The Harvest (9 page)

Dozens of images of her smirking saluted her as she turned to leave the room, but before she did she glanced over her shoulder one last time. “Oh, and next time,
babe?
You’d better have a castle and a moat. Because I’ll have learned how to kill you by then. And
I
won’t be stopped by a mere kiss.”

And with that she strode out the door to find Lindy slumped, anchored against the wall by the woody growth of a cranberry vine, the hard bitter fruit spilling like bright marbles from her mouth. Immobile, her eyes alone followed Zoe as she stooped to meet those hate-filled orbs. “You’re lucky, Lindy. The cornucopia’s powers won’t hold you all long enough for me to both kill you and still get away.” She paused as relief played across Lindy’s face, then shrugged. “So I’ll just let the agents of Light take care of that for me. Have
fun
.”

Lindy’s protests were berry-choked as Zoe strode down the long silent hallway, back to the classroom where the children were now sleeping, curled up in the same even rows they’d occupied before. The ward mothers awoke when she entered, stood in tandem, but did nothing to stop her. They weren’t warriors, and that wasn’t their job. Zoe wove through the children, searched out the one she wanted, and lifted her sleeping granddaughter from her crib.

“He’ll find you, you know,” one of the mothers spat. “He won’t stop this time. Not until your blood runs like a river.”

“Yeah,” Zoe said, drawing out the word as if considering it. “That’s what you said the last time.”

Then she left the room, and threw open the front door of the Tulpa’s house. Chaos erupted behind her as the alarm sounded, the house coming to life too late, and a piercing whistle rang through the night as Light descended on the mansion. Her former allies, felt rather than seen, rushed past her, war cries pealing like bells in the cool air, but Zoe had already fought her battle. She turned her back on it all, and gratefully, thankfully,
finally
took her granddaughter home.

Chapter 8

S
he laid low for an entire week. Her cornucopia’s magic had held long enough for her to get away, and since that was all she wanted—and all she believed was possible—the agents of Light and Shadow had fought yet another epic battle. She’d pick up a manual at one of the comic book shops later so she could get the Cliff Notes version of what went down, but she already knew the Tulpa had escaped with his life. Like him, she could sense his existence in her marrow, and knew she always would. She didn’t waste time regretting it, though. She was already plotting how to double back and give him the “next time” she’d promised. She might be mortal, but the word that still summed up Zoe Archer best was
single-minded
.

The McCormicks paid daily visits to the facility the agents of Light had set up just on the outskirts of town until Ashlyn was strong enough to return home with them. They had no problem forging the new identity papers Micah had prepared for them, and immediately put their home on the market as Phaedre instructed. They were still under the assumption that Phaedre, Gregor, and Zoe worked for the government, that Ashlyn was at risk and needed to be placed in a witness protection program, so they told no one where they were going, and left no forwarding address. But Zoe knew it, and she planned on keeping a close eye on them, as she had the night the moving van came and they loaded up all their belongings. She couldn’t be there for her daughters any longer, but she could at least watch over Ashlyn.

But what she really needed to do was finally, fully, embrace her humanity. There could be no more dipping into the paranormal world she’d left behind, no lamenting all she’d lost. In order for her to be a whole woman, and a person who could act and move through the world with purpose, she had to accept her limitations, just like anyone else. She had to release once and for all her knowledge of what went on beneath the veil separating this reality from the next.

But this time she would say goodbye.

So the following Thursday found her pacing the walkway of an apartment building just one block from the Guardian Angel Cathedral, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her black slacks, the collar of her winter coat turned up to shield her face from the whip of an angry wind. The weather had turned suddenly, and the streets were empty because of it. Zoe inhaled a deep breath of the biting wind, and as she blew it back out she thought of the Tulpa, naked but for the vines and leaves canvassing his body like living entrails. It was so satisfying, even now, that her laughter stilled her in her tracks.

“You went blonde.”

And even though she’d been prepared for him, Zoe jumped. Warren grinned when she turned.

“And you took a shower,” she said, noting his smooth cheeks and shorn hair. He was dressed like her, in black, his peacoat flapping open in the wind. He motioned to a stairwell next to the apartment manager’s office, and Zoe ducked beneath it.

“I’m trying on a new persona,” he said, following her. Her eyes traveled down his long body. “Respectable businessman. What do you think?”

“I like you better as a bum. I could track you down even with this poor mortal nose. Plus it keeps the girls away.”

His smile was fleeting. He knew she was saying goodbye. “And do you think you’ll need to? Track me again, I mean?”

“I’ll want to.”

“But you won’t.”

They didn’t look at each other for a time, and Zoe knew he was considering every obstacle facing them, and like her, was unable to see any way around them.

“The children?” she finally asked, turning to him.

He nodded. “All freed. Returned to their homes and families. They’ll have nightmares, of course, but they’ll outgrow them in time, and there’ll be no permanent damage. We also stole the masks the Tulpa was using to control them. He won’t be able to do it again.”

Zoe thought of the young boy she saw wailing in the Tulpa’s hallway. “Good.”

“His home was burned to the ground,” Warren said, and she nodded to let him know she’d heard. He finally sighed. “So that’s it, Zoe? You can just walk away and leave it all behind?”
Leave me behind,
he was really saying.

Zoe ran a hand through her shortened hair. “I’m not walking away, Warren. Every day that I’m out here on my own I’m ensuring our troop’s legacy. I’m carrying out a prophecy that will benefit us all.”

Warren’s eyes fell shut. “Why do I have to love a woman who always puts duty first?”

She placed her palms on his cheeks and waited for him to look at her. “Because if I didn’t you wouldn’t have loved me at all.”

When he finally nodded, she worked a wide ring off her finger. “You know what to do with this, right?”

He looked it over, studying the grooves that gave way to hinges around the stone. “I’ll put it away for you … or for the next Archer. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it, though? It’s all you have left to remind you of our world.”

“No.” Zoe smiled bittersweetly, thought of her daughters, and granddaughter, now safe, and shook her head. “I have myself.”

And before his eyes could glaze with pain, before he could get out the words,
And that’s all you’ve ever needed,
Zoe exhaled the wistfulness she held in her soul—the sharp hunger she’d been staving off since they’d made love, and the despair she’d felt in the Tulpa’s stupa when she thought she’d never lay eyes on this face again. Warren’s mouth still opened, but it stuttered and eventually closed as he inhaled deeply, tasting of the air and of her. And then he sighed. She wished she could smell his feelings on the air, too. She wished she could bottle them and carry the bottle, apply it like perfume or a balm that would melt against her skin and seep into her pores so a part of him would always be with her. Warren scented this, too, and finally it was enough.

“Goodbye, my Phantom,” he whispered, and though his face remained tight—brows drawn, jaw clenched—his eyes were suddenly wet and luminous and soft in the icy air. Zoe choked out a laugh at the shared pet name, stolen from a superhero that didn’t exist, given to ones that did. To anyone else it had always appeared to be just that, a nickname, but it was much more … and it was an endearment she’d never expected to hear again.

My Phantom Limb, the ache that is you existing outside of me, the pain of every moment spent apart, the empty throbbing that remains behind
.

And Warren did leave after that, in a movement too fast to catch with mortal eyes, leaving Zoe slumped against the stairwell wall, scenting and seeing nothing in the cold December night.

Then she stopped feeling sorry for herself.

She straightened and turned her thoughts to the Tulpa.

Narrowed her eyes and considered what she’d learned about the power of imagination.

If she was right, what she was planning would take months, seasons, years. It’d take stubborn belief and the doggedness required of Tibetan monks, and all those mortals who most valued long-term goals. But Zoe had a purpose again, and a plan. And she was still alive. She could suck in the cold air and blow it out again, no worse for wear. And as long as she could do that?

There was hope.

 

Read on for the first book in

Vicki Pettersson's new Celestial Blues series

THE TAKEN

 

Out now!

An Excerpt from
The Taken

Chapter 1

H
ere's the thing. Every two-bit Tom and Dick on this glorified mudflat thought prostitution was legal in Las Vegas, but that's never been true.

Least, not when Grif was alive.

Maybe times had changed—plenty on the Surface had—but it was more likely that the johns were too lazy to trek out to Nye County for a sampling from the legal sexual menu. No, there was too much premeditation in that. But score a lay in some trucker-heavy roach-motel, and a man could tell himself he was the victim of impulse. Caught up in the moment. Just a little ol' fly snared in Sin City's glinting web.

Grif knew different. People created chaos, not places, and they were damned good at it no matter where they lived. And when this glittering gem of a city teamed up with the world's oldest profession, fantasy piled atop fantasy; it could convince anyone that impulse was a virtue, not a vice.

Just one roll of the dice, he thought, checking the number on the warped motel door against the entry in his notebook. Just one sip, make sure to tip. Play hard, enjoy the ride, and be certain to take your secrets with you when you leave.

Nicole Rockwell's last john, however, had taken a bit more.

“Help me!” she was yelling as Grif came through the door. Impressive, since she was missing her larynx. “There's been a terrible crime!”

Can't argue that, Grif thought, gaze skimming the hem of her cheap vinyl skirt. “You Nicole Elizabeth Rockwell?”

“Wh-what?” She looked from Grif to the fresh corpse on the bed—her own—then back again. “Yes.”

“Right.” He shut his notebook, returning it to his suit pocket. “Come with me.”

Rockwell took one good look at his quasitransparent form and promptly collapsed on the bed. “Wh-who are you?”

“Griffin Shaw. I'm here to help.” He hesitated, then jerked his head at her remains. “Sorry I couldn't get here sooner.”

Her expression, blasted and constricted all at once, made his jaw twitch, but he shrugged it off. Guardian wasn't his beat. As a Centurion, he merely assisted the recently, and violently, deceased into the Everlast. Those who'd been clipped early often had trouble getting there on their own. As Grif well knew.

He explained all of this to Nicole quickly, flatly, hoping it would keep the hysterics to a minimum. Given half a chance, females were always either jawing or at the waterworks. Dead or alive.

“But I can't just
leave,
” she protested when he was finished. “I'm going to a bonfire this weekend, the first one of the spring. And my best friend is waiting outside. We're gonna chill downtown at the Beauty Bar tonight. Unwind a bit, ya know?” She glanced down at Grif's proffered cigarette. A calming tactic. “Oh . . . thanks, honey.”

Something stirred Grif as he bent down and lit her smoke. Probably the shake in her voice, though she talked like a lady, too. Not like most of the rabble he'd been picking up this decade. He snapped the Zippo shut. “Look, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, kid. But you've been rooked.”

“What?”

“You know, you got the dust-off. Killed. Murdered. Clipped. It's a rough deal, but you've had some good times, right? Some wild rides?” He gave a little hip thrust to illuminate the point.

“I'm not a hooker,” she said evenly.

He let his eyes roam around the sex flop. “ 'Course you're not.”

Blowing out a stream of smoke, Nicole returned his flat stare. “So where exactly is this . . . Everlast?”

“Now you're choosy?” Grif muttered, glancing at his watch. He would've turned away, but the walls were mirrored and their reflections overlapped, her horrified heat wrapped over his impassive ice. Sighing heavily, he motioned her to the door.

Nicole didn't move. “What if I wanna do it all over?”

“What over?” he mumbled, lighting his own stick.

“You know. Life. Earth. Humanity. Come back until I get it right.”

“Relax, sweetheart. Mattress time don't count against you.”

That got her back on her feet. “I told you! I'm not a hooker! I'm a photographer—”

“Where's your camera?”

“Well, it's not here, but I have this notebook—” She pointed at the dresser bearing a crappy twenty-inch television and a Moleskine identical to his. Except for the blood splatter.

“Sure,” he said. “A photographer's best friend.”

The fight drained from Rockwell then, and she slumped where she stood, falling so still the only sound in the room was the soft drip, drip of her arterial blood as it fell from the bed to the floor. “But I'm not done here.”

“Just take my hand, kid. It'll be all right.”

She looked at him dubiously. Grif frowned. Sure, his suit was rumpled, but it was clean enough, and his pomade had held at his time of death, though it was hidden beneath the brim of his fedora. A little ginger stubble had sprouted—he'd been offed after five—but if his eyes were hard, they were also clear. All in all, not too bad for fifty years dead.

Yet Rockwell remained unconvinced. “How do I know you're not tricking me? You could latch on and suck my soul down to hell, like in that movie.”

“You mean
Ghost,
right?” A couple of the younger Centurions had explained about that. Some sleeper flick that hit it big a couple decades ago. Now he had to explain himself to every corpse that walked his way. “Look, I'm not a demon, and I'm no ghost. I'm a . . . gentleman.”

Nicole blinked.

“Lots of firsts for you today, eh, Ms. Rockwell?”

Eyes narrowed, she crossed her arms. “Piss off, Shaw. I'm not going anywhere with you.”

Grif fought not to grind his teeth. He'd get hell from Sarge if she took it in her mind to hang out here and haunt the place. And he'd be damned—figuratively speaking, of course—if he was going to let her sully his perfect Take record. Besides, she'd been dead all of five minutes. She didn't yet know what was good for her.

Grinding his cigarette beneath his heel, Grif said, “What are you going to do, honey? Throw down the ménage in this joint for the rest of eternity? Though . . . I guess it does beat sizzling.”

“Sizzling?”

“One wrong turn outta here, and . . .” He made a sound, trout frying in a pan. It was a rotten trick but it worked.

Nicole shuddered in her demi-cups, then stood and slowly glanced around. “So, that's it, huh? Twenty-six years of—”

“Twenty-nine,” Grif corrected.

“—of mortal struggle, and this is how it ends.”

Grif made another show of looking at his watch, while peering at Nicole from the corner of his eye. She didn't look like she was going to leak, he decided gratefully. Instead, she looked like she was going to kick something.

She did . . . then dropped back to the bed, and put her head in her hands while Grif began hopping around.

“Damn it, lady!” He glared, cradling his throbbing shin. “I've had enough of this postmortem crap! Get your lifeless, flabby backside off that bed and follow me!”

Now
she began to cry.

The recently murdered were so
sensitive
.

Sighing, Grif lifted his hat and ran a hand over the top of his head. He could practically hear Sarge's barked reprimand.
Patch it up, Shaw.

“Sorry,” he muttered, stealing another glance at his watch.

“Fuck you, Mr. Sensitivity!” she yelled. “I'm not following your washed-out, B-movie, pseudo-Five-O ass anywhere!”

“Careful, peach. Look how you get to spend eternity.” Grif showed his teeth, and though there wasn't any blood in her ethereal body, Nicole blanched. Then her outline began to shimmer. Not much time left. “That's right. We're all stuck in the clothing worn when we die. Kinda makes you wish you'd overcome that latex fetish, huh?”

“Oh, God.” Nicole looked up at the mirrored ceiling and fussed with her hair, but it sprang back into the deflowered do she'd been sporting at the time of her death. “Oh, God!”

“She's on her lunch break,” Grif muttered, but his heart softened anyway. He couldn't help it. He was lucky to have been offed in 1960. He'd watched too many Centurions shy away from mirrors in the Everlast in the decades since.

“All right, I have an idea.” It was technically against the rules, but the girl was looking at him with those tearful eyes, and he was looking back, really seeing her for once. Helpless females always got to him. And though Rockwell was a lady of the night here on the Surface, there could be someone waiting for her on the other side. They might not recognize her like this . . . or want to.

Besides, he'd been blood and bone once, just like her. In the end, and that's what this was, they were exactly the same. “All right, listen up. There are some clothes in that dresser over there—”

“How do you know—?”

“I just do,” he interrupted, “and you'll move fast if you know what's good for you. You're starting the Fade. I can send you back into your body long enough to change your clothes and do something with that mop on your head. But you gotta keep quiet. Your E.T.D. is twelve fifty. If someone hears you rummaging around at one, my superiors will know I interfered.”

Nicole nodded vigorously.

“All right. Get back in.”

“In?”

“Your body. You gotta line up those pulse points over your earthly remains. Then I can fuel them.”

It wasn't technically necessary, but using her remains was a way to ground her both mentally and physically, giving her the impression of purchase on the Surface even though her spirit was already free. It was like tying a boat to a dock, securing it there even as waves crested around it.

Rockwell did as told, carefully settling her ethereal energy atop her body so that it looked like a shimmering chalk outline. Grif listened for a faint click in the etheric, her final pulse point snapping into place, before echoing the action, positioning his translucent body above hers so their chakras aligned. It required submission on her part, and a smothering of her energy with his own. It was a sensation most loose souls found claustrophobic, but Rockwell didn't even flinch.

Probably used to it, Grif thought, letting himself sink.

Vacuumed silence overran the room, blunting even Grif's celestial senses. Shape and form and sensation blurred as their energies melded as one, and they fell together, burrowing back into skin and cells and tissue and blood. By the time they fully occupied Nicole's body, her life energy was cocooned safely inside of his.

The blood in her core was not entirely still. Her sluggish pulse still lapped like low tide at the shore, not yet aware its efforts were futile. Grif was, though, which was why the sudden explosion of color behind the dead woman's eyelids rocked him. Then the tang of blood and saliva invaded his mouth, followed by the ache of mortal injury—dulled by shock but still keen—and Rockwell's gaping wounds were suddenly his. Stinging fingertips—she had fought—were also his. The clamminess seeping in to claim the once-warm body made him want to gasp and struggle, and the ache that swelled inside him wasn't from injury but from a long-forgotten, yet familiar, desire.

Life.

Grif clenched his jaw, and felt foreign teeth grind together in an unfamiliar way. Pushing that discomfort away, he forced his energy down, past cells and tissue and the molecules that made everything on the Surface so tangible. An instant later, he was facedown beneath Rockwell's deathbed, alone in spirit, lying in a sticky pool of blood. When he slid out from under the bed, Nicole was already sitting up, literally holding her head.

“I feel like shit,” she gurgled.

“Well, keep your eyes on the floor, honey, 'cuz you look even worse.”

She did, though glared at him first. “And keep yours to yourself.”

“Not a show I care to see,” he muttered, but crossed to the window to wait. Clumsy rummaging followed, silence, then exhausted groans and more silence.

Grif needed a moment to recover anyway. Rubbing his aching chest, he pulled back one grungy curtain panel. He'd left the pain of mortality behind long ago, and the suggestion of skin over his soul smothered and burned, like he'd been dipped in hot wax.

How could he have forgotten this?

A movement outside the window caught his eye, and he focused on it like an alley cat spying a rat. He tried to zoom in, but Nicole's humanity blunted his vision. He'd gotten so used to telescopic eyesight—to all the gifts afforded a Centurion—that he was unaccustomed to limited senses. Yet there was just enough residue from the Everlast to see clearly into the blackened winter night, and when Grif finally focused, he couldn't help but wish for full celestial vision again.

If Grif was a B-movie version of an old-school P.I., then this woman was a full-fledged screen siren. Even from a distance, he could make out silky sable hair pulled back from sky-high cheekbones. They rode a round, sculpted face with lips tucked at the center of it like full, pink cushions. And that shape, he thought, as she stepped from the car. Curves like he hadn't seen on a woman in decades. More hairpins than Mulholland Drive, every sweeping stretch draped in red silk, shimmering in places that made his mouth go dry.