Lyn Benedict - Gods & Monsters

That bitter cold, that chilled rot swooped in on her again, something biting at her mouth, her lips, a bitter, deathly kiss. She tried to push him off, but only pushed through the gelid unseen mass of him.

His fingers wrapped her skull, an icy cage around the back of her neck, her cheek, and a freezing fog pressed into her mouth. She gasped, choked. He backed off, and she coughed the fog out.

It came out, warmed by her living breath, and created sense out of ghostly silence. His words. Her voice. “Wales needs you.”

Sylvie shivered. “Why?”

Their shadows merged again, and Sylvie shuddered through another onslaught, growling even as he fed her his frozen words. There was necessity, and there was Marco, and his misogynistic history. And an icy hand that was sliding down her throat toward her breast.

She tore herself away, sprawled on the tile; the words gusted out on impact, strained, but clear.

“Sorcerer found him.”

“Sorcerer. Azpiazu?” Sylvie held up a hand. “Nod yes, or no.”

The shadow on the wall swayed, grudging her that, but his need to communicate was too strong. He nodded.

“Killed?” Sylvie asked. Her throat felt sore, stretched by its brush with death.

The shadow swayed, a twist at its top like a small tornado. Dizzying to watch, to focus on that pale shadow on a white wall.

“Taken.”

Another nod, slow so there could be no misunderstanding. It should have made her feel better. Taken was a long way from dead. But taken, when she was trapped here, felt a whole lot like dead.

“For his binding spell.”

The crash of shadow and cold against her, within her, pressing inward, an invasion. Marco pressed into her skin, into her body, climbed inside, and pushed a nightmare of images into her brain.

Wales/Sylvie, bent over his/her computer, reading spells by tech light, stretching absently, lifting an empty soda can to their lips, brief burst of warm dregs dropping onto their tongue. Long ache in their spine and a yawn, cold coins in their palm, the kiss of cool air as they passed the ice machine, the sudden stink of animal in the hotel’s wide halls, strong as skunk, turning too slow, the blow crashing down, the impact and crackle against the soda machine, then black.

Waking underwater, lungs straining for air, with claws ripping patterns into their skin, blood swirling upward, so hypnotic, so sleepy, bubbles rising, find Sylvie . . .

Sylvie jerked away from the memories, from Marco’s invasion, from the physical sensation of being drowned, of being frozen, of being afraid. She lunged for the sink, hung over it, gagging.

Sweat sprang out all along her hairline; her neck felt swampy with it.

“Sylvie?” Cachita pulled the belt from her scrub pants, wadded it up, wet it with cool water, and sponged at Sylvie’s face. “What’s happening?”

“We’re getting out of here,” Sylvie said, when she felt more in control. “We’re not waiting for Tepé or Erinya or, hell, for Alex to call us a lawyer. We’re getting out. We’re getting Wales, and we’re kicking Azpiazu’s ass all the way to hell.”

“How?”

Sylvie leaned against Cachita’s human warmth, soaking it in. “Marco’s a free ghost now. But he used to be a Hand of Glory. I’m betting he still has it in him.”

“What does that mean?” Cachita asked. “Hand of Glory? A free ghost?”

“It means,” Sylvie said, “we’re walking right out the door.”

AS SOON AS THE LAST OF THE SHAKES HAD LEFT HER BODY, THE LAST of the ghost-repulsion fled, Sylvie gave Marco the go-ahead. The shadow drifted toward the door, and after a moment, the door popped open. An alarm buzzed, an annoying electric whine like a swarm of mosquitoes. Cachita tensed, but Sylvie said, “Marco can handle it. Just stay behind me.”

They followed the ghost into the hallway, their bare feet leaving marks in the frost caused by his passage.

Three ISI agents appeared in the hall, talking rapidly into their headsets, and balking at the sight of them escaped from their cell.

Pausing, Sylvie thought, was definitely their mistake. They crumpled one after another, falling so fast that they didn’t even have time to draw their weapons.

Cachita squeaked beside her. “What just—”

“Don’t ask.”

Marco might be biting into their souls, putting them into soul shock, but hell, they were still getting off easy. Erinya, Tepeyollotl—the white walls would be bloody by now.

By the time they neared the front door, word had gotten out, and Marco had taken down so many agents that he had lost his translucency; he pulsed with stolen pieces of soul, a false heartbeat that glowed dimly in the building’s bright lights.

Sylvie collected two holstered guns, yanking at buckles and webbing and slinging them over her shoulder. She’d want them later. Even if they wouldn’t work against Azpiazu and his oh-so-talented ability to change metal into something harmless.

Another agent appeared, blurry behind the luminescent mirage that was Marco, and for once, Marco paused. Sylvie edged out behind him, found Agent Stone standing a cautious distance away, her red-stained hand held up before her face like a shield.

“Call off your ghost,” she said. “I’ve got your stuff. You can get gone. We won’t stop you.”

“Cachita,” Sylvie said.

Cachita took the unspoken command and met Stone halfway, careful to stay out of the woman’s reach, to keep an eye on her holstered gun. But Stone seemed more concerned with keeping her one hand held before her.

Marco thrummed and pulsed but held steady. Afraid to attack, Sylvie thought. Stone might be more than he could take.

If the red-stained hand was like Zoe’s, Stone could have gained it through killing a ghost. Enough to make Marco cautious.

“Got it,” Cachita said, retreated back to Sylvie’s side, a rough bundle of clothes and shoes in her hand.

“Get dressed,” Sylvie said. “Hey, Stone . . .”

“Marah,” the woman said. “My name’s Marah.”

“Don’t care,” Sylvie said. “You got car keys?”

“You don’t need mine,” she said. “The cars in the garage have keys in the ignition. Just pick one.”

“Thanks. Now go away before Marco decides to snack on you after all.”

“I could help you—”

“No,” Sylvie said.

Marah nodded once, and backed away. “Just remember. I offered.”

“Brownie points noted,” Sylvie said.

“What about this?” Marah held out the obsidian summoning knife. Cachita collected it; when she returned to Sylvie’s side, Sylvie took the knife herself.

“Thanks,” Sylvie said. “Now go away.”

Marah held up both hands in mocking surrender, turned as if putting her back to an armed escapee was nothing, and sauntered away.

“It’s mine,” Cachita snapped.

“You can’t be trusted with it,” Sylvie said.

Cachita was dressed now, khakis and sneakers and slightly less crisp blouse; she had the advantage over Sylvie, whose hands were awkwardly full with gun, knife, and clothing. But Cachita was— incompetent , her little voice suggested—used to obeying others, Sylvie thought, and made no effort to take the knife by force.

Sylvie skinned out of her prison scrubs, trading them for her own clothes, dressing awkwardly with the gun in her hand and belatedly aware of the ISI cameras.

Vanity, her voice muttered. More likely they’d be occupied with the blur that was Marco.

“C’mon, Cachita,” Sylvie said. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Cachita asked. “Out’s good, but you lost your tracker. How are we going to find Azpiazu?”

Sylvie laughed. “Cachita. Pay attention. Lassie’s come all this way to tell us Timmy’s down a well. We follow Marco all the way to Azpiazu’s front door. And as a bonus? I don’t owe Erinya my afterlife.”