“You came here to kill her because you actually bothered finishing the fucking book,” I accused him. “You got to the good part, with the apocalypse, and you had, what, resurrecter’s remorse?”
“You could say that,” he said. “But listen. I’ve got everything under control. This will all be over soon, back to how it was, the world no closer to its end.”
“Kill him anyway,” Vulture repeated.
Brynn appeared behind him, struck him with her baton. He stumbled, and she was on him. He was half again her weight, and she got him to the ground without a problem.
“Begone!” he shouted. His words cut through the air louder than I felt they ought to have. A flash of light caused my vision to stutter, a series of bangs deafened me again, and he was gone.
“Fuck,” Brynn said, lurching to her feet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m going to kill that man!”
* * *
We got Isola to the van and drove back to the library in silence. Two doors down from Isola’s squat, the shiny black SUV was parked in front of the still-operational bed-and-breakfast. Feds don’t stay at bed-and-breakfasts, do they?
Thursday pulled the van up alongside the curb next to the library. Our bikes were back—presumably Vulture had grabbed them the night before.
“Someone’s got to get Gertrude,” I said.
“Oh fuck,” Thursday said. “He would kill her, wouldn’t he?”
“I’ll go,” Brynn said.
“I’m coming with you,” Thursday said.
“Good luck,” I said. Fear of missing out and protectiveness argued in favor of me going too, but if Brynn and Thursday couldn’t handle it, having me along wouldn’t change that. Vulture, reluctantly, passed Brynn his phone and opened up a map with Gertrude’s house pinned on it. Vulture had been busy.
Brynn and Doomsday took off on bikes. Vulture and I carried Isola into the library and up the stairs to lay her down in her old bed. Where she’d lived with her since-murdered partner. The bed she’d consciously avoided ever since her return.
Still, we had to keep her safe. As safe as we could.
Safer than we’d kept Heather.
Vasilis was sleeping in the living room when we came in. Doomsday was absorbed in a book, sitting with the window in sight and her handgun on the table next to her in easy reach.
“What happened?” she asked, standing.
I’d been a bit jealous that she’d gotten to stay at home. But she moved like a woman three times her age, exhausted, presumably from the effort of researching, standing guard, and consoling our host.
“Tranq dart,” I said.
Doomsday shot a look at Vulture.
“Not me!” he said. “I don’t even own a dart gun yet. It was Mr. Miller. He was going to kill her! Again!”
“How long is she going to be out?” Doomsday asked, again looking at Vulture.
“I don’t know, because I have never tranquilized a human.” Then he thought for a moment. “I have never tranquilized a human with a dart, nor have I tranquilized an unwilling human. I also don’t know what agent he used, and basically I have no idea.”
Screams broke into the living room, from the bedroom.
“Not long,” Vulture answered, authoritatively.
* * *
“I think he killed all three of us,” Isola said. She was sweating. Maybe from the heat but probably from the drugs or just outright fear. “I think he killed one of us to resurrect me. I think I was the test subject. Then he killed whoever was left to bring back Gertrude.”
“Oh fuck,” I said. I couldn’t come up with a better way to comfort someone who’d been through worse than I would have imagined possible.
“You know what I’ve spent all this time thinking about? Instead of thinking about things like how do I get better or how do I kill that man, what really keeps me up at night?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
We were strangers, really. I didn’t want to crowd her. I sat on the bed, about a foot away from her. Doomsday sat on a chair next to us.
“I don’t know which of them died for which of us. I don’t know if Loki died to resurrect me or if Damien did. It doesn’t matter. I know that. I don’t think anyone’s soul has joined mine. But it . . . it fucks me up. Barrow stands by the gate and he let me slip out into the land of the living when it opened for . . . when it opened for who?”
I put a tentative hand on her shoulder. She jerked, and I almost pulled it away, but she grabbed my wrist and held my hand against her.
“I haven’t touched anyone in three months,” she said. “Not once. Not since before I died.”
“Oh, honey,” Doomsday said. She stood up from the chair, sat down next to me on the bed.
“Do you want us to hold you?” I asked.
She stared at the ceiling for a moment, then nodded.
We laid down on either side of her and held her, and she cried. Nothing like the hacking, fearful sobs we’d heard from Vasilis the night before. She just cried. After a while, I did too. She’d kill me if I told anyone, I don’t doubt, but I’m pretty sure Doomsday did too.
We need people.
It’s not really giving up our freedom to be close with people. Because freedom only exists in relation to other people. I thought I needed to be left alone. I just needed people. Good people.
Like my murderous witch friend or this dead stranger.
Outside the window, the sun finally, gracefully, rose.
* * *
Half an hour later, the library door opened and shut and several pairs of feet tromped up the stairs.
“Hey,” Thursday shouted. “We’re back.”
More shuffling of feet, as someone, presumably Thursday, walked through the whole of the apartment. At last, he opened the door to the room we were in.
“Where’s Vasilis?”
SIX
“Son of a shit!” Thursday roared, running down the stairs to search the library below.
Gertrude stood in the living room, staring at Heather. A weak smile sat
