Psychopomp: A Novella Read online

  After the bath, I dressed in the too-large clothes and ran my fingers through my tangled hair, turning away from the mirror-gaze of my wounded eyes.

  Out in the main room, Gabriel was sitting on the drab-green couch, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. A plate of paste waited for me on the low table before him.

  “You didn’t have to take it out of the tin,” I said gruffly, uncomfortable to think of him doing that for me. My stomach growled as I sat down, and I had to resist shoveling the food into my mouth all at once. The paste was a substance formulated for nutrition, not taste, but I didn’t care. I’d never cared.

  “The plates were here when I came,” Gabriel said. “So I use them.” He looked at me. “Did you really walk all night?

  “Sí.”

  “Then you should probably rest today, especially since you fainted.” He kept looking at me, as if trying to discern all my secrets.

  “What were you doing at that party?” I asked abruptly. I shoveled another forkful of paste into my mouth.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It was just one of those things.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to be there,” I told him. “We weren’t invited.”

  He shrugged, unconcerned. “Did you come here because you thought it would be better than the place you left?”

  Unease pricked my scalp. “I don’t know.”

  He rose from his seat, tall and imposing even in his leanness, and took my empty plate to the kitchen sink. “This world is a harsh place, Marlo. Don’t be surprised if it eats you alive.”

  I didn’t tell him it already had.

  “I should have left home a long time ago,” I said, trying to sound brave. “But I think I’m stronger now than I ever was. No one can hurt an empty shell.”

  “An empty shell is easily broken,” Gabriel said.

  Stricken, I looked at him. “Qué?”

  “But it can also be filled. And I know, because sometimes it feels like someone’s gone in and scraped away everything human from me. Everything I need to feel remorse. That’s the one thing I don’t feel, you know.”

  My heart beat faster. He was going to hurt me, just like every other man I’d ever known.

  “I won’t touch you,” he said, sensing my trepidation. “You should rest now. I have things to do.” His gaze dropped to my bare feet. “I’ll get you some shoes. And clothes that fit.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” I mumbled, lowering my eyes.

  “I never do.”

  He opened the door, brightening the room for a brief, blinding moment. Then he swept out, and I was alone.

  ~

  I slept and slept, drawn into oblivion by exhaustion and sadness. Then I woke and it was dark. Only the faintest hint of moonlight shone through the transom. From across the room, I heard the soft undulations of unintelligible whispering.

  My body tensed. I waited, half blind in the dark, for a touch, a taunt, a threat. I wouldn’t turn away if the mortician came for me. I wouldn’t fight. I wouldn’t like it, but it’d be easier to submit while he took what he wanted.

  The whispers never came closer, though. They stayed across the room, far enough for me to feel safe, close enough to unnerve me. I couldn’t make out words, just a manic hiss here, a soothing murmur there, the varying tones blending together until they formed a white rush that eventually lulled me back to sleep.

  Fear and uneasiness followed me into my dreams. As always, their power over me was strong.

  interim: inocencia

  Someone’s hand closed around Dominique’s arm, throwing her off balance. “Get off me!” she yelled, jerking her arm back on instinct. A man glared at her as if she were the one at fault, and she glared right back. Such incidents were common—even inevitable—on the back streets, and she’d learned to deal with them early on. Even so, she dreaded the day when a man wouldn’t just slink away, but force his will as far as he could. She’d heard stories from the other girls and knew it would be her turn soon.

  The metal forest came into view. She stepped onto the path leading through it, her eyes passing over mansions she’d cleaned before. They were all different, yet all the same. Bright, angular, pristine. Yet she would swear the mansion Hiram Bartholomew occupied emanated darkness.

  Dominique felt her heart start to beat faster when she saw it, as it always did for some reason. It had been several days since she’d begun scrubbing the murderer’s floors and bathrooms, especially the corners where grime tended to collect. She left soap by his sinks and laundered his towels. His windows and mirrors remained spotless with her care. The antique books on his shelves stayed free of dust.

  She saw him often, but he never seemed to take notice of her presence. So she watched as he read those books or took strolls around the mansion. He never had guests. Her fear of him never really left, but a strange fascination grew. The man possessed a quiet composure, but undoubtedly something dark lived inside him. Sometimes she had to remind herself she’d seen him murder a man.

  Besides, even if she was curious about him—which she wasn’t—there was nothing they could possibly say to each other. He was perhaps fifteen or twenty years her senior. She had seen nothing of the world, but he moved in the easy, confident way of someone who had seen a lot of it.

  Men like him never picked up girls like her, not for anything serious. They may have paid for their services, but they lost interest quickly.

  With a sigh, she wished her thoughts wouldn’t wander in such ways. She could never let the truth of this man escape her.

  Delia had no trouble letting her work for him. But Delia didn’t know he was a murderer.

  “Good morning, Dominique.”

  She glanced up from cleaning the dishes he’d used the night before, startled by the sound of his voice as much as his use of her name. “Oh—good morning.”

  Sometimes she wondered if he remembered their bargain from that first night on the streets. He must have, because why else would he have bothered to contract her services? Why else would he have learned her name? Yet he gave no indication of ever intending to redeem the favor she owed him.

  He walked behind her, opening a cabinet and pouring filtered water into a glass. Stiff-shouldered, she finished putting away the dishes. When she turned, she found him standing surprisingly close, his dark eyes resting on her. The unfathomable thoughtfulness in his gaze flustered her.

  For a moment too long, he remained silent. Then he said, “Come sit with me, Dominique. We should talk.”

  The request startled her. No client had ever asked any such thing of a maid, as far as she knew. She eyed him warily. “About what?”

  Hiram Bartholomew didn’t answer. He kept walking, expecting her to follow him. She did, drawn by his strange, magnetic power.

  In the living room, he sat before the large screen, which depicted a silent, blazing fire. Sitting across from him, Dominique watched the flickering light cast demonic shadows on his face.

  Silence stretched interminably. He didn’t even look at her, but somewhere off in the distance. The light danced along the dark strands of his short, meticulously combed hair. For some reason she found herself noticing his lips, hard-set but sensual. His nose was strong and straight—noble, even. She’d never seen someone so clean, so proper, or so… old-fashioned.

  “You aren’t like any man I’ve ever met,” she blurted. As soon as the words left her, her eyes darted skittishly about the room. She shouldn’t have said that. He would take it the wrong way.

  “Oh, my dear, I know.” His killer’s voice sounded rueful. Dark eyes shifting fluidly in the false firelight, he gave her a long look that made her cheeks grow hot. He smiled a little, but there was no warmth or humor in it. “You’ve a very innocent way about you—unsuspecting, even.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you kill that man?”

  “Do you think the luxuries of Cizel come without a price? Unfortunately, that man, along with many others, couldn’t pay that price.”

  “W
hat price?”

  “Prices like the one you will pay, inevitably.”

  Dominique’s nostrils flared. “But I don’t—”

  “Do not worry, Dominique. I have no doubt you’ll be able to pay when the time comes.”

  Frowning, she stared at him, eyebrows drawn together. The sound of his voice was mesmerizing, but she had no idea what he meant. Of course she wouldn’t be able to pay, especially when she didn’t know what she was supposed to be paying for. The credits she had were sufficient only to keep her fed and sheltered.

  At last he leaned forward in his seat, his gaze intent. “There will be a gala next week, and I would like you to attend with me.”

  In an instant, Dominique rose to her feet and began to pace. “I’m not doing that. You hired me to clean, nothing else—”

  “I only want you to accompany me,” he said. “I find myself desirous of a companion, someone who will stave off the emptiness threatening to consume me.”

  “I won’t be no one’s companion—”

  “Consider this your favor to me. After the gala, you will be completely free of me.” His words bit through the air, and Dominique stilled. “It’s only a dance,” he said softly. “I won’t harm you.”

  She looked at him, torn with indecision. “Just… just a dance?”

  “Yes. We will arrive together, and I require no more than a single dance from you.”

  Thinking of the parties she’d often passed when walking home from work, Dominique could feel herself swaying toward accepting his offer. She imagined the colorful lights, the infectious music, the outrageous people, the food. It wouldn’t hurt her to enjoy herself for a single night, she reasoned.

  “But why?” she asked.

  One corner of Hiram’s mouth lifted with his amusement at her suspicion. “Perhaps you are not aware of the power you have over me.”

  Her romantic fantasies instantly grew more elaborate, but she frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a strong girl,” he said. “You have a good head.”

  “Will you pay me extra to go with you?” she demanded. “Otherwise I won’t do it.”

  He laughed, a soft, rumbling sound. His dark eyes glittered. “Of course.”

  “And you can’t touch me. Nothing inappropriate.”

  “I would never dream of harming you or making you uncomfortable. You have my word.”

  Dominique stared at him; he seemed sincere enough. “All right,” she agreed at last, reluctance hanging on her tone.

  “Excellent,” Hiram Bartholomew said. “I look forward to this event, Dominique.”

  She looked forward to it too, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.

  13. las cenizas

  The wind blew harshly, sending up billows of dust. Brittle curls of paint flaked off beneath my fingers. There was nothing to see in the waving western fields except a pair of distant trees clinging to life with the certainty of years. Their bony branches probably grew barer with each tearing wind. Their tall, leaning forms looked like a gateway to a long-abandoned world.

  They lived. Their roots were much deeper than mine would ever be. One day my tree would fall and die, gnawed by serpents.

  An orange-striped cat with one blind eye and a coat made ragged from unseen scars darted in front of me. He disappeared before I could see where he went. I’d have to remember to save some food for him.

  “Nobody ever comes here,” Gabriel told me. “You and I—we’re all alone.”

  “Good,” I said.

  Apparently someone at the asylum on the hill had died that morning, so he showed me how he disposed of the body using a process called alkaline hydrolysis. There was a machine in the far back of the morgue, draped with a large cloth when not in use. Cylindrical and made of steel, it looked like some kind of futuristic space chamber.

  The body he’d brought down from the asylum lay pale and cold on the steel table, fresh enough not to smell yet. It was a man, naked and fleshy, free of bruises or blood or any other outward sign of how he’d died. Fresh lines of sutures mapped his torso.

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  “He died in his sleep. As most of them do. Heart attack. Organ failure. Loss of will to live.”

  “Organ failure? Doesn’t the asylum give patients medical treatment?”

  “If it’s not too expensive, sure. But they don’t really care about the patients, Marlo, and it’s naïve to think they do.”

  I frowned. “Did you cut him open?”

  “I always take the organs, if they’re still good. I inject them with a preservative and put them in the freezer.” Gabriel gazed at the body and sighed. “Thin or large, long or short, man or woman. They all look the same.”

  The man looked pretty distinctive to me, but his was the only dead body I’d ever seen up close.

  The mortician opened the machine’s hydraulic lid. Then, with a deceptive strength in his gaunt frame, he rolled the body right into the opening. Something about the way he moved struck me as familiar.

  “Now, the water and lye,” he said. He shut the lid and pushed a button. The machine made a quiet whirring noise as it filled. “The chamber will be heated and pressurized until nothing is left of the body but liquid and bones so brittle you could crush them with one hand. Lye makes the process sterile, so all the leftover liquid can go right down the drain to be recycled later. We recycle the bones, too, and anything else left behind. Jewelry, prosthetics, implanted parts.”

  I listened, fascinated and horrified. I hadn’t ever thought much about how the dead were disposed of until just then.

  He flipped the switches, smiling to himself. I shuddered. “This thing makes a horrible smell. But you get used to it, eventually.”

  I covered my nose, just beginning to detect the scent of ammonia in the air.

  “We still bury people,” he continued, “but only to help create fertile soil for the greenhouses. No coffins or formaldehyde allowed. Did you ever suspect your fruits and vegetables were grown in a bed of human remains?”

  “No.”

  “Cremation is illegal too. The emissions were terrible for the environment.”

  “What’s cremation?” I asked.

  He turned and pointed to a door in the corner, almost obscured by the machine. “Look in there.”

  Eyeing him suspiciously, I started toward the door. He waved a hand, urging me on.

  The room was a closet, so long and narrow my hips nearly touched the edges of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. They were crammed with row upon row of copper canisters, dented and half-obscured under mounds of oxidation. Varying shades of teal and turquoise, hot pink, deep blue, pale yellow, and white looked to have exploded from the seams of the canisters like volcanic lava, forming corrosive patterns—swirls and deltas and melting stripes—that were both aversive and beautiful.

  Gabriel’s feet scuffed the floor behind me. “What is all this?” I asked.

  “They hold the ashes of asylum patients who were burned up inside a machine a long time ago. Cremains, they’re called. Clever word. No one ever claimed these people, and they were forgotten. I’m not sure anyone else knows they exist.”

  I looked around again, rapt, but I didn’t dare touch them. They were sacred somehow. Each of the canisters contained a whole person, so much matter reduced to fine bits of bone. Their bodies and memories were gone, and no one would ever know they’d existed. Their names remained on small labels stuck to the lids, a last chance against anonymity, but even some of those had rotted away.

  “Dust we are,” Gabriel quoted, “and to dust we shall return.”

  And that was apt, since the world was filled with dust anyway.

  14. la noche

  In the tub, I scrubbed at my sweat-stained clothes and hung them to dry for morning. Then I dressed for sleep in the too-large clothes Gabriel had first given me. Briefly, I let my fingers trace over a tiny, purplish bump in the crook of my left elbow. It was a scar from having given plasma so man
y times. I wondered if it would ever fade.

  I took the bed again and Gabriel stretched out on the couch, all straight lines and sharp angles and messy hair. Pressing my back to the wall, I watched his dark form, but he never moved except to breathe.

  The mattress beneath me was hard, my blanket thin. I’d thought I would sleep better by myself, without Verm, but I missed his body. Never had I expected to, not for a second, but there, in the wash of moonlight from the transom, I did. I rolled onto my face and sobbed silently in the pillow. He wasn’t the thing I wanted, not really, and I hated this moment of weakness, this betrayal of myself.

  We’re all alone.

  Verm wouldn’t come after me. I couldn’t be worth that much to him.

  In the moldering library, I’d once read about a man who ventured to the underworld to bring his dead wife back to the upper world with him. The man wasn’t supposed to look back at her as they left but he did, and then she was gone from him forever. Another story told of a man and his family leaving a city of sin, guided by angels. The angels told them not to look back but the wife did, and she was transformed into a pillar of salt.

  It seemed to me nothing good ever came of looking back. So I was content to pretend I hadn’t existed before now.

  At some point I’d fallen asleep after all, and when I woke I knew the couch was empty. There were no whispers. It was still dark.

  I got out of bed and stuck my head out the door. My eyes tracked the blur of Gabriel’s white coat as he trekked up the hill toward the asylum. There were no lights on in the building.

  Disturbed, I got back in bed, burrowing beneath my blanket. Verm invaded my restless sleep, appearing to me as a toothy demon-god with eyes like cinders, cannibalizing my dreams.

  His desperate murmurs haunted me. Don’t ever leave me, he’d said. That one moment shared with him, deceptively sweet, held me prisoner. I couldn’t forget it no matter how hard I tried.

  15. la cuchilla