Authors: Rhys Ford
With his heart pounding hard, Death drew back, sliding his tongue against Ari’s mouth to lave the moistness he’d left there. Ari’s forehead rested on his temple, the other’s heavy pants echoing the frenetic beat in his chest. Licking at his own lips, Death swallowed War’s taste and lay back down against his friend.
“Say nothing, War.” Death blindly placed his fingers on Ari’s open mouth, stopping him from
speaking. “I need some sleep. You do too.”
“Night, Shi,” Ari murmured, licking at Death’s palm. “That’s all I want to say. Good night.”
K
ISMET
WOKE
up with screaming bruises under his skin. He felt at his neck, sure to find bandages, but encountered only the smoothness of his skin, the barest brush of downy hair along his jaw. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then a rush of memories hit him, consisting mostly of a sweet-faced blond and an insane, ugly dog.
The next thing he noticed outside of the pain crackling through him was the silence. It was intense, deep, and without a shred of movement. He dreaded opening his eyes, fearing what lurked outside of his own mind and in the dark corners of an unfamiliar room. Yesterday seemed an echoing thrum against the back of his skull, something that happened to someone else.
The purity of the silence around him was heaven. There wasn’t even a whisper of the outside world, nothing intruding into the softness cradling his sleep. Kismet let it wash over him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard nothing whispering in between his own breaths, soft little voices speaking just below what he could hear, an incessant whirring that rose and fell just beyond earshot. All of that was gone, whisked away by the blessed solitude.
Opening his eyes, he saw nothing stalking around him. The shadows remained inert, plastered to the flat walls where they lay. Nothing moved. Nothing crawled out of the corner of his eye, formless faces bending along the walls or hands reaching out from silvered mirrors. When he turned his head, nothing slithered out of his vision, just at the edge of sight. It was blissful and eerie. He’d never been someplace that quiet.
Pushing free of the velvety womb of the couch, Kismet gingerly put bare feet on a smooth woven
rug. Still wobbly, he stood, grabbing at the coffee table for support. A glass of water rocked, nearly tipping
over onto two aspirin tablets lying on their sides. Kismet eagerly swallowed them, letting the water wash
down their bitter tang.
“Mal?” He looked around, whispering in case the shadows were drawn to him. When nothing came, he sighed, content to stand for a moment and drink it in. The amiable blond was nowhere to be found, but a set of stairs led down to another level below the messy den. “Probably asleep.”
There was a shadow missing, a familiar darkness he often longed to be rid of, but now in the silence, Kismet turned, listening hard for the whispering to begin. A disquiet crept across him, a steady, gnawing unease in his belly.
“This is just weird.” He laughed at himself. “Talking just to hear something. Hell.”
Kismet peeked into the main room, wondering if anyone else was awake in the echoing emptiness of the apartment. The elegance of the ivory painted room shone in its simple furnishings, overstuffed couches made for lounging, covered in a burnished dark violet chenille.
The honeywood flooring appeared to run through the entire floor, disappearing down around the massive stone fireplace. He spotted three other doors off the main room, one left slightly ajar. Small touches of artwork were scattered about the room, placed to be set off by nearly invisible lights from the ceiling. A parade of freeform ebony pieces marched across the mantel, primal in shape.
An expanse of windows faced west, showcasing a view of San Diego Bay and the bridge that swept over to the island community across from downtown. A kitchen space took up most of the western area, long stretches of granite countertops and black lacquer low cabinets, keeping the space open and free of upper clutter. The only sign of human occupancy was a quirky cat-faced ceramic mug placed upside down on a gleaming stainless-steel dish drainer, its bright yellow face accented with a pair of black wire-rim glasses.
Kismet took a tentative step, forcing his body to move. The craving for heroin was biting at his blood, tiny centipede legs digging deep into his marrow. He’d have to get a fix soon, or the world would start to crack, letting all sorts of demons out and even more in. There was no clock in the main room, and he wandered toward the open door, stuck his head in, then softly called out a hello.
The paint colors changed, from muted jewel tones to golds and coppers, the walls washed with an exotic plaster, burred with a soft wax finish. Lurid masks leered at Kismet, boggle-eyed demonic faces with sharp red tongues and hammered-metal forms, interspersed between stacks of battered, worn ancient swords. One wall bulged with shelves, lines of books running from the door to a short wall built against the glass windows. The opposite wall supported glass shelves cluttered with tidbits.
Sliding out of the room, Kismet looked about for somewhere to wash the sourness of his sweat from his body and his mouth. The hallway led to an empty wooden-floored room and a laundry room. A quick glance in the dryer and Kismet pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Liquid soap and hot water from the washroom’s sink scrubbed most of the dirt and blood from his hair and body, a dish towel soaking up most of the moisture.
“Kiz, you need to get home, man.” Leaving his soiled clothes balled up in a trash can, he pulled on what he found, stopping in the living room to find his sneakers, and headed to the elevator outside of the front door.
The elevator shot down. Then the doors slid open, and he stared out at a parking garage. After a breathless second, the doors began to shut, and he shoved his hand against the soft rubber stopper, holding them open long enough to step out. The blessed silence he’d wrapped around himself upstairs was gone, the pounding noises of the world creeping slowly back in. The shadows once more held voices, creeping into his hearing under the rumble of cars and the murmur of people walking on the sidewalk outside of the garage.
It felt like he’d come home.
The itching in his arms grew with his descent into the garage, driving him out of his black cocoon of numbness and into a jagged pain. The torment reached into the base of his brain, claws raking his concentration. Cravings inched along in his throat, parched dry and coated with sand. It was always the same, a slow ember smoldering in his stomach. He hated it, but he hated life without drugs more.
Shaking his head, Kismet tried to make sense of Mal’s ramblings, of his memory, spotty from pain and fatigue. His body vividly recalled the blond’s hands on him, easing him back onto the cushions and lingering on his face. Flushing red, Kismet pushed those thoughts aside as the addiction flared again, demanding to be fed.
“
Missed you, Kizzie
.” Chase slithered around to hug his leg. Kismet nearly wept at the sight of his brother’s shade. His hand passed through the back of Chase’s head as he cradled the ghost, his fingers touching his thigh. “
Time to go to school
?”
“Sorry, Chase,” Kismet whispered, watching the shade disappear under his touch. Chase’s spirit always fled when Kismet reached for it, always out of reach of the young man’s touch. Speaking to the empty air, he nearly sobbed at the sight of the inky soot on his palm. “I’m sorry I left you.”
The world was too much to take in. Even the smell of the poured blacktop filled his nose, a tarry stink fighting with the remnants of gas fumes. Reeling as he stepped from the lift, Kismet awkwardly maintained his balance. The world now pulsed with movement, noisy and screeching, with small scurrying nothings huddling behind every bump of asphalt and cement pylon. The air seemed full of motes, sparkling dust that winked when he staggered by. A single drop of water bowed and flexed, stretching out into a lake before snapping back into a dollop barely large enough to wet his little toe.
Several cars were parked along a short wall, the private parking area cordoned off by a steel mesh gate leading to an outer ramp. Kismet walked around a lean, sleek gray car, its front end rumpled and gnarled by long gashes. Torn metal dragged down over one side, an inky clawed handprint burned into the paint. Beside it, a new Mustang and pale SUV jockeyed for space, leaving room for a powerful, thick-bodied motorcycle.
A tendril of shadow broke off the mass, undulating across the garage. The world was back to its craziness, and while he missed the silence, there would be no going back to it. Mal, with his sweet prettiness, lived in a world Kismet just didn’t understand.
The form snaked closer, a triangular head weaving about. It left no trace of its progress, not on the ground or cast by the faint daylight finding its way down through the short walls blocking out the city. Made of air and grease, it wrapped around his ankle, leaving a smear of gritty oil behind.
Shivering, he wished he’d grabbed a jacket as well as the shirt and jeans. The cold air was obviously making him dizzy after being in the warm confines of the penthouse for too long. Either that, or the drugs he’d shot up yesterday were coming back in flashes, leaving echoes of madness behind. The day’s unseasonable chill seemed to be seething up from the ground, working through the stolen clothes and under his skin.
The mesh gate rose easily on rollers, propelled with a simple push of a yellow button marked Open. It rolled down behind him when he passed through. There was no button on the other side. He wouldn’t be returning to the penthouse any time soon. There simply was no need for a button on the other side.
Two guards manned a gatehouse by a wooden arm blocking off public traffic. Other levels of the garage were filled with cars, diagonal slashes of white filled with money and steel. He stopped, wondering what story he would tell the guards or if they would even care.
“That gate’s acting up again.” The smaller of the guards, his thin face twitching, peered through the open window of the covered structure, the gray flicker of monitors casting a pallor on his sunburned skin. “It just opened and closed by itself.”
“It’s a problem sometimes. I think there’s a glitch in the system.” The other man barely glanced up, his eyes watching the video rolling past. “I’ll call maintenance again, but they don’t ever find anything wrong with it.”
Kismet slipped past them, ducking his head as he hurried past the guardhouse, unable to believe they didn’t notice him walk up the short ramp and onto the sidewalk. Not one to push his luck, he broke into a fast trot, disappearing between streams of people leaving a downtown building and heading to a trolley stop. Figuring it would be easy to get back to the College Area by catching one of the red trolley cars, Kismet tried to get his bearings, looking for a familiar route on the map tucked behind a weathered, milky Plexiglas case.
A man brushed past him, jostling him roughly. The hit was hard enough to turn Kismet, his shoulders twisting. The artist swore at the man’s back, but he continued on his way, oblivious to Kismet as his feet moved quickly over the cooling sidewalk. Another, a woman, struck his arm, jerking Kismet to the side with a spin. Her eyes continued to track the movements of the traffic, playing dodge with the lights as she scurried across the street. All around him people flew past, intent on their own business, not noticing the lithe young man struggling to maintain his balance amid the stream.
Without warning, a burn arched through him. He’d never had his cravings take him over so quickly. Everything hurt, the torment suddenly searing him open. Kismet gasped, clutching his rolling stomach. Sour bile hitched up into the back of his mouth, an oily green taste that would stick to his tongue. Blinking, Kismet looked up, hair tangled with sweat, and stared into the sinking sun.
Kismet shivered. He was colder than before, the wet on his skin smelling bitter, the drugs pushing out of his blood and into the water he shed. Somehow he’d lost himself, crouched on the side of the street, unseeing eyes looking right through him. His hands dove into the pocket of his stolen jeans, finding the crispness of the bills he’d left there warm from his leg. Clutching his fingers into his shirt, Kismet gasped as his body cramped, bending over his abdomen as the drug cravings shook him apart.
“It’s like I’m invisible.” Kismet peered into the reflective window of a hair salon, catching a rare glimpse of barely familiar pretty features staring back at him. “It’s like no one sees me.”
The mirrored surface held all manner of faces, not just his own. Elongated eyes blinking in rounded heads, noses and mouths mere suggestions for many, pronounced in others, but all staring back at him. One of the creatures licked its lips, tongue forked as it left a slimy trail on its dry reptilian skin.
A woman stood among them, her arms flailing as she tried to get the wraiths off her, a slip of a
ghost trapped between panes of glass. The tips of the woman’s fingers pierced the soft surface, frozen
blue as they briefly touched the warm San Diego air. Her arm went limp, sliding back down into the glass,
consumed by the serpentine shadows writhing over her limbs. Her face surfaced from the black, the end
of her nose gnawed off, a pale shredded mess working to draw air through the enlarged hole. Her mouth
formed a black
O
as rot swept under her skin, webbing branched veins together until nearly solid patches
covered her cheeks.
Rumbling, an ancient school bus choked the street with fumes, smoke billowing from its exhaust system. Shrieking teenagers called out from the window, a trio of girls whistling at a young man passing by Kismet, laughing when he waved and shouted back at them. Startled by the noise, Kismet’s attention fell away from the window, returning in a split second and discovering nothing but his own reflection staring back at him.