
“He’s a demon,” Phobos protests. “How else would you have me treat him?”
I ignore the question, because I have no idea how demons are meant to be treated. Probably not nicely, because Cain’s not very nice, and I doubt anyone’s bothered trying to make anything nice for him either.
“If you want me to help you, then I need the binding removed from Cain,” I say. “That’s the only way this works.”
I’ll let this dumb fairy huff and hiss and flit about in flimsy, panicked circles, but we’re doing what I want to do. Phobos starts to huff something dramatic about how that won’t work at all, I’m sure, because I’m stupid and crazy and whatever else for being this stubborn about freeing my demon. I don’t know if that’s just how necromancers are or if I’m a defunct one, the worst, because I want to do things the hard way. It’d be easier to find another demon, I’m sure, than go after the one that found me.
“Fuck!” Abruptly Phobos slams on the brakes. An odd lack of momentum leaves me stationary while he rocks forward. His hand scrambles for the gearshift, his eyes flick to the mirrors. Phobos braces a hand into the passenger seat as he turns around to stare out the back windshield — driving in reverse, faster than he was driving forward.
“It’s Deimos.” The flat, swift urgency in his tone is sobering. Our petty bickering suddenly seems astronomically nearsighted. “He must have already talked to Praxis.”
Phobos turns to face the front again, the wheel already spinning. I bet it’s a tire-squealing and engine revving reversal, outside the car, but the chain link separation muffles my awareness of all that. I can’t see anything out the windows, either. It’s a terrifying, helpless feeling where I’d wildly suspect Phobos of making it all up if I could.
Another jerking slam of the brakes stops Phobos’ attempt at fleeing. He sits with his hands on the wheel, eyes wide and staring forward. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m trapped.”
Some vicious, unhelpful part of myself is fiendishly pleased seeing Phobos get as trapped as he made Cain feel. If I wasn’t caught in the same trap, that part of myself might be bigger.
Phobos doesn’t turn his head. He barely seems to move his lips as he whispers, “Don’t panic. There’s a chance I can talk our way out of this.”
I have no idea how Phobos plans to do that, since he couldn’t even talk his way into Praxis’ place. We’ve been running around in circles trying to avoid Deimos this whole time for a reason. I’m not sure I want to be trapped in a car with him. I made Cain crawl through broken glass specifically to avoid being trapped in a car with Deimos. If Deimos has that knife, I don’t want him anywhere near me or my friend.
Phobos shifts the SUV into park. His head turns to the passenger door as it opens. “Hi! How’d the hunting go?” he asks, with a big smile.
Deimos stands on the running board with the door open, one hand gripping the roof handle. I sit very still, not even breathing since my body’s on the wrong side of the fence for signs of life. I don’t want to think too much about that, but it’s a useful way to be silent. A hard grey-eyed glare goes over the interior of the SUV before focusing on Phobos.
“You lied.” Deimos’ accusation is a soft, rasped hush. He’s wearing head-to-toe black, a turtleneck peeping above a fitted winter jacket, black leather gloves — ready for the cold or ready for a murder, either way he’s ready. He seems ready for anything. He’s tense, expression full of distrust.
Phobos’ pleasant smile, in contrast, seems warm and open. “Did I? I don’t think I did.”
A narrowed suspicion forms Deimos’ response. It’s enough pressure to make Phobos crack, his smile starts to take on a nervous edge. “What did I lie about? You found the car, I assume. It reeked of demon.”
Deimos shakes his head. “Wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t get close enough to see if the demon was actually present,” Phobos says quickly. “Did I mention that? I must have. Anyway, the police must have already picked up the vehicle if you couldn’t find it. That or he left, maybe, there’s just no telling.” I think he should quit while he’s ahead, but maybe his nervous rambling is less suspicious.
Deimos climbs the rest of the way into the vehicle and shuts the door. From the way Phobos’ hands clench around the wheel, this is either failing spectacularly or succeeding far more than he expected. Palpable tension fills the front half of the car. Somehow even the drowsy way Deimos half-covers a yawn seems dangerous.
“Drive,” Deimos says, sounding bored. “Already wasted enough time.”
“Right. Sorry about that.” Phobos shifts the car into gear. “Seemed like such a solid lead, you know? Win some, lose some. C’est la vie. That necromancer, the kid, I was thinking it’s probably going to be easier for you to find him than to find the demon. I could start searching hospitals, or –”
Deimos’ interruption is soft but abrupt, a raw whisper that’s loud enough to cut through Phobos’ rambling. “Shut up.”
A swallow bobs along Phobos’ throat. The delicate, pink bow of his mouth works anxiously before fitting into a smile. “It has been a long night,” he says agreeably. “But you still have two hours before dawn, so maybe there’s still time to…” The slow shake of Deimos’ head stops him. Phobos licks his lips. “So. Just, take you to Praxis.”
Deimos’ sly, sideways glance is accompanied by the small uptick of his lips. “Problem?”
Phobos shakes his head.
The cornered curve of his smile deepens. “Problem?”
Another head shake from Phobos, faster and more frantic. “No, no problem. I can take you there, no problem. I assumed you’d already been, but, no problem. No problem at all.”
He really is a terrible liar. I have no idea why I trusted him to do any of the talking, despite his eagerness to answer all my dumb questions. I look to the door and wonder how easy it’d be to bail. The shadowed hand I’m clutching is both a comfort and a concern, because I’m not bailing unless I know he can come with me.
I’m pretty sure Deimos either suspects something or knows something. He’s smirking sideways at Phobos in such a way it’s obvious. He’s like a cat toying with a mouse, this demon hunter watching an airheaded fairy squirm and grimace under the weight of attempted subterfuge. I really shouldn’t have trusted Phobos. I think he’s trustworthy enough he’s looped right back around into being useless.
“Are you tired?” Phobos asks suddenly. “Feel free to recline the seat, take a nap. I’ll tell Praxis –”
“Not tired.”
Phobos bites at his lip. “Hungry? I could stop somewhere –”
“Not hungry,” Deimos rasps quietly.
I think maybe next time Phobos stops the car, my friend and I should try bolting. If Deimos can’t see me, then he probably can’t stop me. It’s worth a shot, but I have no idea where I would run, what I would do. Maybe my best chance at finding Cain is to let this demon hunter find him for me.
When Deimos leans forward, Phobos flinches. I brace for unknown disaster, but all that happens is the radio flicking to life. Deimos turns up the volume and then settles comfortably into the passenger seat. Bright, bouncing pop music assaults the tense silence.
I try to think of a plan. A good plan, if possible, even if I suspect a smart plan would involve being somewhere far away from all this. My only advantage is that Deimos doesn’t know I’m here. My disadvantages start with I don’t know what I’m doing and run all the way through to how much I don’t know about Deimos. No one’s explained what makes him a demon hunter, besides his propensity for killing necromancers and demons.
By the time Phobos starts to park, I still haven’t figured out what to do. When Deimos and Phobos open their respective doors to leave the car, I realize I’m about to be stuck inside the SUV. Before I can do more than panic about it, the cargo hatch opens.
“Oops,” Phobos says. He turns his head toward the back of the vehicle. “Wrong button.”
I doubt it, I doubt this is anything other than intentional. “Go,” I whisper to my friend. I help him scramble over the seat and make sure to keep hold of his hand, same as he makes sure to keep hold of mine. Phobos comes around to close the hatch as I’m letting my friend lead me to the sidewalk.
“The alley’s this way,” he whispers. “Did you want to go there?”
I shake my head. “Follow Deimos,” I whisper back. The dark outline of my friend’s head nods, and we stand there for a moment further before starting forward. We go the opposite direction of the alley. I can barely discern Phobos and Deimos moving through the smoke and shadow of the Otherside in front of us, but that’s okay. My friend can see them, he can hear them, and I’m thinking of Phobos’ wall analogy without trying not to get my hopes up about what that means.
Context tells me we’ve walked around the block to the front of the building. I remember from coming here before that the street entrance is completely inaccessible, it’s a solid denial of boarded up windows and bricked-over doorway. I remember driving past with my friend and seeing graffiti tagging the property.
None of that exists on the Otherside, though. I shouldn’t be surprised that instead a soft glow breaks the impenetrable gloom. The bricked-over, graffiti-covered doorway I remember appears as a perfectly normal-looking door. Normal as something can look on the Otherside, I suppose, given the gentle spill of light that comes from no readily apparent source. An ethereal porch light, then, lit up in friendly welcome.
Phobos and Deimos stand as stark shadowed contrast to the glowing red door. The knob gleams as polished and softened white that I suspect is bone. Beneath curls an ornate old-fashioned lock with a foreboding keyhole. Bright streaks of crimson drip like accumulated wax, thick with light in the black eternal night.
The door opens without anyone needing to knock. A man stands in the doorway, his face a dance of shadows in the flickering light. A strong jaw anchors the firm line of his fearsome lopsided glare. The patch stretches across the wrong side, leaving a scarred socket exposed. An overlay of glimmering suggestion shapes a red outline, a glowing orb, some ghosted presence of an eye focused directly on me.
Praxis shifts the patch’s concealing shadow back to the left side of his face. The red glow is slow to fade. His scowling disapproval remains. He steps back as Phobos and Deimos step forward, not a word or glance exchanged, so that I wonder what this looks like in the bricked-over reality of a rundown building.
These two shadows I’ve been following disappear into the flickering candlelight that’s probably not coming from any candles. Praxis remains, visible in mottled overlays of light and dark. He keeps the door open expectantly. I see nothing of the room beyond. I have every reason to think this won’t end well, every reason to want to run. I should be afraid, as I cross over the threshold and into the unknown, but I’m not.