The dark of unconsciousness gets broken by sweeping overlays of lights. They pass in bands of iridescent red behind my closed eyelids that grow brighter as I wake further. I hear the steady rolling rumble of the sedan’s engine, but it’s a blurred together moment where I can’t tell if I’ve woken as the car’s stopped or because the car’s stopped. The back-and-forth click punctuated by the tap of fingers against the steering wheel announces Aidan’s waiting for a left turn. It’s a reassuring, normal way to wake up.
I’m stretched almost flat, oddly positioned, my head rolled limp to the side. It’s the passenger seat reclined far as it’ll go, which I confirm as I open my eyes. My face is turned into my hood, I’m facing the door, but as I roll my head to the left I’m stopped. A hand runs across the sweatshirt fabric, my bangs, it settles into place over my eyes like a blindfold.
I allow only the miniscule amount of motion I need to keep breathing, otherwise I stop moving entirely. I want to say the hand belongs to Cain, I want to say I recognize and know even that little of him. That desire takes strange shape alongside the other accumulated wants that fill me at thoughts of Cain.
Fingertips brush a gentle command that my eyes to stay closed before the hand withdraws. I feel pressure lean into the seat on my left, and then I hear Cain’s voice so I know for a fact it’s been him the whole time. “Pull over,” he says. “Stop the car.”
“What? Now?” asks Aidan. He sounds startled, more than anything.
“Yeah,” says Cain. “Find somewhere to park.” He sounds almost bored, kind of tired. He must be exhausted still, and I recall the line of hurt between his brows as he slept. Oh, but I woke him up —
Suddenly I realize what Cain’s strange blindfolding gesture was all about, because I remember about the headless corpse that found its head. I have a sudden new mental image of the car’s interior; Aidan in the driver’s seat, me reclined beside him, Cain seems close enough to be in the awkward middle seat which leaves room for the motorcyclist’s body in the seat behind Aidan. I bet that’s it. I bet I’m in the car with that dead thing.
Cain’s weight drapes into my shoulder, his elbow nudges behind my neck. With my eyes closed he’s hard to place, but he’s near. Close and pressing closer, so I steal glimpses of his arm, the red shirt I bought him. I wonder if he likes the clothes I grabbed. I wonder so much about Cain that it’s distracting, it’s better than thinking about headless corpses.
“I’m awake,” I decide to say. “I’m okay.” Loud enough for Aidan, too. I’ve pulled up my hood and can press my face into Cain’s arm, the seat. I’m not going to look at the dead thing. I can be calm about this if I don’t have to look at the dead thing.
Cain tenses, soon as I speak.
A voice I don’t recognize says, “Oh, hello!”
I flinch, Cain snarls. I hear him snap, “Shut up.”
“Oh,” sniffs the voice. “You’re still here.” It’s a man’s voice, pleasant and airy. He sounds breezy and casual like a sidewalk cafe, sunshine and macchiatos and not dead.
I press my hands to my ears. It’s the motorcyclist. That’s a dead thing talking. I know without needing to see or anything needing to tell me.
“I’ll put you in the trunk with the rest if you don’t keep your fucking mouth shut, got it?” Cain growls.
Cautiously I let myself take a quick flashing glimpse around at the dim interior of the car. Aidan’s focused on the road, face turned away as he checks traffic. Cain’s leaned forward, but his head’s turned as he talks to the dead thing. Nothing else sitting in the backseat I can see, at least at neck and shoulder level.
I peek my head up further, and Cain notices. We look at each other. A thousand questions burst through me, my lips twitch into a sudden smile, and then I notice a lurid red mark cresting his cheek.
“Are you okay? What happened to your face?” I push to sit up, I get my elbow into the seat and pull away Cain. I want a better look at him, the car, this entire situation. Nothing is as I assumed it was when I had my eyes closed.
Aidan’s still looking left as he waits to turn. Once the approaching car’s headlights crest and fade, he turns his head along with the wheel. Smudged swelling and bruises explain the crimson teardrop of dried blood under his nose. I keep staring as he parks in the empty lot of a grocery store several hours already closed. A few empty cars scatter through the lot like garden weeds. He leaves the engine running. The dome lights come on expectantly even though none of us move to get out of the car.
Aidan avoids looking at me, even as I ask, “What happened?” I decide to look to Cain for answers instead, because I know this is his fault somehow. “What did you do?”
Fury twists over Cain’s expression as he leans back and mutters a rude, too-quiet response. He’s slow, but his dark eyes are bright and alert even though he moves like he’s bleeding somewhere, he’s broken something. I’ve run my gaze over him enough times that I’m certain his physical body is unharmed.
I pull on the seat belt, unbuckle, end up turned around kneeling with my back against the glovebox. There’s a flashy red motorcycle helmet on the floorboard behind Aidan’s seat, but no headless corpse anywhere in sight. Judging by Cain’s earlier threat, it’s in the trunk.
I narrow my eyes at Cain, flatten my mouth, force myself to feel anger rather than concern. “You hit Aidan,” I accuse.
Cain rolls a lazy shrug at me.
From Aidan I hear a murmured, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Aidan keeps his gaze on the dash, the wheel. His soft-spoken words are impossible for me to understand because this isn’t fine at all.
“What happened?” I demand of Cain. “Tell me.”
“We had a disagreement over where your fainted little ass was gonna sit,” Cain snaps. He’s obviously furious that he’s answering me at all, so I don’t know why he bothers. He points down at the helmet. A bit of that blonde braid is visible, a pale-gold ribbon curled against the speckled black floorboard. “Now you still want this guy or am I kicking him out?”
I wonder why Cain didn’t just get rid of the motorcyclist while I was unconscious. Obviously I wouldn’t have objected, just like I couldn’t stop him from hitting Aidan. I can’t believe he hit Aidan. I glare at Cain and fold my arms so I won’t be tempted to touch him. “No. I said I’d do this. I’ll do it,” I say. “Let’s do this. I’ll help him.”
Cain mutters something rude under his breath and picks the helmet up from the floorboard. I can’t help but recoil, suddenly scared he’s going to toss it at me. Cain simply sets the helmet into his lap, adjusts it toward me. He leaves the face shield down, which makes me wonder a bit too much about what body-less head looks like.
From the corner of my eye I see Aidan staring. I point at the helmet and ask him, “Do you see this?”
I’m not surprised when he shakes his head, although maybe a little disappointed. At least he can see Cain, and Cain can also see this motorcycle helmet containing the dead thing I’m about to start talking to. I’m not too many degrees of crazy. I swallow and settle my nerves. I can do this.
“Hello,” I say. “You can talk now, um –” I lean forward some to peer at the black sheen of the face shield. I think maybe I can see a face looking back at me and abruptly decide I really don’t want to know. I retreat and feel the hard plastic of the glovebox cut into my back.
“Who are you?” the voice asks. “Do you know where we are?” The voice is pleasant, kind, seemingly unconcerned. It’s as if we’ve met in a coffee line, and he’s asked if I’m next so he’ll know where to stand.
I’m not sure how to respond, so I look at Cain. I’m not sure why I think Cain’s going to be of any use to me, because he keeps a hand on top the red shell of the helmet but otherwise is painfully not in the mood to put up with my questions. He looks ready for another nap. I’m not sure if his eyes are closed or if he’s lazing like a tiger, dark lashes low over his gleaming sneer.
“I have somewhere I need to be,” the voice says. Thin pinpricks of concern dot through the words. “I don’t think it’s here, though.”
Relief sweeps through me. “That’s right,” I say. “You do have somewhere to be that’s not here. You need to move on. Um, go into the light.”
And the voice asks me, “What light?”
I see Cain’s mouth twitch. A chuckle reverberates and builds in his chest before slipping out with a single mocking, “Heh.”
I’m furious with Cain for hitting Aidan still, so it’s easy to glare and scowl at him like he’s always scowling and glaring at me. “If you’re not going to help then don’t say anything,” I hiss.
Sardonic fuck you comes across loud and clear in the way Cain lifts a shoulder at me. This is my dumb idea, he won’t help me. I bet he knows what I should do. He’s been trying to boss me around since the beginning, but for once we’re going to do what I want to do.
I smile at the dark wrap of face shield, hope that I look comforting. I gentle my voice further, make an effort to speak softly. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you died. You were in a – an accident, riding your motorcycle. I’m very sorry, but you’re dead.”
I reach my hand out to caress the side of the helmet, because I guess I’m crazy enough to feel sorry for this dead thing. My fingertips brush through the hard plastic shell, they go right through that flashy red. I snatch my hand back even before Cain starts to smirk. He’s infuriatingly smug.
I pull my hand back. I wonder if this means the motorcyclist’s fingers would brush through me as well. I hope that’s the case. I shift to sit more on my side as the voice stays silent, as I hear nothing more from this helmet I see Cain holding.
Finally a floating hum precedes the voice’s polite counter-argument. “That doesn’t seem right.”
He says nothing more. I look to Cain’s cocky grin and wish there wasn’t a dead thing between us, or maybe I should be glad there’s a dead thing between us. I draw in a long breath and then say, “Okay. Well. Let’s pretend that you are dead. Would you have any unfinished business?”
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe that no one would think to water my plant.” He speaks as if I’ve asked after his favorite television show. And then even less concerned — simply confused, “Do I have a plant?
Cain rolls his head, he seems to bite on his lip. I can’t tell if he’s containing laughter or threatening me. I should be looking at this helmet, I guess, but then from the corner of my eye Aidan’s watching, too. I can’t get it out of my head that when I’m talking to the helmet I’m actually I guess staring at Cain’s crotch, from Aidan’s perspective on things.
The motorcyclist and I are both red, then, we have that in common. I am certain that I’m blushing. I must be embarrassed and blushing to be this much burning. I force myself to look away from Cain, the dead thing, that bruise on Aidan’s face. I look down at my own hands and flex my fingers.
I can do this, there’s no reason I can’t do this. I take a deep breath, smile, and say, “I don’t know if you have a plant or not. Surely you have more than just a plant to water though, right?”
The voice hums softly, considers the question with all the weight of choosing a latte from the menu. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. If I were to die, I wouldn’t have any regrets.”
“But… you did die. You’re dead.”
“I am not dead.” This headless motorcyclist sounds like I’ve offended him by pointing out the obvious, painful truth even though I’m trying to be nice about it.
I frown at the helmet. “Yes, you are. You’re dead, I’m sorry, you’re dead and a – a ghost, I guess. So you can’t be here. You need to move on, go into the light or whatever.”
The voice sounds angry now as he says, “I am not dead!”
“You are!” I cannot believe I’m having to convince this spectral head-inside-a-helmet of its own ended mortality. “Just look at yourself, look at you. You’re a decapitated head. You are dead. You died. You — Cain, hold him up. Can he see me? Make him look around, hold him up to see –” I’m gesturing with my hand, getting frustrated, I’m still furious with Cain for hitting Aidan but I should be nicer to this poor dead thing. I know I should be nicer.
Surprisingly Cain obliges me, he puts his palms to either side of the helmet and lifts it up, waves it around. The braid dangles, I try not to look too closely. I hear the motorcyclist insist again, “I’m not dead.”
I know I should be nicer, but I’m impatient and sound it. I sound like a jerk. “Where’s your body, then? Where’s the rest of you? If you’re not dead, how come you’re just a head?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I’m not dead,” the voice says defensively. “I think I would know if I was dead.”
I wonder if I punched Cain’s smug smirking smile if he’d hit me like he did Aidan. Whichever of them threw the first blow, I’m at least glad that Cain’s got a bruise to show for it. Good on Aidan, hitting back. I wish I’d been conscious for it.
Bemused laughter rumbles softly from Cain as he leans for the door. “Guess that’s that. What can you do, sweetheart? He’s not dead.” He shifts the helmet as if to chuck it from the car.
“Wait,” I say. “Wait. You said I could do this. You said I could help him.”
Some of the amusement slips from his expression, he regards me with a wary, tensed caution. I feel like I’ve pulled a gun on him when Cain grits out, “Yeah.”
He doesn’t elaborate. I have to ask, “How? What do I do?”
Cain cocks his head, his brow, he gives me this exasperated look like I’ve still got that gun on him but he’s noticed it isn’t loaded. “Sweetheart, ever think, if you have to ask then it’s probably a dumbshit thing to be doing? Let’s ditch this guy.”
He tries too hard to sound casual, tries too hard to sound like he’s not exhausted and hurt. I lean back some, sigh, see Aidan’s curious, sympathetic expression and then glance instead at the dashboard. It’s late, past one in the morning, we’re all probably tired and not just Cain. I don’t want to give up on this, though. I want to help this motorcyclist somehow. I want to do something helpful and good with this new life of mine. If I have to be a necromancer, if that’s going to define me, then I want to know what it means.
“I want to do this,” I say to Cain. “Tell me what to do.”
A low, ominous growl accompanies the dangerous gleam of Cain’s eyes as we sit there glaring at each other. He knows the answer, he knows more about this than I do, he knows but doesn’t want to tell me. It’s infuriating, after I did so much to get him here. I have no idea why I worked so hard to get Cain into my living, breathing world if he’s just going to be a jerk about everything.
“Give me your hand,” Cain snaps. His juts between us palm up like I challenge. I slap my hand into his, and he grabs hold. I hear him mutter under his breath, “Fucking idiot.”
It’s like being underwater, it’s like diving deep into the lake, this sudden sweep of cold and numb that flows over me. I suck in a gasp, feel Cain’s hand tighten around mine so I can’t pull away. I try again, pull harder, I know I do even if I can’t see, can’t feel, can’t hear —
Am I still in the car, have I gone somewhere? Am I whimpering with panic or just feel like I want to because I think all I am is these panicked thoughts about what I can’t feel, what I’m not. I don’t think I’m enough for whimpering, I think I’m losing even my thoughts. I’m unraveling, fading, sinking to the bottom of vast empty depths. Pieces of myself break apart, float away, drift into this vacuum of sensation. I’m only the terror of this observation and not enough to stop it or do anything about it.
Pain reaches through first, a pins-and-needles outline that describes to me the unrecognizable shape of my own body. Ache throbs in one particular spot, a part of me that cycles from numb to cold to hot to searing. It’s like a burn in reverse to sketch the shape of my hand, the arm attached to that hand, the rest of me follows until I’m more than just my emotions and thoughts again.
Bursts of here and there nothing take form around me, flashes like a on-and-off light switch. Through the blinking stutter are dark eyes, dark and deeply drawn eyebrows, Cain’s teeth bared in a silent grimace. His glazed expression is distant, focused elsewhere even though it’s aimed at me.
My earlier anger with him is gone entirely in that insignificantly small moment where I’m overwhelmed with relief at seeing Cain, at knowing Cain’s still holding on to me. His hand is clenched around mine, it’s both a sensation I can feel and something I can see. At least until the strobe light flashes settle into the constant shadowed nothing I recognize as the Otherside, and there’s a roughly Cain-shaped shadow holding my hand instead.