Psychopomp: A Novella (6 page)

I knew the way home, but I never intended to return. I stumbled down alleys, ankles wobbling. The straps of my shoes hurt my feet. Gradually, the sounds of hysteria and fear faded behind me.

There was no way for me to know whether the bombs had been the act of a terrorist group or any of the countries we fought for water. Protest or retaliation—the effects were one and the same. Buildings fell, fear rose, people got hurt and died. I’d just never seen it firsthand before.

After several minutes, green and black shadows loomed before me. I’d reached the edge of the metal forest. Struck by nameless fear, I fell to my knees before it.

Three days. Three days missing from my life. I could remember almost nothing, but somehow I knew I’d spent them here.

When I tried to think of them, all I saw was darkness and dirt. I smelled something rotten. I could hear the low murmur of a cruel voice and the beeping of machines.

But I didn’t want to turn back toward the city, so I had to pass through the forest. This was the way to Rueville.

Staggering to my feet, I took one step forward onto the spongy ground. It wasn’t dirt beneath these trees but some kind of composite, recycled from other materials.

I looked up, cowering a little. This close, I could feel artificially cool air on my skin. Tiny orange orbs flitted in the shadows. The forest seemed to emit its own non-light. It looked like a dark fairyland, like something out of someone’s dreams. I knew, though, it contained nightmares.

My other foot lifted off the ground. For a second, only a second, I hesitated.

And then I ran. I ran without looking on either side of me, but I saw the mansions anyway. Sharp and swooping, like sails, they flickered between the straight, narrow trees. Their white facades gleamed among the dark teal branches. Smooth paths led from them through the trees, to Cizel. But I avoided the paths, heading straight for the other side of the forest.

The sky came into view, the haze reddened by light pollution. I knew I’d made it.

I kept running for a few minutes, wanting to put some distance between the trees and myself. Here, on the other side of the cold eldritch forest, were empty fields, dry and dusty. I slipped off my pinching shoes and walked the rest of the way to Rueville. The short, leached-yellow grass pricked at my feet.

If I looked back, I could see a faint orange glow above Cizel. I couldn’t tell whether it was fire or sunrise. It had been several minutes since I’d heard any bombs.

Marshwick was far behind me now in more ways than one. I wasn’t sorry to leave it because it would never be a good place for me. It would never thrive, and if I stayed, I wouldn’t either.

It had seemed almost a natural thing to follow Verm in Anden’s place, no matter how much he made me hurt. Until now, it was almost as if I’d been asking to suffer. It was almost as if I believed I deserved it.

Maybe I was crazy to leave like this in the middle of a night, in the midst of a bombing, no change of clothes, my feet bleeding from the poking grass. Then I thought of the hard glint in Verm’s eyes when he smirked. The way he spoke to me with casual cruelty. The claustrophobic feel of his body moving over mine. My skin grained in the salt left behind from his evaporated sweat.

It was too late to go back. I could only go forward.

Just ahead on the flat fields, I made out the shape of little lightless shanty homes. A strong wind blew through the dusty town. I leaned against it as I walked, holding one hand over my eyes. The air began to lighten. It was morning.

I didn’t know where to go or how to find the man I’d seen on the balcony. I wasn’t sure why it had seemed so important to follow him. I’d come to Rueville without a plan or any information about the man whatsoever.

As I passed the splintering wooden homes lined along dreary, narrow lanes, a hill rose up before me. Atop it sat a long, rectangular building. The white façade was chipped and stained. There were no signs of life behind the blank windows. A chill shuddered down my spine.

Rueville Asylum
, a sign in front read. I hadn’t thought they called them asylums anymore.

Suddenly my legs buckled and I fell, hitting the ground without feeling a thing. Then someone was there, hands under my arms, helping me stand. The person guided me across the dead lawn in front of the asylum, patient when I couldn’t get my legs to work. Behind the asylum there was nothing but miles and miles of yellow grass and a flat, hazy horizon.

And a little building at the base of the hill, with a shadowed graveyard next to it.

Blackness came once more. When I opened my eyes, I shut them again immediately against the glare of the bare bulb swinging overhead. My leg muscles ached. My feet throbbed.

I sat up, letting my eyes gradually adjust. Dingy tiled walls surrounded me, pristine and mysterious medical instruments hanging on them. There were two steel sinks and a hose. A round drain marked the center of the mint green floor. My body warmed the stainless table beneath me.

Standing a few feet in front of me was the man from the balcony. His hair was disheveled now and a dark shadow covered his square jaw, but I recognized him. His eyes were a piercing blue, shadowed with deep half moons. Not many people had blue eyes.

“You must have left right from the party,” he said. “You didn’t even change your dress.” His voice was deep and even, seemingly without a trace of menace.

“Where am I?” There was nothing comfortable about waking up on a table in a room with a stranger. I started to lower myself off the table, but my head swam. Falling down on my elbows, I began to cry, deep sobs that heaved my chest. I couldn’t breathe. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re safe,” he said. “Didn’t you mean to come here? Didn’t you mean to follow me?”

I stared at him until my sobs subsided. I was all too aware of my dirty, bedraggled appearance. My hair was unbrushed, my bare legs scratched and bruised. Dirt dusted my cheeks and arms. I still wore the gold dress, but I couldn’t remember when I’d lost my shoes.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You recognize me? We spoke at the party.”

“Sí.” His black hair had been combed then, but it looked better this way, unkempt and falling over serious eyebrows.

“What’s your name?”

“Marlo.”

“Why did you come here, Marlo?”

I flinched, not liking all his questions. But his gaze was so direct it seemed to pull a little bit of the truth from me. “I had to get away.”

He nodded, perhaps understanding. Then he flashed a quick grin, slightly savage. “You’re desperate. You can work for me. Do you need a job? It’s destiny.”

I eyed him carefully, beginning to realize he was a little odd. But he didn’t seem to wish me harm.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a mortician.”

I only thought about it for a moment. I didn’t have anywhere better to go.

His name was Gabriel. “Are you hungry?” he asked. I was starving.

He lived in a room just off the morgue, only a small hallway separating the two. I thought that couldn’t have been very pleasant, but he didn’t seem bothered. The dull room had a tiny kitchen, a couch, and a bed.

“Where will I stay?” I asked doubtfully as he showed it to me.

“You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. It’s more comfortable anyway.” He grabbed a towel from the chest at the foot of the bed and handed it to me, along with some clothes. “Bathroom’s over there,” he said, indicating a narrow door. “Go wash up.”

There was barely enough space to turn around in the bathroom. I ran a shallow bath, the hot water stinging all the little cuts on my feet and legs. It turned cloudy with dirt in seconds. The gold dress lay in a heap on the floor. I’d throw it away first chance I got.

After the bath, I dressed in the too-large clothes and ran my fingers through my tangled hair, turning away from the mirror-gaze of my wounded eyes.

Out in the main room, Gabriel was sitting on the drab-green couch, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. A plate of paste waited for me on the low table before him.

“You didn’t have to take it out of the tin,” I said gruffly, uncomfortable to think of him doing that for me. My stomach growled as I sat down, and I had to resist shoveling the food into my mouth all at once. The paste was a substance formulated for nutrition, not taste, but I didn’t care. I’d never cared.

“The plates were here when I came,” Gabriel said. “So I use them.” He looked at me. “Did you really walk all night?

“Sí.”

“Then you should probably rest today, especially since you fainted.” He kept looking at me, as if trying to discern all my secrets.

“What were you doing at that party?” I asked abruptly. I shoveled another forkful of paste into my mouth.

“Nothing,” he said. “It was just one of those things.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be there,” I told him. “We weren’t invited.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “Did you come here because you thought it would be better than the place you left?”

Unease pricked my scalp. “I don’t know.”

He rose from his seat, tall and imposing even in his leanness, and took my empty plate to the kitchen sink. “This world is a harsh place, Marlo. Don’t be surprised if it eats you alive.”

I didn’t tell him it already had.

“I should have left home a long time ago,” I said, trying to sound brave. “But I think I’m stronger now than I ever was. No one can hurt an empty shell.”

“An empty shell is easily broken,” Gabriel said.

Stricken, I looked at him. “Qué?”

“But it can also be filled. And I know, because sometimes it feels like someone’s gone in and scraped away everything human from me. Everything I need to feel remorse. That’s the one thing I don’t feel, you know.”

My heart beat faster. He was going to hurt me, just like every other man I’d ever known.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, sensing my trepidation. “You should rest now. I have things to do.” His gaze dropped to my bare feet. “I’ll get you some shoes. And clothes that fit.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” I mumbled, lowering my eyes.

“I never do.”

He opened the door, brightening the room for a brief, blinding moment. Then he swept out, and I was alone.

~

I slept and slept, drawn into oblivion by exhaustion and sadness. Then I woke and it was dark. Only the faintest hint of moonlight shone through the transom. From across the room, I heard the soft undulations of unintelligible whispering.

My body tensed. I waited, half blind in the dark, for a touch, a taunt, a threat. I wouldn’t turn away if the mortician came for me. I wouldn’t fight. I wouldn’t like it, but it’d be easier to submit while he took what he wanted.

The whispers never came closer, though. They stayed across the room, far enough for me to feel safe, close enough to unnerve me. I couldn’t make out words, just a manic hiss here, a soothing murmur there, the varying tones blending together until they formed a white rush that eventually lulled me back to sleep.

Fear and uneasiness followed me into my dreams. As always, their power over me was strong.

Someone’s hand closed around Dominique’s arm, throwing her off balance. “Get off me!” she yelled, jerking her arm back on instinct. A man glared at her as if she were the one at fault, and she glared right back. Such incidents were common—even inevitable—on the back streets, and she’d learned to deal with them early on. Even so, she dreaded the day when a man wouldn’t just slink away, but force his will as far as he could. She’d heard stories from the other girls and knew it would be her turn soon.

The metal forest came into view. She stepped onto the path leading through it, her eyes passing over mansions she’d cleaned before. They were all different, yet all the same. Bright, angular, pristine. Yet she would swear the mansion Hiram Bartholomew occupied emanated darkness.

Dominique felt her heart start to beat faster when she saw it, as it always did for some reason. It had been several days since she’d begun scrubbing the murderer’s floors and bathrooms, especially the corners where grime tended to collect. She left soap by his sinks and laundered his towels. His windows and mirrors remained spotless with her care. The antique books on his shelves stayed free of dust.

She saw him often, but he never seemed to take notice of her presence. So she watched as he read those books or took strolls around the mansion. He never had guests. Her fear of him never really left, but a strange fascination grew. The man possessed a quiet composure, but undoubtedly something dark lived inside him. Sometimes she had to remind herself she’d seen him murder a man.

Besides, even if she was curious about him—which she wasn’t—there was nothing they could possibly say to each other. He was perhaps fifteen or twenty years her senior. She had seen nothing of the world, but he moved in the easy, confident way of someone who had seen a lot of it.

Men like him never picked up girls like her, not for anything serious. They may have paid for their services, but they lost interest quickly.

With a sigh, she wished her thoughts wouldn’t wander in such ways. She could never let the truth of this man escape her.

Delia had no trouble letting her work for him. But Delia didn’t know he was a murderer.

“Good morning, Dominique.”

She glanced up from cleaning the dishes he’d used the night before, startled by the sound of his voice as much as his use of her name. “Oh—good morning.”

Sometimes she wondered if he remembered their bargain from that first night on the streets. He must have, because why else would he have bothered to contract her services? Why else would he have learned her name? Yet he gave no indication of ever intending to redeem the favor she owed him.

He walked behind her, opening a cabinet and pouring filtered water into a glass. Stiff-shouldered, she finished putting away the dishes. When she turned, she found him standing surprisingly close, his dark eyes resting on her. The unfathomable thoughtfulness in his gaze flustered her.

For a moment too long, he remained silent. Then he said, “Come sit with me, Dominique. We should talk.”

The request startled her. No client had ever asked any such thing of a maid, as far as she knew. She eyed him warily. “About what?”

Hiram Bartholomew didn’t answer. He kept walking, expecting her to follow him. She did, drawn by his strange, magnetic power.

In the living room, he sat before the large screen, which depicted a silent, blazing fire. Sitting across from him, Dominique watched the flickering light cast demonic shadows on his face.

Silence stretched interminably. He didn’t even look at her, but somewhere off in the distance. The light danced along the dark strands of his short, meticulously combed hair. For some reason she found herself noticing his lips, hard-set but sensual. His nose was strong and straight—noble, even. She’d never seen someone so clean, so proper, or so… old-fashioned.

“You aren’t like any man I’ve ever met,” she blurted. As soon as the words left her, her eyes darted skittishly about the room. She shouldn’t have said that. He would take it the wrong way.

“Oh, my dear, I know.” His killer’s voice sounded rueful. Dark eyes shifting fluidly in the false firelight, he gave her a long look that made her cheeks grow hot. He smiled a little, but there was no warmth or humor in it. “You’ve a very innocent way about you—unsuspecting, even.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you kill that man?”

“Do you think the luxuries of Cizel come without a price? Unfortunately, that man, along with many others, couldn’t pay that price.”

“What
price
?”

“Prices like the one you will pay, inevitably.”

Dominique’s nostrils flared. “But I don’t—”

“Do not worry, Dominique. I have no doubt you’ll be able to pay when the time comes.”

Frowning, she stared at him, eyebrows drawn together. The sound of his voice was mesmerizing, but she had no idea what he meant. Of course she wouldn’t be able to pay, especially when she didn’t know what she was supposed to be paying for. The credits she had were sufficient only to keep her fed and sheltered.

At last he leaned forward in his seat, his gaze intent. “There will be a gala next week, and I would like you to attend with me.”

In an instant, Dominique rose to her feet and began to pace. “I’m not doing that. You hired me to
clean
, nothing else—”

“I only want you to accompany me,” he said. “I find myself desirous of a companion, someone who will stave off the emptiness threatening to consume me.”

“I won’t be no one’s
companion—
”

“Consider this your favor to me. After the gala, you will be completely free of me.” His words bit through the air, and Dominique stilled. “It’s only a dance,” he said softly. “I won’t harm you.”

She looked at him, torn with indecision. “Just… just a dance?”

“Yes. We will arrive together, and I require no more than a single dance from you.”

Thinking of the parties she’d often passed when walking home from work, Dominique could feel herself swaying toward accepting his offer. She imagined the colorful lights, the infectious music, the outrageous people, the
food
. It wouldn’t hurt her to enjoy herself for a single night, she reasoned.

“But why?” she asked.

One corner of Hiram’s mouth lifted with his amusement at her suspicion. “Perhaps you are not aware of the power you have over me.”

Her romantic fantasies instantly grew more elaborate, but she frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a strong girl,” he said. “You have a good head.”

“Will you pay me extra to go with you?” she demanded. “Otherwise I won’t do it.”

He laughed, a soft, rumbling sound. His dark eyes glittered. “Of course.”

“And you can’t touch me. Nothing inappropriate.”

“I would never dream of harming you or making you uncomfortable. You have my word.”

Dominique stared at him; he seemed sincere enough. “All right,” she agreed at last, reluctance hanging on her tone.

“Excellent,” Hiram Bartholomew said. “I look forward to this event, Dominique.”

She looked forward to it too, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.