“I wasn’t going to skin you,” he says. “Just kill you. No one’s gotten through the mists in hundreds of years. Killing you will send a message to Santa Muerte, to Mictlantecuhtli, that the dead will not stand for this. They will let us through to Chicunamictlan. We have power and we’re not afraid to use it.”
“Seriously? Since when did the dead unionize? You’re acting like you’re a bunch of striking workers. Jesus, I blew out more of your brain than I thought. What the hell is that going to accomplish? You can’t tell me you don’t know that there’s something seriously wrong with this place. They’re not keeping you out here because they don’t like you, dumbass.”
I’m beginning to feel like Sergeant Howie at the end of The Wicker Man. Bustillo didn’t promise them a Messiah to guide them through the mists. He promised them a sacrifice.
Bustillo’s not stupid. I doubt he even believes what he’s telling me. But he does believe he can put himself in charge. He’s already gotten partway there. All these people wouldn’t be here if they didn’t think he could deliver.
And now that it’s looking like he can’t, there are murmurs in the crowd. An ugly, angry muttering that spreads from person to person like a virus. It begins to sound like rain, then a storm, then a flood.
“I will see this through!” Bustillo yells. It’s not for my benefit. He’s trying to regain control. But it’s not working.
Problem is I can feel my control slipping, too. Keeping four dead souls locked in place isn’t taking a lot of juice, but it’s taking enough. Sustaining spells like this isn’t easy. It’s like lifting weights. Sure, you might be able to bench a few hundred pounds, but for how long?
Bustillo struggles against the hold I have on him. He slips a fraction of an inch. Not nearly enough for anyone to see it. But I know it happened, and from the grin on Bustillo’s face, he knows it, too.
I pluck the knife from Bustillo’s quivering hand. “It’s been fun, Manuel, but I really gotta go. Thanks for the lift.”
“He’s escaping!” he yells. “Kill hi—” I reach behind him with the knife, grab his hair with my other hand. I slice the blade from the back of his neck and out through his throat, the blade passing through muscle and bone like it’s pudding. His head pops off and hangs in my hand, mouth twitching, eyes rolling like marbles. His body falls bloodless to the ground.
The blade is supposed to be able to kill anything, even gods. Can it destroy souls? Bustillo’s head has stopped twitching, so I’m gonna go with probably.
The crowd surges forward like a tidal wave. The grasping hands of the dead reaching out. I release my control of Bustillo’s goons just as they’re overwhelmed. The rage coming off the crowd is palpable.
“Hey, here’s the guy who fucked you over,” I yell and toss Bustillo’s head into the crowd. They fall on it like wolves.
Time I was leaving then. Unfortunately, the only way out is through. I don’t know what’s waiting for me, but I suspect it won’t be good.
I turn and step into the mists, the gray haze swallowing me up. I have a second where I think I’ve made a huge mistake and then everything fades away.
I blink at the too-bright lights, my ears ring at the too loud noise. Something’s not right, but I can’t remember what it is. I remember a knife and . . . smoke? No. Fog.
“Are you listening to me, Eric? You have to stop doing this,” Vivian says, pouring sugar in her coffee. Her red hair’s long, down to the small of her back. She hasn’t worn it that way in years. Last time I saw her she had it cut in a bob.
Wait. That doesn’t make sense. That would have been this morning? No. Months ago. I haven’t seen her since I stopped her from being killed in her apartment last year. But she doesn’t live in an apartment. She lives with her mother in Beverly Hills.
What the hell is wrong with me? There’s something but I can’t figure out what it is. The memory I had slides off my brain like it’s Teflon. I try to grasp at it, but it pulls away just out of reach.
We’re in Canter’s Deli on Fairfax in Los Angeles. The place is full of late night diners, people getting out of clubs and bars. In a few hours the crowd will shift to people stopping in to get a bagel on their way to work, old Jewish men and women from the neighborhood coming in for breakfast.
I’m beat to hell again. Bruised ribs, left eye swollen shut, knee feels like it’s been stomped on by a sumo wrestler. Road rash from . . . something. I can’t remember how I got this way, but it’s not like it’s the first time.
“And for god’s sake, put that knife away.”
Knife? The hell— Oh. Huh. I’m clutching a black, obsidian blade tight in my hand, some antique thing. It feels familiar but for the life of me I can’t remember where I got it. I find a sheath for it in my coat breast pocket and put it away.
I’ve got two images of Vivian competing in my mind. My girlfriend for over five years now. We’ve been dating since I was fifteen. But I also see a woman who moved on after I disappeared, leaving everyone I knew and loved so that hopefully they wouldn’t be killed because of my own mistakes. But I haven’t gone anywhere. Have I?