Cian
We were already out for much longer than I'd been planning, the clock ticking dangerously close to midnight, the sky black above our heads. The streets were narrow, bright red and gold lanterns strung from roof to roof. Stone dragons, perched atop buildings, watched us, their cold gray eyes seeming to trail Vinny and me as we waded through the shops and stands. There were fruit stands and cramped clothing shops, herb vendors and street food. Perhaps if Caprice hadn't seemed so bothered, I would have paused to enjoy this new side of San Francisco I didn't get to spend a whole lot of time in—Chinatown had never been a part of my post when I'd been in the business of directing souls.
Vendors shouted at us, begging us to take one last look at their merchandise. To each I shook my head, giving a half-hearted "sorry, don't have time," before speeding up my pace.
Despite the fact it was late, the crowds were thick. I reached back, clawing for my little brother's hand. He didn't fight me when I latched on, beginning to drag him. "Come on," I urged. "The building's coming up, and I don't want to be here all night."
Vinny had to yell over the merging voices, most speaking in foreign tongues such as Mandarin and Cantonese. "What did she say was wrong?"
"She didn't say," I shouted back. I squinted up at the road signs, recognized the street name Caprice had told me, and took a sharp right turn, closer to the sidewalks. "I don't know what's wrong."
We had entered a narrow alleyway, the loud scents of spices smothered, yet not killed—star anise, cinnamon, fennel. My eyebrows crinkled as I tried to shut the voices out; I was getting out of breath. Damn you, Caprice.
A cat scattered out of our way as we walked, the moonlight further from us, the dark even more foreboding. I could taste sweat and blood on my tongue; my hand slipped from Vinny's.
"Cian," he said, as the alley opened up again, the thick air assaulting my lungs. When I didn't reply, he said again, "Cian."
I glanced back at him. "What?"
"If you're not strong enough, we can go home. We should go home."
"No, we should not," I hissed. I lifted a hand to shield my tired eyes from the onslaught of gold light, scanning the vacant backstreet we'd entered. A green door, tired and ancient, winked at us from across the street—just as Caprice had described it. "I may not take care of souls anymore, but I'm still an angel. It's my job to help Caprice; she's one of our own."
"You're crazy," Vinny groaned. "You're all crazy."
A motorcycle drove by, its headlights splitting the darkness into black and gold quarters. I waited, letting it pass before I scampered across the street with Vinny in tow. As I climbed the front stoop, an old woman watched me with dim eyes, wrinkles like fine fault lines in her face. There was something haunting about her silent gaze, but I ignored it, clutching a fist against my chest as I shouldered the door open.
"Caprice?" I called into the foyer, which was less like a foyer and more like a doorless hall closet. "It's Cian. Everything okay?"
There was hectic rustling from somewhere around the corner, and a lot of clanking. An aggravated grunt sounded, likely from Caprice's mouth. "No, clearly not! I wouldn't have called you if everything was just peachy keen! Get your one-eyed ass in here, right now! Oh, that stings, that stings!"
Vinny and I shared a wary glance in the ill-lit hallway.
Okay, he was right. We were all crazy.
I followed Caprice's constant grunting until I entered what appeared to be some sort of parlor, or perhaps a music room. The oriental rug was a deep maroon, the walls of the same color, a well-taken care of grand piano in the tiny room's corner. Sheet music was everywhere: on the floor, hanging off the peeling bookshelf, twirling in the air on the breezes let in by the half-open window.
Caprice was perched, oddly, on the top of the loveseat, her dark wings sprouting from her shoulders like ornate, overlapping vines. She gritted her teeth, her ebony eyes zipping to Vinny and me as we entered the room. "Oh," she said unpleasantly. "You brought Lazarus with you. Perfect, just perfect."
I was freezing cold, and not because of the open window. A soul still sat at the piano as if nothing were happening—a young girl, to be precise, with her stark black hair wound into two spotless pigtails. Her fingers were tapping away at the keys, though they fell through them, making no sound at all.
I shivered a little. "Caprice," I began, "want to tell me why you're standing on the couch like you're running from some cockroach, or something?"
"This is worse than a cockroach. So, so much worse."
Vinny leaned back against the wall, tugging at one of his hoodie strings. Well, to be exact, it was one of my hoodie strings, as he didn't exactly own any clothing that was good for sneaking around and had thus had to borrow some items from me. I cast him a sideways glance. He didn't look nearly as good in black as I did.
"She's a little girl," he said, gesturing in the dead girl's direction. She was dutifully ignoring us, still tapping out her silent song as if she were still alive. "I don't see how she's the equivalent of a cockroach."
Caprice ruffled her wings' feathers in exasperation, easing one heeled foot down to the floor. As to how she went about her duties in heels and a tight dress, I wasn't sure—but this was Caprice Martinez, and I'd never really seen her in anything that didn't cling to every single curve. "No, she won't move. I've touched her a million times—you know, little one, the touch—and she hasn't gone. She's just been sitting here, this whole time. Something's wrong. This never happens."
Vinny scoffed, his gold-trimmed eyes landing on me. "The touch?" he echoed. "That sounds ominous."
"I don't think you really mean ominous."
He grinned at me.
I didn't like that grin.
I ignored him, stepping further into the room and offering Caprice a hand as she lowered the remainder of her weight to the floor. Her wings took up an enormous amount of space, arcing up towards the ceiling in elegantly curved lines. I eyed them, but wouldn't let myself envy them. I was okay now. It was okay now.
I thought.
I rubbed my temples. "So let me get this straight—this girl's dead, yet you can't send her to the afterlife? How is that even possible?"
"Cian Horne," she muttered in response, one eyebrow risen, "I don't have the slightest idea. That's why you're here."
"What, like I'm supposed to know?"
"You have a young brain. Use it."
"Look, Caprice, I'm not going to help you just because you're some senior citizen who doesn't know how to do her job anymore—"
"Senior citizen! Do I look like a senior citizen to you—"
"Oh! Don't deny the fact that you're as old as dirt—"
"Guys!" Vinny snapped. We both glanced at him, and he was still standing there against the wall, his eyes wide as he pointed at something in front of him.
The girl had risen from her seat at the piano, and was now standing in the center of the room, staring at us with haunting, doll-like eyes. Shivers, intermittent bursts of ice, rolled down my spine. Caprice was right—there was something off about this. I didn't like it, not in the least.
I tugged on Caprice's sleeve, while the girl kept staring at us. "Was she doing that before?"
"No," Caprice answered, dropping her voice to a whisper. She moved a stray hair of her pixie cut behind her ear, swallowing. "No, she definitely wasn't—"
"It is wrong," the girl said. Her voice was vacant, locked in a haze she herself didn't seem to recognize. "The balance. It is all wrong."
"The balance?" I stepped forward, but Caprice caught at my sleeve, pulling me back again. I glimpsed her long enough to see her eyes fall to my wrist, if only for a moment. I shook myself free of her grasp. "What balance?"
The little girl blinked at me.
She turned towards Vinny, lifting a trembling hand, extending one finger in his direction. I watched as her gaze hardened, ice turning to fire. She gritted her teeth, but said nothing, and then she vanished altogether.
I surged forward, clawing for her, but my hands met nothing but air. "No! Wait!"
I'd misinterpreted the range of my steps, which happened often nowadays whenever I moved too quickly, and tumbled to the floor, my knee striking against the frigid wood. I crumpled, groaning, my bad eye throbbing. Vinny called out, coming to my side, but I ignored him. I was fine. I didn't need his help. I didn't need anyone's help.
"Cian," he began, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Cian, you okay?"
With quivering fingers, I shoved his hand away. "I'm fine. Let me go. I can get up on my own."
"You're shaking, and you're out of breath. I need to get you back—"
"Vincent," I warned. "I said that I'm fine!"
Silence followed the outburst, yet the terseness of it hung in the air, and all three of us choked on it. Vinny's eyes darted away as he backed up, the defeated hunch to his shoulders saying more than any words could.
Guilt sunk within me. It wasn't his fault. None of this was his fault.
I pulled myself to a sitting position, straining to catch my breath. He was right. I just wanted to go home.
But Caprice's warm hand was on my arm, tugging me gently up. Her eyes, a lighter brown in the parlor's amber lamplight, burned into mine. "Little one," she said, a bit sadly, "do you mind if I talk to you for a second?"
Vinny looked up.
Caprice coughed. "I mean—outside."
I nodded, and let her lead me away, ignoring the wistful glance my little brother shot me as we exited out into the foyer again.
We shoved through the dusty hallway, and out the front door from which I'd just entered. The night had turned blacker, as if, like tea, it grew more pungent with more time to steep. Leaves rustled softly, wind howled, waves crashed. There were lights and the thundering of drum beats, and there was laughter and the sounds of mingling voices. It was crisp, yet bleary at the same time, and I winced, wishing I could just go to sleep and give my head a rest.
There was sweat on my forehead. I was cold.
Caprice gripped my arm, her nails digging into my skin tightly enough to draw blood. I yelped, but she just stood there stonily as she dragged my sleeve up to my elbow and waved my own arm in my face.
"Cian. This is a problem."
It was dark, but not dark enough to obscure the black, serpentine veins climbing from my wrist up to my bicep, the same veins that had paused at my forearm just a few days ago. They were growing, thickening and elongating and tendering, and who knew how much longer I had before the effects got even worse. I squinted my good eye at them, and groaned. I wish it wasn't like this. I wanted my health back. "I don't know, Caprice," I confessed. "I don't know where they're coming from. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Well, what I'm trying to tell you is that you need to figure it out," she hissed back at me, dropping my arm. "You know what it looks like; you and I both do. You've experienced demon venom at its worst. Now look me in the eye and tell me you're okay with it killing you this time."
I didn't look at her.
"That's what I thought."
I sniffled, shivering a little. "What do you want me to do?"
"Talk to someone. Anyone. The Order, if you have to. It's just going to get worse from here, and I can't let that happen. You have so many people waiting for you, counting on you. Your brother. Lucie. Even me, Cian."
I took a step back, wavering a little on my balance. Caprice's eyes narrowed. "Why do you care? Why do you care about any of us?"
Caprice paused, then let out a long and heavy sigh, hiding her face in her palm. "Agh, I don't know, Cian. I just know you're a little bit important to me."
"Just a little bit?"
She dropped her hand, glaring at me. "Yes, just a little bit. Most of me still hates your guts."
"Aw. I appreciate that."
"Anyway—yes, you're a little important. But you're really stupid," she went on. "So I'm being serious, Cian. Think about your mother, Lazarus, Lucie. You can't let them down. After everything you've fought for..."
I sank down to a seat on the front stoop, my eyes searching the empty street. The old woman who had been there before was gone now, yet an unnerving amount of stray cats were now roaming the area, yowling and purring into the night. "I've ruined them," I told Caprice. "All these people you've mentioned have been hurt in some way because of me. Did you ever think maybe this—whatever this is—is what's been supposed to happen along?"
A slow breeze circled around us, tossing my hair into my eyes, ruffling Caprice's clothes, blowing her sickly sweet perfume into my nostrils. All of this—this night, the little girl, this conversation—was beginning to make me feel a little sick.
It was quiet for a moment as she just stared at me.
Then: "If you believe that, then you haven't been listening to a word I've said."
"Caprice..."
"No, it's okay, I get it," she replied, though there was an edge to her voice that half-convinced me she was being facetious. "You want to believe everyone's better off without you, that you're doing the right thing by sacrificing yourself. Fine, Cian, fine."
"I just—"
"Zip it," she snapped.
I wanted to say something, but when I opened my mouth, no words came out. Caprice just muttered under her breath, stepping towards me and folding her arms across her chest, tight as a vice. Her expression was more than a little terrifying, eyes frigid as an icicle, mouth set in a frown.
"Since you're so convinced you can't do good for other people," she said, "be selfish for once. Care about yourself. Live for your own sake."
I narrowed my eyes, drawing my sleeve back down, wincing at the pain. "I don't know why you're saying all this."
She bit her lip, averting her eyes from me for a moment. "Because someone had to tell you."