John Hawks - The GoldenCity

“I’m not a Harlequin, so I don’t follow their rules. The Tabula killed Vicki, and I’m going to destroy every last one of them.”

“You still care about her?”

“Of course!”

“And you remember what kind of person she was?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you really think she’d want you to do this?”

Gabriel raised his eyes and Hollis was sensed the full power of the Traveler. He felt like child at that moment. Embrace me. Comfort me. But then he remembered the stone inside his body and he covered his chest with his arms.

“There isn’t a single thing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

“All right. Don’t listen to me. But why don’t you ask Vicki? What if you could speak to her one last time?”

Hollis felt as if Gabriel had leaned forward and slapped him. Was this possible? Could a Traveler make this happen? Of course not. Furious, he slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t want to hear any of that spiritual shit. Vicki is dead. I buried her on the island. She’s not coming back.”

“I didn’t say she was coming back. When a person dies, the Light leaves their body forever. But in certain circumstances-a suicide, a violent death-the Light remains for awhile in this world. A small group of people have the ability to channel this energy. In the past, they’ve been called shamans or mediums.”

“I know what you’re talking about. Ghosts and goblins. Gypsies and crystal balls. It’s all fake.”

“Most of the time, you’re right. But some people really can speak to the dead.”

“You?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No. I don’t have that gift. But Simon Lumbroso told me about another possibility. When Sparrow was the last Harlequin left in Japan, Maya’s father visited Tokyo to see him. Sparrow took Thorn to see a traditional spirit reader who lived on the northern coast of the main island. Thorn said that the woman was very powerful-the real thing.”

“It was probably some kind of trick.”

“You no longer have a home, Hollis. You can’t go back to Los Angeles. If you’re leaving London, then why not fly to Tokyo?”

“You’re manipulating me…”

“I’m offering you a different kind of journey. Any one of us can dedicate our lives to hate. It happens every day. This is your moment to consider an alternative. Go to Japan. Look for this spirit woman. Perhaps you wouldn’t find her. Maybe you’ll come back and tell me: ‘We’ve got to be like our enemies if we want to defeat them.’ If you say that, if you believe that, I’ll listen to you.”

Footsteps on the stairs. Hollis glanced over his shoulder and saw Linden return to the room with a cup of coffee in his massive hand.

“I’ll think it over,” Hollis said. “But I still don’t believe you can talk to the dead.”

Maya reached the fourth floor of the abandoned office building and passed slowly down the central hallway, checking for new footprints in the dust. When she was sure that no one had visited the building since her last visit, she scattered broken glass on the hallway floor, then approached a suite of rooms once occupied by an insurance company. Her hand touched the handle of her sword and she got ready to attack.

Moving as quietly as possible, she slipped into the reception area. Stop. Listen.

No one was there. Maya pushed a desk against the entrance door and opened a hallway air vent so that she could hear anyone approaching. There was no electricity on the island and the only light in the room came from a gas flare out in the street. The flame wavered back and forth, burning with a dirty orange light. Shadows touched the old-fashioned office furniture and the wall of rusty file cabinets. During one of her earlier visits, Maya had searched through the cabinets and found water-stained files filled with insurance contracts and payment stubs.

She entered one of the offices, found an executive chair, and brushed off the dust. Something moved in the next room and she drew her sword. The inhabitants on the island could be divided into two categories: the cockroaches were weak, frightened men who tried to survive by hiding in the ruins; the wolves were much more aggressive, roaming through the city in groups looking for prey.

The sound came again. Maya peered through a crack in the door and saw a rat scurry across the floor and disappear into the wall. There were rats all over the island as well as gray animals resembling ferrets that darted through the undergrowth of the abandoned parks. No danger, Maya thought. I can rest here. She returned the sword to its scabbard and pushed the padded chair into the reception room. After checking the door one last time, she sat down and tried to relax. On the floor near her feet were a steel-tipped club and a shoulder bag that held a bottle of water. No food.

This dark world had many names: the First Realm, Hades, Sheol or Hell. It had been described in many myths and legends, but one rule was always the same: a visitor like herself should never eat anything while she was here-even an elaborate meal offered on gold plates. Travelers left their real bodies in the Fourth Realm and could escape this danger, but if an ordinary person swallowed a crust of bread, they could be held here for eternity. Maya felt like one of the fires that burned in the rubble, a bright point of flame that was slowly consuming itself. Most of the city’s mirrors had been destroyed, but she had seen herself in a sliver of window glass near the city’s abandoned museum. Her hair was matted and her eyes were dead.

Her appearance didn’t bother her as much as the deterioration of her memory; sometimes it felt like entire periods of her life were melting away. She guarded the vivid images that still remained. A long time ago, she had spent a winter’s day in the New Forest watching a herd of wild horses run across a snow-covered pasture. Within her mind, she saw stocky legs and tangled manes, hooves kicking up the snow as white breath lingered in the air.

She could recall scattered moments with her father and mother, Linden, Mother Blessing and the other Harlequins, but Gabriel was the only voice she could still hear, the only face she could still see. So far, her love had protected these memories, but it was becoming more difficult to bring them back. Was Gabriel fading away like a photograph exposed to sunlight, the colors less vivid, the shapes less distinct? If she lost him a second time, then she would become just like the others on the island-dead within, but still alive.

Maya heard a scraping noise in the hallway and opened her eyes. She only had a few seconds to draw her sword before the door opened an inch or so and hit the desk. She grabbed her shoulder bag, slung the strap over her left shoulder, and stood listening. The intruder knocked on the door.

“Are you there?” asked a soft voice. “It’s Pickering. Mr. Pickering. I’m Gabriel’s friend.”

“There aren’t any friends on this island.”

“But it’s true,” Pickering said. “I swear that it’s true. I helped Gabriel when he first came here and then the wolves captured us. Open the door. Please. I’ve been looking for you.”

She vaguely recalled a man in rags. He had been chained to a pipe in the abandoned school used as headquarters by the wolves. As Maya wandered alone through the city, she had encountered a few of the human cockroaches that hid themselves within walls or beneath floors. They always seemed frightened and talked rapidly, as if the constant flow of words would prove they were still alive. The cockroaches were the intellectuals of Hell-filled with grand schemes and lengthy explanations.

Maya returned the sword to its leather scabbard, walked over to the door and pulled the desk a few inches toward her. Pickering must have heard the desk legs squeaking across the tile floor because he immediately turned the knob. This time the door opened wide enough for him to stick his head inside the room. “It’s Mr. Pickering, at your service. I had a tailor’s shop before the trouble started. The finest ladies’ clothing.” He took a deep breath. “And whom I have the honor of meeting?”