Thief Of Souls

made Winston feel a sense of futility in all he did. It made Michael acutely aware of the absence of love in his heart, and for Lourdes, that hunger reawakened her hopeless longing for Michael. Surely a nice all-you-can-eat buffet could have been fit into their Las Vegas schedule—but the very thought sickened them, for their hunger was not for that sort of food.

Tory peered out of the window, where the busloads of followers poured forth, pitching tents, and setting up camp, in preparation for tomorrow’s main event. “What we do now is crucial,” Dillon had said. “We can’t af­ford to make mistakes.” Of course, no one but the Shards and Okoya knew what the event would be, and as for the Big Show itself, Dillon was in charge of that. They would all be handed their parts when the time came, but for now, they didn’t feel a burning need for dress rehearsals.

As the bus driver left, Okoya stepped in carrying a sack of goodies.

“While you were all working,” said Okoya, “I found some things I thought you might appreciate.”

As he reached into the bag, Tory snuck a peek. “Ooh! Is that a new skin lotion?” She asked, practically growing fangs at the thought. “I’d kill for a good lo­tion!”

“Would you?” Okoya said. He pulled out the con­tainer of lotion, but put it down, out of Tory’s reach. Tory leaned over to get it, but Okoya held her back. “Patience,” was all he said.

He reached into the bag again, and produced a cake, with a deceptive white creme frosting, that gave way to dark chocolate and a glistening cherry filling when he cut it. “For you, Lourdes.”

“Black Forest!” she exclaimed, holding her hands forward like an anxious Oliver Twist. “I love Black Forest.”

Okoya handed her the slice of cake, and she dug her hand into it, without waiting for a fork. Then he reached in and came up with a magazine. “They were selling some . . . uh . . . interesting magazines on the strip,” he said to Winston. “There are some pictures in here that are not to be believed. Have a look, Winston. You might learn something.” He gave Winston a wink and tossed him the magazine.

“Me next,” insisted Tory.

Okoya ignored her, and pulled out a new Walkman for Michael. “Top of the line, and I’ve tuned the radio to a fantastic station I’ve found here—you’re going to love it!”

He handed the device to Michael, and although Mi­chael felt his own Pavlovian urge to slip into a com­ fortable beat, he didn’t put the headphones on just yet. Instead he watched. By now Tory was rubbing her hands in front of her like a fly as Okoya reached for the bottle of lotion. Okoya took his time, spilling a drop of the lotion onto his index finger. “It’s fragranced with the essence of ten different kinds of rose, and guaran­teed to make you feel as fresh as the day you were born.” He held it toward Tory, but not close enough for her to smell it.

“You said you would kill for it,” said Okoya. “Did you mean what you said?”

She kept her eyes glued on the viscous pink liquid dripping down his finger. “Definitely.”

Then Okoya reached to a compartment in the bus’s kitchenette, peered inside, and retrieved a crystalline ice bucket. Inside was a silver ice pick. Instead of giv­ing Tory a dollop of lotion, he gave her the ice pick.

“Kill Winston,” he said. “And you can have the whole bottle.”

Tory stood immobile with the pick in her hand, gig­gling at the thought.

“Go on,” prompted Okoya. “You want your lotion, don’t you?”

Tory looked at the sharp end of the ice pick, and found herself turning it toward Winston’s chest. Lourdes filled her mouth with cake and eyed Tory, but made no move to intervene. Winston spread his arms pushing his chest forward.

“C’mon,” he said with a grin. “Right here—right through the heart!”

Perhaps it was because Michael had not yet plugged into his music, or just that he had dredged up a moment of clarity, but whatever the reason, in the midst of everyone else’s laughter, Michael realized that Tory was pulling her hand back, like a gun hammer cocking itself. She was actually going to do it!

Michael dropped his Walkman and lurched forward as Tory began her downward arc. He firmly grasped her wrist, and the pick stopped an inch from Winston’s chest.

“Tory—what are you doing?!”

Tory turned to Michael as if he had done something wholly inappropriate.

“The lotion,” she said simply. “I want the lotion. For my skin.”

“You almost stabbed Winston!”

Unconcerned, Winston vanished behind his maga­zine. “Big deal,” he said. “Dillon would have brought me back.”

“That’s not the point!” Michael turned, hoping to find support from Lourdes, but she was digging her hands into the rest of the cake.

“It would have been interesting to see if he could actually die,” she said matter-of-factly. “For all we know, we’ve become immortal.”

“Immortal?” said Michael incredulously. “What about Deanna? She was one of us, and she died.”

“That was then,” said Lourdes; “this is now.”

“How could you be so flippant about it?” yelled Mi­chael. “How could you be . . .” But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t just them. He wasn’t much dif­ferent. How self-absorbed had he been lately? How ma­lignant had his own arrogance become; the thrill of being worshiped, the self-satisfaction his own power now brought him?

“What’s happened to us?” he dared to ask.

“We’ve risen above where we used to be,” said Win­ston. “Our perspective has changed, that’s all.”

Michael had to admit that he was right. Their out­look, their desires and needs, were markedly different than they had been three weeks ago. Their place in the world was so much grander than they ever imagined it to be.

“We used to be limited by fear, and small-mindedness,” Winston said, puffed up by his own sense of wisdom. “Not anymore.”

But as Michael stood there, a splinter of that old limited perspective came back . . . and for a moment, he was not a god—he was just a kid. A kid with more power than he knew how to wield.

Michael knew that in some way, Okoya’s music had bolstered his pride—his hubris. It added to his sense of comfort and confidence. He didn’t need the music—he wanted it. Okoya hadn’t forced him to listen—it was Michael who had seized upon it, keeping himself emo­tionally sated.

But there was an advantage to hunger.

He dropped the Walkman in his hand, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d be swayed by those rich melodies that he, too, might kill for.

“I don’t like what’s happening here,” he said.

Okoya had a radar fix on his eyes. “It was only a game, Michael,” he said, with such control in his voice, Michael felt the urge to nod in agreement in spite of himself. “You get way too emotional,” continued Okoya. “You should be more like Lourdes. She’ll go far.” By now, Lourdes had finished her cake, and was licking the whipped cream from her fingers. She glowed with Okoya’s compliment.

Michael felt the air around him become oppressive and cold. Dewdrops began to form on the ceiling of the bus.

“Hey!” Winston said. “If you have to rain on some­one’s parade, take it the hell away from me, will you?”

“Yes, Michael,” said Okoya. “Perhaps it’s time you left.”

Michael didn’t need another invitation to leave. In spite of his hunger, he stepped over the Walkman, and hurried out the door without further word.

Tory saw him go through the corner of her eye, but her attention was on the ice pick still in her hand.

Is that my hand? she thought. Was that me bringing the pick toward Winston’s chest?

There was a sentence playing over and over and over in her head now; the words Winston had muttered when Michael saved his life. “Big deal. Dillon would have brought me back.” Was she so great a soul that she was beyond the need for conscience? And was her lust for Okoya’s aromatic potions so powerful that it made even death seem unworthy of her attention?

“Dillon would have brought me back.”

Was life so cheap now that murder meant nothing?