Tears blur my vision. They roll down my cheeks without shame when I see my mother’s spirit standing in front of me. The love in her gaze warms me. My chants waver, but I know my purpose and resume them with renewed vigor.
I should have been strong enough to move on without Okiku, to accept that she’s gone. People lose loved ones every day, and they learn to move on. But I’m no hero. I’m just a seventeen-year-old boy who wants her back.
And in my memory, I hear her: Remember me sometimes. She said it as if she had resigned herself to her fate—but her tone said anything but.
The fireflies hover around me, and I feel the swirling black malice leave my body. I hear it shriek in my mind one last time—we are power—and then it’s gone, absorbed into the bright lights. My mother reaches over and touches my cheek. I am so proud of you, my Tarquin is what I hear in my head before the bright lights fade and my mother and the other spirits disappear, leaving me in the darkness.
But I am not alone.
I hear someone move behind me. I am exhausted, drained of the energy that sustained me the last few months and robbed of the strength that kept the malice at bay. The presence feels so good, so familiar, that I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky.
“Thank you,” I whisper to everyone and no one all at once. I turn.
And I smile.
“What took you so long?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Peace
For someone who’s spent almost his whole life stalking his victims before he kidnaps and kills them, Steven Blair is woefully incompetent when it comes to knowing when he’s being stalked himself.
To everyone around him, he seems to be a cheerful enough guy, a hard drinker who likes to hang out at pubs and tell tall tales over pints of Guinness and spicy chicken wings. He’s still wearing that red baseball cap, and the scar is white against his cheek, which is flushed from the booze. At the end of one outrageous story—I’m not close enough to hear the gist of it, though his listeners’ incredulous laughter confirms it—he basks in the limelight, preening his metaphorical feathers, and I sit back and let him take in the adoration. It’s going to be his last performance, so I suppose I can accord him some magnanimity.
Waiters glance suspiciously at me. I could probably have a fake ID made somewhere, but I still look a little too young to make it believable. As long as I keep ordering orange juice and not hard liquor, they aren’t inclined to kick me out, leaving me in peace while I wait for my target to leave.
It’s about ten minutes to midnight before he finally does just that, waving to his barroom friends one last time before stumbling out into the now-empty street. I gulp down the rest of my juice, toss enough bills on the table to pay what I owe, and then sidle out after him, keeping my cap low in case there are security cameras in the vicinity. There usually are, and my dark cap and dark sweater won’t give away any of my features.
I know for a fact that the alley Steven Blair just stumbled into doesn’t have any cameras, which is what I was hoping for. I’ve watched him for a week to figure out his habits. He’s at the pub most nights, and he always takes the back door. Steven stops wobbling and gets sick behind one of the Dumpsters. By the time he straightens up, I’m blocking the exit out to the street. He squints at me and scowls. I’m a little too old for his tastes, if the three five-year-olds on his back are of any note.
“Go ’way, boy.” He makes a swipe at me. Because he’s still about ten feet away, he misses and nearly falls on his face again.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not what you told the little boys you killed,” I say, my voice unexpectedly loud in the otherwise quiet.
His face pales, a touch of sobriety creeping in. “Wh-what the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll know in about five seconds.” There’s barely any light in the narrow alley, but there’s still enough to see shadows playing on the grimy brick walls on either side. I watch as another figure detaches itself from my own, lengthening until it is of a size and shape that could not possibly be human.
I turn and stride away.
The man only screams once. His gurgles are silenced quickly. I step out into the street, hitch my coat closer around me, and check for signs of anyone who might have been attracted to the noise. No one is, not at this time of night.
I sit down on the curb and take in a deep breath, liking the chill in the air. I’m no longer haunted by these midnight excursions. If I’ve learned anything these last few months, it’s that everyone can choose their own purpose. This is mine.