Vicki Pettersson - Cheat the Grave

Now he did smile, damn him. “I’m a dying man.”

Because of me. I couldn’t stop that. But I could give him a kiss.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Harlan.” I bent forward and pressed my lips to his. He tasted like tobacco, sweat, and smoke. It was as chaste a kiss as I’d ever given, something that would pass between siblings, and that delivered the comfort of mortal touch, understanding, kinship…and forgiveness. It was a kiss of absolution, and it cleared the worry from Tripp’s furrowed brow.

“So that’s Light…” he replied wonderingly, and let his head drop back, knocking his hat forward again. I lifted it, moved it aside, and still he didn’t move. After the horror and messiness and pain of death, there was ultimately only silent acceptance, and stillness.

But Harlan Tripp, the stubborn bastard who’d long survived two worlds, wasn’t quite done yet. He laughed, loopy, not feeling much of anything anymore. “You’re a high roller, girl. Still sittin’ at that table. Still in the game…”

I palmed his head when it fell to the side. “What?”

His eyes didn’t open but he managed a humorless smile. “Still got them chips?”

“The ones from the warehouse?” I kept speaking so he wouldn’t have to nod. “Yeah, but you said they’re useless. I gave all my powers to Jas.”

“But you can still cash in the ones you won.” Like Shen’s sense of smell? The albino’s aether, whatever that was?

“How, Tripp?” My heart bumped in my chest. Still a player. Still in the game . “How do I cash in the chips”- the powers-“I won at that table?”

But Tripp was nearly gone, mouth barely moving, mind already skipping to some other final thought. “You said your troop kicked you out,” he whispered, without force. “’Cause you weren’t useful to them anymore.

’Member?”

I nodded.

His eyelids lifted one last time, and in the stillness of the room where he’d die, he wrapped me in his gaze. “I been fueling a matriarch’s world for years, an’ one thing I learnt…a woman ain’t put in any world for her usefulness. You got purpose beyond the things you can do for others. And everyone’s got a right to their own damned reasons.”

Was that why he’d told me about Solange and Hunter? So I’d act on the truth, and make a choice reflecting what I wanted? I’d never know. The short speech had cost him too much. “The chips, Tripp…”

He didn’t even hear me.

“I ain’t a good man, Archer. Don’ mistake me for that. But I’ll tell you this much,” Tripp slurred, eyes closing a final time. “Someone’s tryin’ to keep you from your reasons? You’d damned well better question theirs .”

I knew the Tulpa had survived Skamar yet again when Helen returned to the compound, acting as if she’d never been gone.

I knew Mackie had also escaped when Carlos didn’t.

Of course, with a force equivalent to a small tornado having swept through the mansion, neither Helen nor I could pretend nothing had happened. So I tucked Tripp’s words about still being a high roller aside and used my cell to call the police while moving the quirleys and weapons and binder back out to the guesthouse. Then I returned to wait in the secret room for Helen to find me. I hated leaving Tripp’s body where it was, but Helen would never let it be discovered by mortals. Sure enough, as she and the first officers on the scene led me blinking like a newborn back into the destroyed office, both Tripp and Alex’s severed arm were gone. Not even blood marked the floor.

“I think they were after my father’s financial information,” I told the investigating detective, aware Helen was listening intently from over my shoulder. “They tore the room apart, and the only thing they stole was a binder he’d given me upon his death. It contained everything he wanted me to know about his affairs, the company, and its financials. That means the money,” I explained earnestly.

There. That would get back to the Tulpa, first thing, and I’d be off the hook for the missing binder. As for the rest…

“I hope you have a copy somewhere,” Officer Greenlaw replied, jotting in his notepad.

“And how did you get away?” Helen butted in, earning dual glances of irritation from both Greenlaw and me.

“I hid in the room where my father apparently liked to pray,” I said, shifting to train my gaze on hers. “I stayed there even after the noise outside had stopped, just in case the scary man was still there.”

“And you said he was wearing a bowler hat?” asked the cop, again taking notes.

“That’s right, a dusty one. In fact, everything about him was strangely musty.” I shuddered in the girliest move I could think of. The officer gave me a sympathetic nod. Helen didn’t look as convinced. So as the interview continued, I shivered and sighed, explaining I’d gone to the office because I was missing my father, that I’d been alone the entire time-in keeping with the Tulpa’s hypnotic suggestion, which Helen would also relay- and remembered very little after hitting my head. Then I started crying, switching subjects to mourn Suzanne’s ruined rehearsal dinner, nerves making it easy to produce the tears that had the detective planning his own getaway.

Yet enduring an interrogation wasn’t all bad. For one, it got me out of the sleepover. The other guests were methodically interviewed and dismissed, including Cher, who had left her dinner at some point to come looking for me. The police interviewed her separately, but came to the conclusion she’d gone upstairs to my bedroom and seen even less of the destruction left in the tulpas’ wake than the guests mingling off the foyer.

Suzanne, meanwhile, was beside herself. She left in tears, bottom lip quivering, apologizing to me as if it were her fault, and wondering aloud if the dinner’s interruption was bad luck in either American or Indian culture. In contrast, Arun simply looked unaccustomed at having anything upset the natural order of his world. Yet he did his best to soothe his distraught bride, one arm draped protectively over her shoulders, whispering soothing platitudes in her ear as he guided her to the door.

“Let’s hope the wedding goes more smoothly tomorrow,” she sniffled before kissing my cheek, tears staining her worried and disappointed eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, squeezing her hand, and I truly was. No bride should have to remember chaos when marking her wedding anniversary. I caught Cher’s glance over her shoulder, and she nodded, signaling she’d accompany her stepmother home and remain with her through the night.

As for Arun, there was no opportunity to corner him, and no reason we should be seen conferring alone. So I followed the trio out onto the steps of the marble entryway and waited until Cher and Suzanne had their backs turned, arms tucked consolingly around each other’s waists. Leaning against a white pillar, I whispered, the words immediately lost to the night-soaked air. Arun still turned at his name.

“I’ll kill you if something happens to her.”

Arun merely tilted his head and smiled up at me. Then he replaced Cher’s supporting arm with his own, and allowed Suzanne to lean into him. I made sure their car had been whisked away before I allowed my sigh of despair to perfume the air. I had to stop that wedding.

After the guests left, and the household crew was busy whispering among themselves, Helen excused herself, muttering something about a migraine. I knew she’d be desperate to discover the status of her leader-that nasty unrequited love again rearing its head-and seek instructions on what to do next.

So I disappeared as well. Throughout Cher and Suzanne’s whimpering concerns, the police’s questioning, and Helen’s looming suspicion, Tripp’s final words kept rattling through my mind. You’re a high roller, girl. Still sittin’ at that table. Still in the gam… .