M L N Hanover - Killing Rites

“Folks like us,” I said.

He paused, considering.

“Yeah, you put it that way. Folks like us. What does Tofu Boy think about the whole exorcism thing?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I haven’t told him. Can I ask you a question? What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?”

“Being a rider.”

He took a long breath and let it hiss out between his teeth. The body he was in had died sometime in the nineteenth century, so I had to take his breath as an editorial statement. I looked down at my hands. I had a scab across the knuckles that I didn’t remember. Something from the fight against the wind demon, maybe. I couldn’t keep track anymore.

“Should I not have asked that?” I said.

“No, no. It’s all right. Just kind of a personal question is all. What’s it feel like? We, it feels … It’s like putting your face underwater. Look, imagine you’re by a lake or something. Nice blue water stretching out to wherever, right? Now you lean over, put your face in water, and open your eyes. Boom, there’s this whole other place with fish and plants and whatever junk the kids threw off the dock last year. This whole world you weren’t part of, but now you can see it. Be part of it. And everything there’s amazing, you know? There’s light and thoughts and sex and hunger and … being. Things exist. It’s gorgeous.”

He rubbed his ear, grinning. I’d never heard him sound excited or passionate about anything before. Maybe food, a little, but this was different.

“And so you dive in,” I said.

“No, kid. You want to. Worse than anything, you want to. But the only thing I can do is push in a little. I’m like an iceberg. Some of me’s in this body, sure, but most of me’s in the Pleroma. I don’t fit here. I don’t belong,” he said. Then, a moment later, “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I wondered. What if … What if I’m not really Jayné Heller at all? I mean I don’t know how long this rider’s been in me. Maybe it always was. What if the real Jayné never took a breath. Never had a thought. What if I’ve been the rider all along.”

“You’re spilling your coffee, kid.”

I righted the cup.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s all right. But anyway, the theory doesn’t wash. Who comes and kicks ass when you’re not calling the shots? Who does all this weird magic shit that you can’t? You’re not a rider, kid, no matter how pretty it’d be to think so.”

“Pretty ?”

“Sure, that’s the point, right? If you’re the nasty evil boogum, then Jayné still gets to be clean. She didn’t kill that guy. The exorcism comes, and you get cast into the darkness where you belong. She gets to live her life innocent and free of sin. That’s what you’d be hoping for, right?”

The blush started at my neck and crawled up toward my forehead, feeling like a sunburn. It was a dumb idea, and I felt like a stupid kid for having said it.

“It was just a theory,” I mumbled. “Never mind.”

“Nah, I get it. You kill someone the first time, it’s traumatic. And then you find out you aren’t even in control of your own body? That takes a lot away from you. Makes a hell of a one-two punch. I figure you’ve got a right to be on the ropes.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“So how’re you gonna get off ’em?”

The silence lasted a few seconds.

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, jeez. Don’t start crying. Look, you had a bad run. You did your Oh, poor me , and that’s fine. We all get those sometimes. It’s just that being a victim gets to be a habit. You stay there too long, you get comfortable. Gets to where a victim is who you are. So game-plan it. Put on your big-girl panties and tell me what’re you gonna do.”

I took a deep breath. What did I need?

“I need to be all right,” I said.

“Good start, but maybe a little vague, right? How’re you going to get there from here?”

“I don’t know,” I said, choking a little at the end.

I couldn’t help it. I started crying in earnest. Tears and sobs. Head in hands. The whole thing. Midian’s sigh was like gravel sliding off the back of a pickup truck. The cheap, stinking cushion of the couchlike thing shifted under me as he sat down beside me. His arm around my shoulder was weirdly hot and hard as concrete. The smell of his cigarettes almost covered the garlic and onions and fresh basil. Kitchen smells. I leaned against his shoulder.

“It’s okay, kid,” he murmured. “You go ahead if you need to. It’s all right.”

It was bad weather. A storm that came up fast and washed away thought and awareness and then broke. I might have been there, curled up against him for a couple of minutes. It might have been half an hour. I couldn’t have told the difference.

When I pulled myself back together, he stood up, fished around in his pocket, and pulled out a linen handkerchief. I wiped my eyes, blew my nose. When I spoke, my voice was thick and wet.

“I need my body back,” I said. “I can’t have this thing living inside me.”

“Okay, then,” he said, walking the three steps to the back of the RV. “You’ve got a plan for that. What else?”

“I want to never hurt anybody again ever.”

“Tall order, but worth aiming for,” he said, grunting. I glanced over. He was pulling on a fresh shirt. I’d left a wide damp spot on the old one.

“I need to figure out who I really am,” I said. There was a weird sense of déjà vu in saying the words.

“Yeah, well. That’s never wrong. So here’s what I’m hearing you tell me, okay? No matter what comes next, the first step, you’re finishing up with the papists. After you’re calling the shots on your body, you’re spending some time actually getting your shit together. Which means not running around the world like a decapitated chicken all the time. Slow down. Figure out what your next step is. And—this is me talking now—no more stroking your inner victim. Bad for your skin.”

“Yes, Oprah,” I said, but I smiled when I said it.

“Hey. Fuck you too,” he said, grinning. He teeth were black where they weren’t yellow.

My phone rang at the same moment that something scratched on the thin metal and plastic of the doorway. I turned toward the sound of claws, ready for a threat, but Midian waved me back. I pulled my phone out of the leather backpack I used as a purse. It was Ex. Midian opened the RV door and the ancient Laborador from the parking lot hefted hersef up the stairs on arthritic hips. I answered the call.

“Is everything okay?” Ex said instead of hello. His voice was tight as a wire.

“Sure,” I said, trying to keep the aftermath of tears out of my voice. “Everything’s copacetic. Why?”

“You’ve been gone a long time. We were starting to worry.”

“No, I’m at O’Keefe’s,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe—“

Midian coughed. He stood in the galley, scratching the dog between its ears and looking at me. His yellow eyes were empty, and I understood. If I told Ex he was here, he would tell Father Chapin. If Ex told Father Chapin, the exorcists would come after Midian. If not now, then later. Maybe I should have felt some conflict about lying to Ex, but I didn’t. It was Midian .

“You wouldn’t believe how good the food is,” I said gamely. “I’m just luxuriating over a little coffee.”

“Did anything happen?” he asked. The tension in his voice sounded like a small accusation.

“I haven’t been taken over by the rider and hijacked to Juárez,” I said a little sharply. “I’m fine. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“All right,” Ex said, backing down. “We’ve got a game plan and a schedule. When we’ve gone over it, we can all call it a night.”