“That’s a dumb plan.” The long slurping sound of the last dregs whisking into the straw punctuates Phobos’ announcement.
A scowl tightens over Cain’s brow. “You got a better one?” he demands.
I don’t think Phobos knows Cain near as well as I do, because he turns his head aside with a snooty sniff and doesn’t answer. Cain meant that question, it wasn’t rhetorical. We both know the plan sucks, that’s the whole reason Cain’s sitting in the passenger seat of the massive black SUV that tried to kill us talking to the driver who purposefully accelerated through a red light to do so. This is borderline suicide, but it’s part of the shitty plan we came up with so I guess it’s happening.
Phobos chews on the end of the straw for a moment before leaning forward to check out the front entrance of the mall. “Throw this away,” he says. He thrusts the empty cup out at Cain.
“Fuck off,” snaps Cain.
“I don’t want trash in my car.” Phobos rakes a sneer over Cain. “For any longer than necessary, at least.”
Cain clenches his fist, jerks forward —
Don’t hit him! Just do it, take the cup, it’s okay.
Plastic crumples as Cain chokes his hand around the remains of Phobos’ enormous sugar-stuffed frappe. The tight line of his jaw seems uncomfortable, but it still isn’t tight enough to stop a slow, ominous growl.
Phobos makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Go. Trash cans are by the doors there.”
Please, Cain, please just do it.
The passenger door shoves open, Cain’s boots thump into the pavement. He slams the door and then stomps across the parking lot. A mini-van brakes hard to avoid hitting him and honks, Cain flips off the driver without even looking — I just see his lifted finger swing out to the side, I use the corner of his vision to keep track of the situation. Fortunately he stops before I have to remind him about behaving in public.
I think Cain understands the risks, even given his eagerness to steal cars and break into homes. I convinced him to wait until the mall opened before going inside, I even convinced him to say more or less nice things to the sales associates to make them go away while Cain used one of the display computers. Somehow I managed to talk Cain through using the internet to find Phobos’ Instagram feed to message him about meeting.
Actually that part was easy. The hard part was convincing Cain to leave the store after we were done. I told him the display computers had a time limit, that his was almost up and that the employees would make him leave. I have no idea if he could tell I was lying. I suspect I didn’t sound believable. Too many ums in my explanation for why Cain should leave.
“I’m not doing this,” Cain hisses. Soft, quiet, because even for a weekday the mall entrance is crowded enough that he doesn’t want to be overheard talking to himself. “I’m not, okay? Think of something else.”
I know. I know, I hate him too, but he can get us inside. That room without shadows, if you think that’s where we can cross —
“I’m staying,” Cain declares. He spikes the drink cup into the trashcan. “Fuck the whole plan.”
Rather than turn for the parking lot, Cain goes for the mall entrance. He’s got the door handle, he’s yanking it open.
What are you doing? Phobos can see you, he’s going to leave — Cain, stop! Don’t move!
He rocks to a halt inside the vestibule, stuck between the sets of doors and two women trying to leave. They awkwardly apologize, smile and shuffle, while Cain stands there, fists clenched, trembling with fury. Helpless, because the voice inside his head got panicky, started screaming orders that I’m pretty sure he can’t ignore.
I’m sorry. You can move, I’m sorry. Please go back outside though, please.
A wordless snarl accompanies Cain out the door. Brisk strides take him down to the curb, but he doesn’t cross into the parking lot. He stares at the black SUV, visible in its parking spot thanks to its hulking size.
You won’t be crossing by yourself, Cain, I’ll be with you.
“Abel,” he says. There’s not a follow up, not at first, he runs a hand through his hair. He sighs. Cain looks up at the mid-morning sky and sighs again, heavier than the last. Something’s weighing him down, something he wants to say.
A final sigh contains his, “Sure.” The follow up of, “Why not?” contains so much sharp sarcasm it hurts. He marches out to the SUV, to where Phobos is waiting.
Cain’s hand hesitates over the car handle. “I fucking hate you,” he whispers. He jerks the door open with a grunt, like the effort’s uncomfortable.
Despite Phobos comment about trash in his car, the interior of the vehicle is cluttered. Baubles and bright charms dangle from the rear view mirror beneath a set of pink fuzzy dice. Canvas totes and reusable shopping bags litter the floorboard in the back.
I’m pretty sure the cargo hold has crap in it, I can see a wire cage or kennel at least, but Cain hasn’t gone looking so I really have no way of knowing. I’m pretty sure this vehicle’s amenities include protection spells and wards and all kinds of things I don’t understand but know can’t be good for Cain. I know this could be a trap, could easily turn into a trap. Deimos could be in the cargo hold with that knife, ready to stab Cain.
This is such a bad idea, and it’s mine. I’m giving Cain such horrible ideas, as horrible for him as being told to kill people was for me. Understanding why Cain’s furious with me isn’t very helpful, but at least it’s something to think about.
Phobos watches Cain get settled. The navy pea coat forms part of the clutter in the back seats, and Phobos’ stylish turtleneck and skinny dark jeans matches everything else about his pretty runway model look. I didn’t realize Cain was being serious both times he referred to Phobos as a fairy, but now looking at him I guess that makes as much sense as Cain being a demon.
“New plan,” Phobos says. He turns to face Cain, tosses his hair. His snobby expression doesn’t waver, nor does Cain’s scowl.
The cliche of fighting like cats and dogs seems accurate, given that neither of them seems able to stand the other based solely off what they are. Their greeting, in fact, consisted mostly of outing the other right away with finger pointing accusation. Phobos’ wide-eyed declaration of, demon! , getting matched by Cain’s sneering, fairy . I think without me present, Phobos might have tried running Cain over with the SUV after that.
“We go right in the front door,” says Phobos. “Hide in plain sight.”
“How is that plan any less dumb than the one my necromancer came up with?” Cain demands.
Phobos’ pretty smile isn’t especially friendly. “No, it’s still a stupid plan, but at least it stands a chance. Sneaking in will never happen, trust me, Praxis has that place on lockdown. But so long as Deimos isn’t there, I should be able to convince him I know what I’m doing.”
What if Deimos is there? Cain, ask —
“So we kill Deimos first,” is what Cain says. He goes straight to the answer without my asking.
Phobos shakes his head. “If it were that easy, don’t you think I’d of done that already? I’ll tell Deimos I found you, send him off hunting. That’ll buy us time. We go in, get upstairs, and then your necromancer pulls us both across. By the time Deimos figures out I lied, it won’t matter.”
Cains looks out the front windshield, doesn’t say anything. By the patience radiating from Phobos, I suspect he thinks that Cain’s listening to me. Except, I’m being quiet, because it’s daunting telling Cain what to do. Both these plans are bad. All these plans are bad, everything about this situation is terrifying and awful. I just want my body back, and no one even knows how to find it, let alone get me back inside it.
“Don’t suppose you know where I can find another necromancer, do you?” Cain asks. He glances to Phobos with a sharp, toothy grin that I can feel pull at his cheeks. There’s nothing friendly about it, same as Phobos’ smiling response.
“There’s the body of one six feet under at Sunset Memorial, courtesy of Deimos,” he says. “By now I’m sure it’s mostly worms and formaldehyde. Not sure that’d be useful to you. To anyone, really, that was kind of the point. He’s nothing if not determined.”
Phobos sounds almost fond of this demon hunter he so casually dismissed killing. I’m a bit more focused on the fact Deimos likes to kill necromancers, though.
As is Cain, apparently. “When’d that go down?” he asks.
Phobos shrugs. “Fifty-two? Fifty-three? The year Gentlemen Prefer Blondes was released, whenever the fuck that was.”
Cain’s response is just a slow, bewildered, “Huh.”
“Oh, and, sixty-something, late sixty-something, I crossed paths with one. Tall guy, good-looking, dangerous as hell. He was a Black Panther — not literally, he wasn’t a shapeshifter, it was just the sixties and things were weird. Anyway, if you weren’t there I can’t explain it, and he’s probably long gone. Not that I’d know where or how to find him. I barely remember meeting him.”
Now Cain’s staring at Phobos, focused right on him. His hollow-voiced, “Yeah?” seems especially strange.
It’s strange enough Phobos notices, starts staring right back. “Also yours?” he asks, incredulous.
It’s Cain’s turn to shrug, it doesn’t seem like a comfortable response. “Oakland?”
“Near enough. Haight-Ashbury,” replies Phobos.
“Late sixties,” says Cain. He’s stopped snarling entirely. “Young looking?”
Phobos nods. “Under thirty.”
Their staring breaks, each of them looking elsewhere. My curiosity is bursting to the point of rudeness, and if I were actually in the car I would’ve already started in on my questions. I’m not in the car, not really, I’m just inside Cain, and Cain’s sick of my endless questions and telling him what to do.
“So… is he dead?” Phobos asks at last. His head turns, I see the motion from the corner of Cain’s flicked-away gaze.
“Yup.” Perfectly flat, no inflection at all.
“Oh. Sorry?”
The scoffed dismissal isn’t much of an answer, even for Cain.
Phobos turns over the engine on the SUV, a surprisingly soft sound that results in a gentle purr. “Well,” he says. “You can crash at my place until tonight, Deimos definitely won’t find you there.”
While still not especially friendly, Phobos sounds less hostile. He looks over at Cain, but Cain’s looking out the windshield. It’s just me watching Phobos, but I’m not sure he can tell that. He knows I’m here, knew before Cain even got around to explaining it. After that initial hiss-and-spit greeting between them, demon and fairy, the necromancer got acknowledged and then dismissed. I’m not about to ask Cain to start relaying messages for me.
“Sure,” says Cain. Under his breath he adds, “Why the fuck not?”
Phobos swings the SUV out its spot and takes off across the parking lot obeying all the crosswalks and stop signs to accommodate pedestrians. Along the way, Cain spots and then keeps his eye on the black sports car he’s abandoning. I almost start to tell him it might still be there later, that we can come back for it, but I remember the magnet, the empty townhouse – the owner’s going to want his car back. Parked here at the mall, it’ll be easy for the police to find.
Cain’s jaw clenches when Phobos turns on the radio. He sinks low into his seat as Phobos turns up the volume. The low rumble in his throat is only vibration, I can’t actually hear him over the bouncing pop music. For someone who just talked about murder and mayhem almost half a century ago, Phobos certainly seems to embrace modern living. He’s humming along to the top 40, even sings a few lines of the catchy chorus. I contacted him through Instagram. Everything about this is crazy. I think I might not be the craziest person I know anymore, although maybe I am, since I’m watching this fairy from inside a demon.
I think again about what Cain said things moving slower, about waiting forty years, and this long-gone necromancer from the sixties who apparently Phobos met once. I fully appreciate for maybe the first time the sheer impossibility of the time involved in all this, the fact that neither Cain nor Phobos nor even Deimos looks really all that much older than me, probably not twice my age. Definitely not enough times older than me to account for all this.
With the bubblegum music blaring, I don’t bother with trying to ask Cain anything. Whatever he says back to me is going to get heard by Phobos anyway. I find it a bit ridiculous that we can’t talk privately despite sharing a body. I think about it while Phobos drives and Cain sulks, or whatever it is he’s doing.
Cain? Cain, I’m sorry about earlier. I’m really trying not to give you any commands. And, I know this plan seems reckless — well, it is reckless, but … I’m glad you’re helping. So, thanks for that, it means a lot. Um, that you’re here. That’s all.
The roll of Cain’s shoulders seems like my answer, until Cain rolls his fingers over his thigh, looks at himself do it, so maybe that’s my answer instead. Or he’s ignoring me. It’s impossible to know, without Cain saying anything.
Somehow the gate that Phobos has to fob open just to get into the parking lot seems suiting. The entire complex seems suiting, from the fountain out front to the quaint balconies dotted along the length of the buildings. Phobos drives around the manicured grounds to one of the buildings in the back of the complex and then taps the garage opener clipped between the dome lights. The SUV barely fits, Cain’s door nearly hits the wall. There’s nothing else in the garage, not even paint on the walls.
Phobos unlocks the door and then leads the way inside, the pea coat over his arm. “Don’t touch anything,” he says to Cain. “I’m not sure what might bite.”
A tight nook of closed doors in the short hall doesn’t provide any clue as to what Phobos means by that, although Cain’s answering grunt seems blandly affirmative. I guess Cain understands the warning. He keeps his hands in the pockets of the stolen coat as Phobos rounds the washer-dryer combo to reach the front entry and staircase leading up into the rest of the house.
It’s catalog-perfect decorating in the entry, with tasteful framed photos of generic black-and-white cityscapes, white marble flooring containing an oval rug, but Cain doesn’t look at any of it for long. He traces his gaze over the lintel where home sweet home is written out with woodblock lettering, and maybe it’s my imagination or a trick of the light, but I doubt it. The black-painted wood gleams and glows with the same intractable quality as Cain’s eyes. I don’t think Phobos’ home is all that sweet to anyone he doesn’t want inside it.
“Are you hungry?” Phobos glances over his shoulder at Cain as they go upstairs. “I have food,” he offers, as if this is an accomplishment worthy of note.
The living room is less catalog perfect, clean and somewhat tidy despite ample clutter. More woodblock letters catch Cain’s attention, he finds love and wish on the living room walls and eat in the dining room. His reply to Phobos is to shake his head and say, “Nah.”
“Well, if you get hungry,” Phobos says. He gestures at the kitchen part of the open floor plan. “Bedrooms are upstairs, don’t go there, use the couch if you want to lie down. I have cable — do you know how to operate a television? Yes, of course you do. You have to. Right?”
Phobos’ wavering certainty ends when Cain looks at him. Glares at him, really, eyes narrowed and brow tight.
“Right,” says Phobos quickly. He goes to the coffee table and picks up the remote briefly, sets it back down. “Well, it’s here. Oh –” He gathers a laptop from the sofa cushions. Cain’s attention goes to it immediately, but Phobos starts for the stairs holding it. He disappears upstairs under Cain’s watchful eye and then reappears without Cain having looked away.
“Got a shower?” Cain asks.
“Yes, but you can’t use it,” Phobos replies. “It’s upstairs. Use the sink if you must.”
Cain side-eyes the dark-gleaming lettering on the wall. It’s a tense moment with suppressed mutual violence, I realize, even though it seems awkwardly silent instead. I don’t think Phobos wants Cain in his house anymore than Cain wants to be here, but Cain and I both know he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Everything’s so complicated, he can’t just be a body walking around, he needs a name, a photo ID, so many things that suddenly I have to wonder how Phobos even has a car, a house, cable television, internet access, all these complicated things in my complicated world that he’s pretending to be part of.
“Sure.” Cain shrugs, looks around at Phobos’ pretend normal life. He checks out the teetering stack of fashion magazines shoved into the corner, turns his head to take in the bookcase loaded up just the same. Most surfaces seem to contain at least one or two of the glossy, colorful things now that I notice. They form the primary source of tidy yet crowded clutter.
Phobos lets out a held breath. “Okay, then,” he agrees. “I’m going. If you need to leave, don’t go downstairs. Use the balcony.” He points at the sliding glass doors in the dining room, just alongside the eat set of woodblock letters. “I assume the height won’t be an issue for you?”
“Yeah, fine,” Cain says brusquely.
A few steps get Phobos closer to actually leaving. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen that’s edible. Maybe don’t open some of the cabinets.” He pauses with a hand on the bannister. “Use your best judgment,” he advises Cain. It’s a vague warning or an apathetic threat, I’m not even sure Phobos knows which. He hesitates further about leaving a demon unsupervised in his home before descending out of sight.
Cain goes to the living room window that overlooks the back of the building. There’s a modest run of trimmed grass and hedges to separate it from the street. Cain leans his head without touching the glass to see further, to look at more, I think maybe he’s anxious about something more than curious. He backs away from the window cautiously, like it might explode if he moves too quick.
Next Cain heads into the kitchen, doesn’t stray long over anything in particular on his way into the dining room. He watches through the glass sliding doors as Phobos’ SUV emerges from beneath the lip of the balcony, drives through the parking lot. Cain stays there for long enough I almost wonder if he’s okay, if maybe being inside Phobos’ house is more terrible than it seems.
At last Cain turns, goes into the kitchen. A vast array of colorful, whimsical magnets secure almost every available inch of the fridge in paper. Takeout menus, magazine cutouts, notes and lists in round, looped handwriting, a few faded newspaper clippings, recipes — nothing particularly personal, no photos, just collected items of interest that say so much without meaning anything. It gives as much of an understanding of Phobos as that one single sports car magnet.
Inside the fridge is an absent horror of actual contents. There aren’t even condiments, besides a handful of ketchup packets hanging out in the drawer. A Chinese takeout carton and pizza box occupy the shelves along with a half-consumed sports drink. Cain closes the door, checks in the freezer and finds shriveled cubes in a plastic ice tray. He slams it shut and then sweeps his gaze over the rest of the granite countertop kitchen.
Fashion magazines occupy spaces meant for appliances and food prep, dishes. They’re stacked or scattered, one flopped open beside the sink and littered with tell-tale crumbs. A nearby set of bagels wrapped in their plastic bag get picked up, studied, and then tossed down in disgust by Cain. After a cautious study of the cabinet and drawers, Cain decides to open none of them. He checks the pantry, first tapping cautiously at the knob like checking for a live wire.
A bag of potatoes wiggling with sprouts greets him, it’s slung into the bottom corner. A few cans of condensed soup, one-pound bags of rice and beans, lentils, Cain picks up and sets down each thing with subsequently louder swearing. He ends up with one of the soup cans that has a pull tab, yanks it off with enough force that chicken noodle slops over his hand.
Um, those are actually meant to be —
Cain lifts his finger, flips off the pantry and makes sure I can see it as he keeps chugging straight from the room-temperature, still-condensed can. I’m disgusted on his behalf, horrified on his behalf. The profane gesture lowers as his head tips back for the last gloopy noodle and slimy chunk of too-cold to be pleasant chicken. He sets the empty can on the counter, or rather on one of the magazine stacks occupying the counter space.
The stolen coat ends up across of the silver-stemmed, white-cushioned barstools. Cain turns on the sink and adjusts the temperature until he’s satisfied. The flow of water passes over the ragged red lines on his arms.
He scrubs the dried blood with soap, seems unconcerned with the raw, open flesh. I’m concerned about how they’re not bleeding, not healing, maybe they look a bit better than before the crash, actually, now that he’s cleaned up the blood. Maybe all the blood made them look worse.
Cain?
“Hmn.”
More absent then anything, I think, he doesn’t seem to be scowling at anything. He’s not attacking the faucet to turn it off, he’s shaking his hands slow to dry them. As I hesitate over what to say now that I know he’s okay listening, Cain puts back on the black wool dress coat. By the time I figure out what I might want to say, he’s collapsing onto the sofa.
Cain’s left on his boots in blatant disregard or sheer exhaustion, I can’t tell. He tosses and turns to get comfortable and can’t on Phobos’ elegant white-leather sofa.
Cain, I’m so sorry. I wish I knew more about what I was doing. Is there anything I can do to help you right now? Besides shut up and let you sleep.
The intense study of the ceiling doesn’t waver. Cain’s decided to lie on his back, arms and ankles crossed. The dumbest question blurts out of me in the silence of Cain not answering the stupid one I already asked.
Are vampires real?
A genuine laugh escapes Cain and continues, builds, he has to sit upright with it. I’ve pushed him so far off the scale of amusement that Cain starts to cough these horrible, ragged coughs that remind me just what hell I’ve dragged this poor demon through since pulling him half-frozen from a lake in the middle of the night.
Sorry. Sorry, Cain, you don’t have to answer that.
“Fuck yeah,” is what Cain manages. There’s a grin pulling his face when he gets the coughs and laughter both under control. “You really are the dumbest fucking necromancer. What the fuck makes you think vampires wouldn’t be real if demons, fairies, fucking wizards — Sweetheart, didn’t your mother ever read you any bedtime stories?”
No… I mean, I read books to myself… I – I’m not stupid, Cain, except in my world none of that is real, okay? My mom would have let a doctor cut my head open and rearrange it manually if she thought it would make me stop being crazy. That’s what I thought I was, Cain, I thought I was crazy, and – and – you know what? Fuck you. Seriously, Cain, fuck you for laughing at me when you don’t explain anything or answer a single question without me forcing you into it. Maybe I hate you. How’s that, Cain? I hate you. There. Now you’ve pissed off the voice inside your head that can tell you to do whatever it wants. And you think I’m the dumb one? Ha!
Cain’s not saying a word back. He’s not even moving besides breathing, actually, and then blinking too I guess. Now that I’ve pause my tirade enough I can actually take in the silent, passive way Cain does nothing about the fact I’m freaking out on him like this.
I was just thinking of all the horrible things I’ve done to Cain, and here I am finding even more ways to hurt him. I have no idea what I’m doing, why I’m doing this. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hurt Cain or boss him around or threaten to hurt him further.
Such devastation fills me that I think Cain feels it, he starts to stir uncomfortably. He turns onto his back and snarls softly like he wants to tell me to shut up, stop panicking. I’m freaking out on him silently instead, and I’m sorry for that along with the rest.
I’m not sure if I’m calm or not, but I’m only thoughts and feelings and talking to Cain, so if I need to feel and think less then —
Cain, is this what it means to be a necromancer? Is this what I can do, hurt you? Command you? Make you fight things and do anything even if it means getting you killed and – and what else? What other horrible things can I do?
He’s hushed, even though we’re alone. No rumble, no snarl, mostly sigh. “You really want me answering that, sweetheart?”
…No.
“Okay, then.” Cain watches the ceiling, like that’s the end of it. His eyes close finally, it’s sunshine-bright late morning sun flowing into the apartment. It’s bright behind his closed lids. Cain turns toward the back of the sofa and hunches the wool coat over his head some until things darken.
Cain?
“Hmn.” It’s a soft acknowledgment, same as at the sink, as if my outburst never happened.
Cain, I’m sorry.
His breathing’s gone slow and heavy like he might be asleep, except Cain slurs back, “S’fine.”
I don’t really hate you.
The echoed sensation of Cain’s smile is pulled cheeks, same as any sharp-toothed sneer or jeering grin. His eyes open, he lifts his head like I’m somewhere in the room for him to see. That I’m somewhere in the room to see him. When I’m not — when he remembers I’m not — Cain stops smiling. He lowers into the sofa, curls the coat over his head to block the light.
I want to tell him goodnight. I want to tell him again that I’m sorry, that maybe I did mean some of that outburst but it was rude. Even if Cain’s rude to me, I don’t want to be rude back. That’s not who I am, that’s not the type of person I am. Even if I’m a necromancer, a monster, I still want to be me. Someone smart, nice, funny, caring — surely I’m those things, surely that’s who I am, how I’ve lived my life. I had such a nice life. I was such a nice kid.
“Sweetheart,” groans Cain. “You want the TV on? I can’t stay awake to entertain you now and do this dumb plan later, princess, it’s one or the other.” Sarcastic and snapping, pushing himself upright to glare at the nothing I’ve become. Cain snatches up the remote and stares for too long at the plethora of buttons.
It’s the red one, top left.
He jabs it. The screen flickers to life. I suggest a few channels, but Cain gets so distracted by putting in different number combinations that I stop, let him take over entirely. He starts scrolling through channels with rapt attention to even commercials, although he doesn’t stay long with anything in particular. He interrupts celebrity spokespeople mid-sentence, watches the opening credits to a sitcom and then flips to something else once the show actually starts. Cain’s fascination with the television sets him into scowling, I’m not sure if that means he’s upset or just focused, concentrating, trying to figure out my complicated world via toothpaste commercials and daytime soap operas.
When Cain gives up on the television in favor of trying to sleep, he leaves it running. So I’ll have something to listen to, I suppose, although I’m full of a sudden curiosity how this is going to work once Cain is unconscious. He’s closed eyes and steady breaths, a settled heaviness that’s getting heavier. The shadowed darkness behind his shut eyelids seems to undulate into deeper oblivion. Am I imagining the television’s gotten quieter? Is it just a quiet part of the show?
I’m still braced for something to be different when I hear the end credits run on the show, a fast-paced announcer hyping the next vapid dose of weekday mush. I listen to the entire hour-long talk show with Cain still unchanged, quiet and heavy with closed eyes. All he asked for was a shower and a bed. That’s all he wanted, all he needed, I’m here with him still but it’s not the same. I can’t stroke my fingers through his hair, rub his weary shoulders. All I can do is let him rest, wait for him to wake up, move forward with this terrible plan to play hide-and-seek with my body.