BloodAngel Read online

  Mak was sitting outside a small brick box of a house, his feet planted in the dirt, his dark body made darker by the sun. He was moving a rag along the barrel of a rifle, cleaning it without conviction, as if looking for something to do with his hands. "You," Makonnen said lazily, and took a moment to angle the weapon across his lap, to extract and light a cigarette. He watched two women in long-sleeved dresses walk past. They pretended not to notice him, as they chatted and smiled at each other, using their hands to steady the plastic buckets balanced on their heads.

  I need Ashika's spellbooks.

  "I had them," Mak acknowledged.

  Small children shrieked down the street, kicking up dirt. A beaten-up taxi idled at the corner.

  Mak continued, "Didn't know what to do with them. Didn't know what they were doing to me. Tried to find you. Needed to talk."

  I went away.

  "No shit."

  I didn't know.

  "I needed," he said again, running the cloth along the barrel, "to talk to you. Looked, kept looking. No prince."

  I am sorry.

  He acknowledged the apology with a tilt of his head. "No shit."

  Can you tell me where they are?

  "You're going to read them?"

  I have to try.

  "They are foul," Mak said. "Get into your brain. Get under your skin."

  I need to read them, Mak.

  He flicked ash. "The twins," he said finally.

  You gave them to the twins?

  "Wouldn't say I gave them."

  The twins took them?

  Mak hunched his shoulders in a long shrug. A woman leaned out from the doorway behind him—soft brown eyes, a red-and-yellow headscarf—and murmured to Mak in a language Kai did not understand.

  "Just a ghost, babe," Mak said in loud, pointed English. The woman drew back, not understanding. Mak's eyes were dark and hooded. He flicked aside the cigarette butt and ground it beneath a bare heel. "Talkin' to a ghost."

  * * * *

  Kai says that the magic expresses itself through symbols, like dreams. The bird with the brilliant blue eyes, for example, my first spell: the ability to cast yourself into someone else's point of view, to see what they see. "It feels a bit like I'm invading their mind," I told him.

  "No," he said. "You know how children ride on their parents' backs sometimes? What do they call that?"

  "Piggyback rides."

  "It's like their vision is giving your own vision a kind of pig… piggyback ride."

  "Are they aware of this?"

  "Most of them just explain it away as a dizzy spell, or a headache."

  * * * *

  Other spells that have emerged from behind those mental dream-doors:

  A snake, silver and glittering, flicking its long tongue at me. Inside this meditative state, this dream-state, I picked up the snake and it curled itself around my arm and disappeared through my skin. "Magic often expresses itself through snake images," Kai said, after. "What do you feel?" I thought for a moment. "Charm."

  "A charisma spell," Kai said. "You'll find that very handy."

  One spell was simply a sound. I stood in the spill of light that came out through the doorway and heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It repeated itself for what felt like forever as I turned, turned again, looking for the damn phone. "The ability to communicate telepathically," Kai said. "We'll devote some time to practicing this one; it can be tricky."

  "Will I ever be able to interpret these spells myself? Will I always need you to explain them for me?"

  "I'm your teacher. This is what a teacher does. Eventually you'll be able to read new spells on your own."

  "How long have we been here?" I asked him. "If time moved normally here, how long have we been here, training like this? One month? Six months? A year?"

  "Jessamy. It's a useless question all around."

  "But—"

  "Focus. There's still a lot of work to do."

  And the newest spell. This one was different from the others. There was nothing: no image, no sound. Yet I saw the door open, felt something opening up deep inside me. I felt myself change. Yet nothing happened. When I emerged from meditation I could only look blankly at Kai.

  "It will reveal itself at some point," he said.

  Later, in my suite, I was stepping out from the shower. When, from the corner of my eye, I caught myself moving in the mirror. I glanced away—but something had registered in my brain as odd. I looked back to the mirror—just in time to see my reflection smiling at me when I knew that I, myself, was not smiling—in fact, my jaw was dropping open. My reflection in the mirror became its own creature—a thing apart from me—the link between us severed—so that when I moved it stayed still, and when I stood there frozen it came up against the glass and passed through the glass until it was standing in front of me, like a ghost, except it looked much more substantial, it looked like my living breathing twin except it was neither ghost or twin, it was… well, hell. I don't know what it was.

  It was magic.

  It turned away from me and walked, naked, across the bathroom until it came to the closed door. I don't know if it actually dissipated right there or if it walked right through the door until it came out the other side…

  I had to sit down until I stopped trembling.

  * * * *

  The man and the woman made love on the four-poster bed. The other woman was draped along the chaise longue, sipping champagne and watching the couple with lazy, half-closed eyes. A short silk kimono was belted loosely at her waist. Kai realized his mind no longer held any name for her—as soon as he saw her, the old name had been wiped clean from memory—which meant that she had either changed it or was in the process of changing it, as they all did from time to time.

  Hey you.

  She ignored him for so long he began to wonder if the Dreamline had thinned out or snapped without his realizing. But then she turned onto her other side, facing away from the lovemaking couple. "Hello, Your Brightness," she said cheerily. "Are you comfortable here or would you like to move to another room?"

  The couple behind you seems preoccupied enough. I don't think they'll disturb us.

  "I think you're right." She drained the flute and reached for the bottle in the standing silver bucket. "You're in Vegas, in case you're wondering."

  Where's your brother?

  "In the suite down the hall"—she gestured vaguely at the dark-haired man on the bed behind her—"with his wife."

  What do you call yourselves these days?

  She grinned. "Tristan and Isolde."

  Cute.

  "I thought so."

  Where are Ashika's spelljournals, Isolde?

  Isolde's eyes turned narrow. She readjusted her kimono. "Makonnen went through some strange phase with them," she said. "It got ugly. Of course, you were away at the time. You were unavailable for comment." Thin blade of accusation turning through her voice. He let it pass.

  Isolde said, "What could you possibly want with them?"

  Bakal Ashika. You know this.

  "And so? All sorts of evil forces are afoot in this world. Have you read the papers lately?"

  Tell me where they are, Isolde. I appreciate how you and your brother helped Makonnen.

  "Those books are contaminated."

  They might offer up clues to Ashika's intentions.

  "She was in jail for five hundred years. Ever think maybe she's just hanging out, having a good time?"

  Isolde. I'm way past the point of enjoying this. Tell me.

  She sighed. "Safety-deposit box, one of our banks in Sweden. I'll give you the information."

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Trans website asked:

  ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR JOURNEY?

  Yes, Ramsey told himself, as he emptied his bank account and stashed the money in his knapsack and bought a bus ticket to get him to the San Francisco address scrawled on the top left-hand corner of Lizardking's envelope, which he had committed to memory. Yes,
he told himself, as he leaned his forehead against the grime-streaked window and watched the country unfold around him, in its vastness of fields and sky and small nothing towns, farm equipment rusting in the grass by the highway; the freeways and big rigs and fast-food signs; the hills and plains and mountains. I am ready.

  * * * *

  Lizardking had given his address c/o King's Way. Ramsey expected a small side street or some kind of apartment building, but what he found instead was a pub. It had a wood-and-wrought-iron facade and looked out of place in a neighborhood of noodle shops and massage parlors and crumbling hotels, cigarette butts stamped into the sidewalks, the homeless napping in doorways with their shopping carts parked nearby.

  Ramsey pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.

  A dim, cool interior, air smelling of beer and fish and chips. Maybe half a dozen patrons lurked at the scratched-up tables. Feeling scruffy and self-conscious, Ramsey went to the bar. He could still smell the bus on him. He tightened his grip on the duffle bag he'd bought at a Wal-Mart several states ago and said to the guy in the white apron, "I'm looking for this guy calls himself Lizardking?"

  The man blinked several times. "Lizardking?"

  "That's the only name I have for him. He gave this address."

  "I know who he is," the man said. "He's gone."

  "What?"

  That couldn't be right. That didn't fit the plan.

  But it was then a strange cool feeling blew over him, and a pressure began building in his head; he felt a tap on his shoulder and a woman's voice spoke directly into his ear. "Ramsey," she said. "Ramsey." He turned around, turned around again. There was no woman. There was no one standing anywhere near him. He looked at the man behind the bar, said, "Did someone else just come in here?"

  The man shrugged. He jerked his head towards a corner table, said, "See that kid with the hair? Talk to him."

  Ramsey saw a rangy guy in flared jeans, hair red as a valentine, slouching in his chair, stealing French fries from the older man across from him.

  Ramsey said, "He knows Lizardking?"

  "Hell," the man said, "he named him."

  The man moved away from Ramsey and went through the swinging door into the kitchen. The redheaded youth was watching the older man count out cash, lay it on the table. "Leave a tip," the kid said loudly. The man paused, then reluctantly let fall another bill. The kid said even louder, "Jesus. A decent tip."

  The man looked at the kid for a moment, then slapped all his cash on the table and shoved back his chair and grabbed his briefcase. As he hurried to the door, Ramsey caught the expression on his face: hollow, defeated, as if the bones inside his skin had collapsed in self-disgust.

  Ramsey looked back to the kid.

  Except the guy was already looking at him, his arm slung across the back of his chair, his eyes hooded. He said, "Do you know where you are?"

  "What?"

  "Do you know who you are?" The guy was smirking. " 'Cause you don't look like you have a fuckin' clue."

  "I'm looking for Lizardking."

  The guy's expression shifted a little. His arm slipped off the backrest. "Lizzie?" he said. "You're one of his?"

  "Uh. I wanted to go see a band with him."

  "Yeah, yeah," the kid said, "you're one of those."

  Ramsey looked at him blankly.

  "A Trans fan," the youth said, only he blurred the two words together, transfan, "a fucking Asha-ite. Myself, I think their music reeks. Pretentious art-house shit, but whatever. Different strokes for different folks, right?" He shrugged his thin shoulders. He had black-painted fingernails, black rubber bracelets on both wrists. "You're Nemesis, right?"

  It took Ramsey a moment to connect himself with his darkhouse.com persona. "Yeah," he finally said. "Except my real name's—"

  "Fuck that. We don't deal in real names here. I'm Poppy. Lizzie said you might show up."

  "You know where he is?"

  "No," Poppy said, but Ramsey caught a flicker in the other teenager's eyes, sensed something hiding behind them. "Where you staying?"

  Ramsey shrugged. He hadn't thought that far ahead. "Some hostel."

  "Nah. You don't want to stay at 'some hostel.' You can crash in Lizzie's room."

  "He lives with you?"

  Poppy sauntered towards the door, then glanced over his shoulder. Ramsey hadn't moved. Poppy tossed his head. "Dude, you coming or what?"

  Ramsey felt the weight of his gathering exhaustion, and something else: a prickling, itching sensation traveling along his shoulder blades, moving down his back.

  The kid knelt, lifted a flared pant leg and extracted something from the inside of his cowboy boot. He tossed it to Ramsey, who reached out and caught it without thinking. A jackknife. Ramsey flipped it open.

  "If I make any funny moves," Poppy said, "feel free to protect yourself. But don't worry. You ain't my type."

  Ramsey felt the heft of the weapon in his hand. "So what makes you think I'm not some psycho?"

  Poppy rolled his eyes. "Like I said before. You look too fuckin' clueless."

  * * * *

  The sunlight flared in his eyes, making him realize all over again how ugly this neighborhood was. Poppy unlocked a door and stepped into a hallway that smelled of urine and old pizza. Rusted mailboxes dangled off the wall. They walked up three flights of stairs. Ramsey heard a television blaring from behind one wall, the flush of a toilet behind another. "Shithole, sweet shithole," Poppy said in singsong, unlocking a door, kicking it open.

  The room was larger than Ramsey had expected, with furniture he guessed had been dragged off the streets. Lizzie's room opened off the back and was about the size of a walk-in closet. "You might want to wash that," Poppy said, eyeing the sleeping bag in the corner.

  Ramsey said, "So what happened to him anyway? He disappeared?"

  Poppy shrugged. "He's the way he is, you know? He was in good with this guy who runs an Internet cafe and sometimes he'd spend his whole day at a computer, eating biscotti and shit. He could be there right now," but Ramsey sensed again the falseness in Poppy's expression.

  Poppy continued, "He was talking about this trip. He was going to hook up with these kids, head out to Nevada. There's some kind of thing happening out there, for, you know, people like you."

  Ramsey glanced at him.

  Poppy said again, blurring the words together, "Transfans. People are, like, gathering out there. They're calling it the Bloodangel, or some such shit. You heard of it?"

  "Do you know anything about it?" Ramsey heard the urgency in his own voice. Heard the voice, the Asha-voice, from his dreams: I will give you a gift. "Did he leave any information? Because—"

  Poppy shrugged. "Like I said, I think—"

  "—I'm supposed to go there too."

  "—Their music is shit. So no. I know nothing."

  "I have to get there," Ramsey said. "Lizardking should have waited for me."

  "Oh really?" The corners of Poppy's mouth lifted. "Did Lizzie know this?"

  Ramsey glanced away.

  "Don't look so downcast," Poppy chided. "I know some people you can talk to. You'll figure it out."

  A pager was beeping. Poppy plucked the object from his pocket, squinted down at it. "Well," he said, and Ramsey heard the sigh in his voice, "I am a popular boy today. There's an extra key hanging up by the door. There's nothing worth stealing, all I ask is don't burn the fucking place down. Or make a fucking mess." The tone of his voice suggested the latter was the greater offense.

  "Thanks," Ramsey said again, awkwardly. "You didn't have to do this."

  "Look, I'll tell you straight up: I'm kind of a prick. But Lizzie I liked. Lizzie was—is—a cool guy. So if I didn't put you up, he'd be pissed."

  Ramsey nodded. He didn't trust Poppy, but this was Lizardking's room, Lizardking's stuff, Lizardking's friends—which meant this was Ramsey's path to Trans, and to Asha. This was just another place to pass through.

  Bloodangel.

  He just had to
find out where to go and how to get there.

  Poppy left, door banging. Ramsey opened his wallet and took out the photo of Lauren he'd stolen from one of the Campbell photo albums and propped it against the wall. Just seeing it there made him feel better. Ramsey stood in the middle of a stranger's bedroom and weighed his hunger against his fatigue. The fatigue won out. He dropped his duffle bag and fell across the mattress. The sleeping bag held the sour-sweet smell of someone else's body, but he was asleep too fast to notice.

  He dreamed of Lauren. She was dancing in a little school uniform, the skirt swishing around her lean thighs, strands of hair slipping across her mouth. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip and said, The vessel is unfit. You're running out of time, and before he could ask her what she meant she was walking away from him, calf muscles flexing.

  It was the burning that woke him, ripped him back up through the membrane of sleep, of dreams. His back on fire. Ramsey heard someone cry out—a thin, high, agonized sound—and realized it was himself. He ripped off his shirt, stumbled over to the mirror that hung on the back of Lizzie's door.

  He turned his back to the glass, and looked over his shoulder at his reflection.

  Wounds had opened up along his back, two slashing lines that slanted from the top of his shoulder blades to his waist, forming an inflamed angry V. Ramsey stared, feeling something raw and cold move in beneath the pain, that moved his whole body to shaking.

  But the wounds were already closing, their vivid red fading to pink, then fading away altogether. Within minutes his back was smooth and unmarked.

  Munroe's voice: Your body tells the story. Bodies often do. Those marks on your back, for example. They serve as a kind of symbol. Stigmata.

  There aren't any marks on my back, Ramsey had said.

  Munroe had been silent for a moment.—Not yet.

  His legs gave way like broken toothpicks. He fell to the floor and hugged his knees to his chest. He touched a hand to his shoulder, where the bullet wound had left a small scar, and remembered the taste of the bullet as it came up through his mouth.