Vicki Pettersson - Cheat the Grave

“Damn him…” Running from the thought, the Bentley’s engine growling like a low-slung predator on the streets, I wound up at another unexpected destination. It was probably just my research on Arun and the mysterious trunk left by someone in his party, but it was as if my subconscious was touring all the places haunting me. Idling before the dilapidated house Cher and I had visited the night before, I willed myself to keep driving until I either found a safe place or ran out of gas, whichever came first.

The neon green sign spelling psychic flickered on while I idled. Leaning forward, I peered through the windshield at the boarded-up building. Nothing moved, and after another moment I slid from the car’s high-tech womb and into the chill night. A man’s harsh, rattling laugh sounded from the nearby apartment complex, an answering hoot rocketed into the night, and if I squinted, I could imagine myself in a bombed-out country with rubble and lean-tos competing to hide the most menace.

Sidestepping a stain that looked like it could rear up and bite, I fought the impulse to turn back. I’d done my best to honor Warren’s wishes and stay away from the Zodiac world, but what he should have done was tell the Zodiac world to stay away from me. If he wasn’t going to protect me, then I’d do what I’d always done…as Joanna, as the Archer and Kairos, and now as Olivia: arm myself.

My eyesight, always dim these days, adjusted slowly, but I spotted the spindly form of the clay pot and dead plant upturned next to the door.

And the man who wore bones on the outside of his skin was waiting.

Again, he was not dressed for company. The same torn, grubby jeans-too loose for the thin white body painted black. Thank God for the slivered light angling through the boarded-up windows like lines on a music sheet. If not for that, he’d have looked exactly like the skeleton he was pretending to be, the tattooed bones inky in relief, his sunken eyes twin voids of dark knowledge. His nails, living dead things, writhed slowly as he considered me.

“No mask this time,” he said, though I didn’t know how he could tell with eyes sewn shut.

“You’re a Seer.” I fought not to cross my arms. He’d know it for self-protection, not defiance, and I needed defiance. “You already know who I am.”

“And why you’re here.” He swung the door wide to reveal a room bare but for the dust. And, I thought, the ornate chest marking its middle like a black hole. Holding my breath, I edged past the Seer, pretending not to hear his inhalation, or his nails clacking as he shut the door behind me.

“That where the psychic part comes in?” I asked, struggling to keep my back to him. I wouldn’t be able to stop him from killing me now. And why would I want to see death coming anyway?

“It’s merely obvious. Question is, do you know?” He appeared in front of me. Just like that. One sharp clack of toenails like talons and his breath was on my cheek. He angled his head, his beard forking right. “Quick-what do you most desire?”

“Protection,” I said, sighing deeply. There was a relief in speaking openly again with someone about the underworld and my former place in it. It was like the first breath after taking off tight clothing worn too long.

“To arm myself. I need help.”

“Then you shall have those things.” His lacquered nails glinted in the slanted light as he gestured to the chest.

“We all manifest our true desires. As long as we name them, of course.”

Because desires were the emotions that most heavily controlled our thoughts, and the Zodiac world had taken the “it’s the thought that counts” principle and turned it into a religion. Thoughts-precise, applied, fixed- determined action. They could create living beings and walls and plant life out of nothing. Our minds were our might.

I smiled wryly as I crossed the shadow-drenched room. I should have gone for the man, the munchkins, and the picket fence. I’d have made a kick-ass soccer mom.

Dismissing the pipe dream, I traced the symbol centered on the chest’s carved and silken top. The one I’d drawn from memory and that had so interested the Tulpa. “May I?”

“Do you believe you are the Kairos?” he asked.

Jerking my head, I flipped open the lid. “I believe I still count.”

He made a considering noise in the back of his throat. “That’s a start.” Then a pause. “My name is Caine.”

I nodded to acknowledge I’d heard, but the odd arsenal before me was a shadowy attraction, like death beckoning. All four weapons I’d seen before were here; maybe Arun Brahma was an ally. I tested the hinge on the trident, a thrill reverberating up my arm as the blades winged open with a definitive snap. It was older than me by at least two lifetimes, but still sharp, which was all that mattered.

It’s also magical, I thought, retracting the blades and tucking it into my oversized bag. Conduits were allegedly taboo for me now. Most often they turned impotent in mortal hands, though in some cases they backfired. Seeing the gun with the coolly glowing liquid vials again, I was too juiced to care. It felt like a part of me, long buried, had just lifted the casket lid. Better to die armed than stand flatfooted against a magical blade.

I placed that into my bag too, though the saber with an additional firearm was too large to tuck away. Good thing it was winter. It could be concealed in a long coat. I decided to leave the cane, with a blade at its pommel, out. Carrying it as Olivia Archer would either be attributed to affectation or need. It was well known I’d only recently rehabbed from a near drowning. As to actually using it, or any of the conduits, I guess I’d test the backfiring theory when the time came.

“Don’t forget the additional ammo,” Caine said, jerking his head. His beard did the pointing for him. “That’s all there is.”

Because the weapons were so old. Their controlling agents were long dead…as were the weapons masters who’d created them. Every paranormal weapon was made for a particular agent, and most effective in its original owners’ hands. However, they could also be inherited, which was how I’d once gained my palm-sized bow and arrow.

I sighed, still wishing for my conduit. Nothing else was so perfect an extension of my body, as if my skin wrapped around it to draw it closer to my bone. I glanced up to see Caine’s attention on me, despite his sunken gaze. He would know of my losses. No reason he couldn’t tell me about his.

“What happened to your eyes?” I asked, with the same directness most Seers used. People who could intuit others’ designs and deeds before they occurred had no need or patience for pretense. I’d learned that from Tekla.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He shifted so his face fell into the fractured light. “My visions are gifts from the Universe, but a great gift requires a great sacrifice. As you know.”

I did. Tekla’s gift had taken a good chunk of her sanity. She slept sporadically, mumbled to herself, obsessed over her charts. Screamed in the night. I used to feel sorry for her. Lately I’d found myself thinking, So what?

She had more than enough power to compensate, and so did Caine.

I turned. “I don’t want to give any more.”

“That’s your problem.”

“My problem,” I snapped, “is that no one will leave me alone.”

He shrugged. “And that you wallow in self-pity.”

“Fuck you,” I said, drawing it out. It felt good to say to a person who could snuff me like a cigarette. I muttered it again, even lighter.

“Thank you for confirming it.” Caine’s tone was taut, like it was threaded with a thin strip of wire. “But don’t dare say that again. Your losses have nothing on mine.”