Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (60 page)

"Hey you, no loitering in front of my shop! Get out of here, you hear me?"

The shop owner had appeared next to her in the snow, glaring at her with a hatred she had never known possible.
 

Her head pounded with pain as she shifted to look up at him. "Mister... just allow me to rest here for a moment before I move on. I'm headed on my way in a minute. Okay?"

He pursed his lips, staring at her. "Fine," he said finally, "But don't take too long. You've got five minutes before I have you removed. You're scaring my customers away."

She nodded, and closed her eyes, ending the conversation. He continued to stand there and glare at her, as though counting the seconds himself. She didn't care; she rested. She took in long, slow breaths of crisp air to settle the fuzziness around her vision. And before long, she was struggling back to her feet, telling herself she would walk to Sal's estate without falling down.

She shuffled through the throng of shoppers, fighting back fatigue. As she passed through, people began to drop to their knees and elbows.

"What in blue blazes?!" A man snarled angrily as his shopping bag hit the floor with a loud
clang
.
 

Zeika lowered her head and kept going.
 

On her left, a woman cried out as her canvas shopping bag slumped down to the ground, bringing her down with it. On her right, one man's purchases fell right through the bottom of his paper shopping bag, hitting the sidewalk with a metallic
clang
. One by one, at least fifteen shoppers keeled over in the crowds as Zeika walked through quietly. From the corner of her eye, she could see one of the fallen pull a huge lump of metal from her Christmas gift box. It looked strangely like a folded three-piece suit that had been gilded with brass. And from the look of horror on the woman's face, Zeika was sure she hadn't bought it that way.

Zeika cringed and lowered her head even further, never stopping her stride. She was projecting again, and the weaker she became, the less control she had over her powers. She needed to eat and soon.

Up ahead, she saw the Demesne Five botanical park, which held very little in the way of actual flowers. But it had grass and dirt. Thinking about it made her lick her lips in anticipation, and without any hesitation, she began to hobble her way over to the fenced in area. She didn't stop until she had stumbled over the fence. She dropped to her knees in the snow and picked up a heap, biting into it. As the clean flakes hit her tongue, they melted and slid into her throat. The water refreshed her, and she felt her vision clear just a bit. She then plowed the snow away, exposing brown grass underneath, and she clawed at the ground, bringing up clumps of soil and worms. Closing her eyes, she shoved the clumps into her mouth and swallowed. Two, three more fistfuls, and at the fourth, she fell onto her side in the snow and began to cry.

Minutes crawled by, and she could hear the curious passersby stop and murmur to themselves about her before they turned back to their own business. Whether they helped her or not, it was over. Much like her Forge, she was still nothing more than a blackened stump against the gray sky.
 

Burraaooogh!
Her stomach complained. Apparently, it disagreed with its most recent meal.

"Sh," Zeika whispered to it, forcing a smile. "Could be worse, right?"

Her stomach twisted again in pain, and she took in a long, slow breath. Her nose was deep in the soil she had unearthed, and she could feel calm fill her as she took in the soft dewy scent of it. Her consciousness began to unravel, and she knew that this was it. The submission to eternal peace.

"I'm sorry, Manja..."

Snow melted beneath her breath, pooling under her cheek. Things were better this way. Manja would live, and she didn't need to see this.
Zeika closed her eyes.

Nice try, darling... A very nice try, indeed.

Whether those were her thoughts or his words, she couldn't tell. But Zeika groaned as she felt two hands wedge themselves under her body and lift her up. Then, she was thrown down into a warm space, and the gray daylight extinguished into a black rolling growl that filled her body... warm, strong, steady.

*
*
*
*

Zeika had been brought inside and was now at a table, pain still pinching the sides of her head. Hard wood of a chair pressed into the bones of her back. Someone tilted her head back, and something warm was being poured into her throat. She choked and coughed it up, and whoever it was stumbled back as she vomited onto the floor.

"Fine, then. I'll leave you to it, at your leisure," The someone, a man, said, before his shoes clicked off and out of hearing range, leaving her alone.
 

She shifted, and breathing hard, she blinked, trying to make sense of where she was. The haze was solidifying, forming hard lines of marble, the shine of steel pans, the smell of--
 

Food.

She blinked, shaking off the haze as she looked down. There was a hard roll and some milk, and a bowl full of some kind of thick stew. Mouth watering, she inhaled the food, swallowing down chunks of steak, potato, corn, beans, and carrots, all seasoned with slices of onion and garlic... things she hadn't eaten or even smelled in months.
 

She didn't look up until five minutes later, when she was done and the bowl was clean. Sal Morgan was sitting there, having slithered back into his seat without her notice. His eyes glittered with fascination.
 

"Where's little Manja?"

"Dead." It wasn't hard to let the tears come to her eyes, to let her voice waver just a bit as she spoke the lie that would save her sister.

"That's a pity," he muttered, and he sipped from his china, letting pity hang itself in the air. Neither the word nor its meaning seemed to touch his features. His face was ice, and his eyes stared at her with something less cold, but not at all kind. "And how have you been?"

"You found me with my face in the dirt," Zeika whispered as she looked away. "What do you think?"

"Still so charming, Zeika. I'm flattered."

"Sorry. I appreciate your help, I guess. It's just--"

"You've been through a lot lately. I know."

She looked up, trying her best to swallow her anger. "Do you?"

"Indeed. Manja's illness. Your family's abandonment of you. The burning of your little shop. Everything." Sal took another sip of his tea before he sat back to look at her.

"Guess word travels fast."

"It does. Particularly when I am the one to give it."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Dear heart. How do you think those Alchemists found your Forge in the first place? Who do you think tipped them off?"

She felt her lips part.
 

"Isn't it fascinating... how loyalties change at the sight of a few extra dollars?" Sal sat back. The lines of his face seemed to deepen with pleasure as he watched her. "You never wondered why the Guild held you and Manja as wards of the state? You never asked what happened to Mommy and Daddy? Why they never called?"

Zeika felt her hands ball up tight, and slowly, she rose from her seat.

He peered at her over his teacup. "Am I going to have to make you sit down again, Ezekiel?"

She narrowed her eyes. Her fingers twitched, ready to drop him, just like she did the Ninkashi at the Guild. He didn't know what she was, but he was about to find out.

Sal seemed to notice that she wasn't intimidated and raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you think you have up your sleeve, little girl, but remember, I'm the only one who knows where your family is. Besides, the Alchemists think you're dead. I can change that impression quicker than you know. Or, I can be convinced to keep my mouth shut. It's your choice."

Eyes burning, she unballed her fists and sat back down.

"That's my good girl." He poured more tea into his cup. "I'm glad we could reach an understanding." He sipped and sipped, the silence seeming to tick away with a soundless, beatless rhythm.

"Did she sell us to you?" Zeika demanded.

"Who?"

"My mother. Did she sell us to you for drugs? Money?"

Sal laughed, genuinely amused. "I couldn't pry you or your little sister from your mother's grasp with a crowbar if I tried, my dear. I had to enlist my friends at the Guild for that. Did she sell you... no. Never. Her love is unquestionable. But of course, I couldn't have Demesne Five thinking that." He regarded her for a minute and then smiled. "Strange. I would have thought you'd ask me about him. Not her."

"About my father?"

"About Jonathan Quinn."

She slowly sat back, horrified, feeling the festered wound on her heart open. It was a blow she hadn't expected.

"You know," Sal continued. "The day that Johnny graced me with his opinion on the matter of you and me--"

"There
is
no you and me."

"And yet, your friend gave his opinion nonetheless." Sal ran a finger along his face, from his brow down to his jaw, along the white shining scar Johnny had given him. "I knew then that he was unmanageable. But I suppose high-school hormones will do that to a young pup when the local bitch is in heat."

Zeika felt her jeans wrinkle beneath her grip. "Is he... is he with my family?"

"Sadly, those winds have already blown, my dear. I'm not quite sure how it ended, but like all other stray and rabid mongrels, he was put down. At my order."

"Are you enjoying this?" Her voice quivered with rage.

"Immensely."

"Why are you doing this?! The Vigils, me, everything. Why?!"

Sal cocked his head. "I believe the more important question is what you can do to stop it."

Think, Z. Come on, come up with
something
...

She wasn't exactly sure what he was asking, but by the way his eyes brightened, she couldn't imagine she'd be walking away from this with her life or dignity in tact. Sal was a killer, a silent savage who lied with the best of them and did it with a gentle bedside manner. He'd murdered Johnny, and her family would be next if she didn't do something. They'd be next... and all that'd be left of them would be the pile of lies that Sal would heap onto their graves.

The sobering thought reminded her of the truth: that she had no clue if her parents were even alive, much less being held captive. He might not even know where they were. He could just be blowing smoke to put fear in her so he could get away with whatever was on his seedy mind. If that were the case, there was no need to barter... she could just get the jump on him with her powers and walk off.
 

But if Mama and Baba were still alive, then they were being held captive by a madman, one that she would have to subdue to get them out.
 

"You don't believe me," he said, reading her thoughts. "Well perhaps you need incentive." He rose from his seat. "Would you like to see your parents?"

"Are they alive?"

He smiled. "My dear, I'm many things, but a voyeur of the dead is not one of them. Now come."

He got up and walked out the kitchen. Leery, she followed him out and through his vineyard until they reached an outside cellar. As he opened it and a dank, musky smell wafted out of the darkness, Zeika tensed with hate: he was keeping them in a grimy cellar?

He descended into the basement, motioning for her to follow. The moist air disappeared behind her as she ventured into the warm underground. When she hit the last step and looked around, she began to feel sick with the realization that behind the pseudo-genteel demeanor, Sal wasn't just an asshole-- he was also a psychopath.
 

The cellar was huge, the walls cobbled with old stones like some madman's medieval dungeon.
 
The only things missing were the torches and the hulking, hooded executioner. Built into the walls were smaller hovels, barred and chained: prisons. They were all empty, and somehow, the back wall of the prisons was way too close to the bars, nearly flush with them even. No man could fit into these things, not in one piece at least.
 

Her parents weren't here.
 

"Where are they?" She seethed, losing patience.

Sal reached by the stairs to hit a lever, one that she hadn't seen, and a smooth sliding of metal filled the room. The stones on the back wall of the prisons began to depress, first backward and then sliding up, to reveal the
real
interior of the hovels, hidden behind the false prison façades.

Her eyes widened.

Fifteen bodies, all moving with the sluggishness of starvation and fatigue, filled the uniform prison. They all turned to her, a dozen gazes of mourning pouring into her skin at the same time. Sunken faces and dingy bodies were draped in torn shreds of clothing, and a rank smell wafted from the prison quarters. These people hadn't eaten or washed in a long time.

Numb, Zeika staggered towards the prison bars, navigating her gaze from face to face until she spotted one she recognized.
 

Baba.
 

Her father was out cold in the corner, laid flat, his left side raw and bloodied. His shirt, the same one he'd been wearing when she last saw him, had been torn open, a gaping wound peering out from beneath the dirty shreds. The gash was swollen and jellied--
 

Days old. Infected.

Even worse, Baba had thinned. His face was wracked with pain, sweat beading on his brow as he shivered violently in his sleep. Zeika felt tears spring to her eyes. He had a fever, and the infection in his side was spreading. He didn't have much time.

"Baba..." she choked out.
 

One of Baba's attendants turned around to the cell bars, and Zeika choked out another whimper as she recognized the wasted, emaciated face of her mother.
 

"ZEIKA!" Mama cried out, running over to the bars. "You're alive, Jesus!" She was crying, and Zeika trembled as her mother wrapped cold hands around the back of her head and pulled her into the bars. Zeika reached her arms through the cell and hugged her back.