Deadborn

DEADBORN

By Meghan Sinneck and A. Edling

© 2011 Amanda Edling. All rights reserved.

ISBN-10 0983739226

ISBN-13 9780983739227

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Prologue Book 2

Special Thanks to Xella for tolerating my idiosyncrasies and being such a creative and persistent dreamer and Meredith Boyles for providing copy editing and editing assistance.

About Deadborn

Most novels are written in traditional means, a writer alone in front of a keyboard laboring over their story. The method used for writing Deadborn however is uniquely collaborative. It was written using an IM client, where Meghan and I wrote the story simultaneously our work immediately apparent to each other. From a philosophical point of view there were three authors of this book, Meghan, myself, and a kind of derived author, the author who emerges as a result of two writer’s real-time interplay. It requires a very intimate understanding of each other’s style, method, and our ability to realistically evolve characters on the spot as we race toward story arcs that are often purposefully hidden from each other to force reaction, dynamic resolution, and evolution of the plot. Authors sometimes say, My character surprised me, I didn’t know he would do that. In the case of our work, this surprise is not only assured, it is essential to the process. Writing becomes a chess game, or intricate dance, creating an entirely new style of creative fiction that could only have been born out the 21st century’s obsession with digital social interactions.

A. Edling

Chapter 1

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. Hebrews 13:2 ToC

Remy plays with the microphone in between her fingers. It's not karaoke night. The lads let her sing because she buzzed out a number for them earlier. This body can sing. Some just don't have the right stuff, but her current digs certainly do. She moves with the music, the guitarist behind her drawing out his chords. She likes the light, scratchy, almost breathy quality of her voice. She also likes being on stage where she has the best view of the house.

She wears a sleeveless dress in periwinkle. It looks reminiscent of the 1920's to her. That was a great decade, she remembers. The only thing that ruins the period quality of the dress is the vinyl empire waist band. Some kind of punk influence, she suspects. Her leather army boots don't match, but with a shaved head she can pull it off. When you shave your head as a woman, people expect and accept contradiction. The folks in the front row of the 'smoke easy' watch and listen. This is the kind of place that doesn't have a legit business license and will be disappeared soon, like most places and people that challenge the status quo or don't like to march to the drummer's beat. Remy's kind of place. She likes the people just for being here, breaking a rule that should never have been a rule in the first place. The crowd likes the song she sings. Who wouldn't? Remy thinks that everyone should appreciate Mr. Petty. That skinny blond man is a musical genius in her opinion. Remy scans the silhouetted heads lined up before her, hidden in dim lighting and plumes of cigarette smoke. These folks are looking for something different. You don't take the time to find and then go to an all night run-down back-alley dive just so you can chain smoke in public. Remy adjusts the mic in her hand, bringing the song home. Or maybe you do, her thoughts spin on as she finishes the song. Coming down is the hardest thing... Remy finishes, letting her large eyelashes do a coy glance away. People like the coy glance away, it always gives them the right impression. The crowd claps. Remy half expects them to snap, but that was another time, another place. She returns their show of approval with her own Cheshire-white smile then steps down from the short stage, moving with a little hop to her heels. She takes a lopsided back table that wobbles when she puts her elbows on it and pops out a smoke from her pack, tucking it between her lips. She wonders if she should level the table with a match book, then shrugs. She won't be hanging around long enough for it to really annoy her. The band continues to play, deciding on a little Nick Cave to draw the night on.

Remy watches the crowd, hunting for her spark. Everyone's got one, the trick she knows, eyes slitted, is to catch one at just the right time. Her sources had hinted that somebody was going out at the Backdoor Cafe tonight. Somebody is gonna get popped from their body and sent on the long train ride to Nada Land. Remy has an itchy feeling between her shoulder blades. It's just a feeling, but she thinks she can cut this one off at the pass. This person's death is important enough to get sniffed up by a sensitive so she thinks it worth sticking her nose into. And where is that spark? That’s the problem with sensitives. They always speak in such vague terms. Remy plucks the cigarette from her mouth, eyes still roaming from one head to another. There is an older fella playing checkers with himself in the corner, his grey hair sticking out like feathery wings. A quartet of college roommates sit giggling together, lamenting boyfriends that they don't have or complaining about the ones they do. A couple nibbles at each others’ knuckles and stare googly eyed at one another. Ah, young love. Remy keeps hunting. Her eyes freeze on a girl near the front row sitting by herself. She has a knit cap on, and thin librarian glasses, plain faced, no make-up, but the girl is furiously thinking up a storm. That much is obvious to Remy; the girl seems to be on to something. Remy's found her spark.

Remy read a science fiction novel once where the females of some particularly absurd alien race weren't allowed to learn mathematics. If the female in question dared to start thinking about such obviously masculine higher education, a switch would flip in her brain, and BAM BOOMO! Dead. The book itself is trash, despite the fact that Remy has read it five times. Remy likes trashy books, but she found that little tidbit in the story very interesting. She fiddles with her cigarette. Without knowing it, every human on earth is walking around with their own little switch, bam boom. Think the wrong thought, have the wrong insight, and KABLAMO you can not pass go; you can not collect two hundred dollars. Plain Jane gets up from her seat in the front, stuffing a journal in her overly large purse. Remy rises to follow and finds a tall chest in her face. A long legged blonde with a patchy beard, he probably thinks looks rugged, is blocking her way. He smiles stupidly down at her. Remy's brain sizzles slightly. She has no time for faux charming man-boys who are desperate to stick their little twinkie in her winkie.

Hey, you sing pretty good. Pretty as an angel.

Remy's eyes go wide; her smile goes a little manic. She leans towards the man who has placed himself casually in front of her.

I think I'm pissing blood down my leg from a raging STD. Do you think I can get past you so I can go the little girl's room, please?

The blonde man blinks at Remy as she continues to smile, brushing past him.

Thanks! she says brightly, her eyes still wide as saucers and a giant toothy grin on her face.

The girl with the spark has disappeared into the bathroom already. Remy hurries after her, pushing through the swinging door. The bathroom is not that bad for a dive: blue painted walls, full soap bottles. It looks decently clean, but smells unfortunately like red food coloring. Remy sniffs. The girl is at the sink splashing her face with water. The spark has grown; Miss Plain Jane doesn't have much time. Remy doesn't have much time. The girl hunches over the porcelain like she wants to hurl.

Remy blinks, her eyes focusing in a way that eyes can't focus. Blood vessel. Head. She frowns furiously at the girl, starting towards her. The girl is hunkering down and doesn't even notice Remy until she grabs the girl by both shoulders and spins so they face each other.

Remy stares now unblinking, eyes wide. She wishes this place didn't smell weird. It’s distracting.

Don't close your eyes. Don't even blink. Remy instructs the girl using her best serious voice, hand raising towards the girl's forehead. Remy's hand jabs at the girl's head, the flesh stopping just short, but the hand continuing on somehow, an incorporeal ghost jab. Fingers slide like a breeze past the skull, through the gooey grey stuff. Come here little blood vessel, come to momma. She pinches a tiny black dot with fingers that don't exist. The girl sneezes.

God bless you. Remy blesses the girl. Then she pulls her hand back into her own skin and slaps Plain Jane hard on the forehead right between her eyes above the nose. Enlightenment, doesn't take very long, a split second really, when one makes the jump from humdrum thought to oh-my-fucking-god realization. To the one experiencing such a moment, time seems to slow down and stretch out, a second taking minutes, a minute taking hours. An outside observer however really only has time to notice maybe an eye blink. Remy wonders if Einstein ever considered relativity from the supernatural angle. The girl's face sags a little. That blood vessel was meant to kill her right now. Remy nods to the girl then grabs her by the wrist and starts walking.

What? Plain Jane manages to say.

Ask what? later. You're missing your scheduled departure and folks tend to notice that. Her hand vices around Plain Jane's little wrist as she starts to frog-march her out of the Backdoor Cafe. Three hundred feet, the space of an angel's breath. Get her past that and usually the eyes in the sky just slide right on by.

Blonde rugged beard man gives Remy and the girl in tow a wide berth.

Remy drags her staggering baggage out the door and into the alley, hauling her along like a dog on a leash. Luckily, enlightenment is a little startling and Plain Jane is too overcome to struggle...yet.

Run! Remy orders, her own feet starting to move. In her brain, Remy is counting three hundred feet. Time enough for an angel's breath. Plonk, plonk, the army boots under her jazzy dress pound out against the pavement as she quickly picks up her pace to a sprint, dragging the girl with the spark. There is a rushing noise in her ears, like water or wind. Something is starting to sniff around for the girl who should be corpsified, and not running a relay race with Remy.

Remy opens her mouth and starts singing. "No doubt they'll make it. No doubt at all...

She notes how her voice sounds a little ridiculous echoing off the buildings, her only tempo the sound of cars passing on nearby streets. Singing in the shower sounds so much better, she decides. Close. So close. Almost there, feet pounding, voice singing, hand holding. She can hear Plain Jane panting behind her. The girl is running now too, full on. Good. If the girl in the knit cap decided to wig out now they'd never make it. Together their feet are pounding out a rhythm. Plain Jane can sense it too. Something is coming. The girl's senses are open now. Wide as the ride! Wide as the Ride! Remy can feel the pressure building. It smells dizzy to Remy, if dizzy had a smell. The ground is starting to tilt; the gears in the works are closing in on them.

Bus station! Remy's thoughts scream, noticing the approaching bench and crappy Plexiglass shelter. That's my safe zone. Three hundred feet. Safe zone! The air around them starts to buzz. Remy still sings and their feet still pound. The Zero suddenly pulls to a slow squeaky grumbling stop ahead at the mouth of the alley, the logo on the side of the bus reads: We'll get you where you're going!

Great! Remy replies as though the sign were a promise. She comes to an abrupt halt only a foot from the bus as its folding doors sigh open. The hand holding the girl continues on around her, propelling the girl forward and right up the steps into the mass transit vehicle. Remy releases the girl's fingers, three dollar bills going with her as the bus doors slide shut with satisfying precision. Timing is everything. Remy sees the girl turn to look back at her, her hand numbly delivering the cash to the bus driver, her look decidedly dazed. Remy waves as it pulls away. It makes it so much easier when the universe is on your side, Remy thinks. She clicks her heels together like Judy Garland in that garish colored movie she saw in 1939. She watches the bus rumble off down the street. The dizzying buzzing sound is gone.

Fuck you and your little dog too, Shigan, Remy huffs, flipping off the sky. She turns to walk the other direction down the street, her next mission to find a late night falafel street vendor. Remy's human stomach grumbles hungrily, demanding attention.

Chapter 2

Put not your trust in princes. Psalms 146:3 ToC

Raelle doesn't knock. There is no one to bar his path. The fifty-first floor of this high rise belongs solely to the Angelus and the only locks are etched into the floor and walls to every direction, to keep the angels within safe. Though there were other, more well-equipped chambers for Shig to choose from, Raelle’s boss simply prefers this view. He's standing with his back to Raelle, taking it in now. The room is a long rectangle with floor to ceiling windows along the far wall. Soho and the Financial District sprawl before them, State Island a haze across the harbor.

Oiled hardwood floors usher him across the space. Ornate lattice, glyphs and sigils have been painstakingly carved at repeating right angles. In the corners on the ceilings and floors, large matching symbols have been painted in rust-colored paint. The wards and glyphs are the room's only embellishment. No paintings or family photos, no furniture but a stately chair and writing desk. Under the desk the floor has been covered with a genuine Persian rug, sumptuous, thick, and fraying with age.

Stopping alongside the solid-looking table, Raelle slaps a sealed and bulging manila envelope on its surface. The man at the window has no reaction. Raelle struggles to keep anger from rearranging his features at that. Flicking the packet further onto the surface, Raelle then joins the angel at the window. He leans a shoulder on the glass and folds his arms, ignoring the view to glare at Shigan's profile antagonistically. Shigan has flawless hands clasped behind his back, the picture of calm. A silver watch snugs one wrist but otherwise Shigan is unadorned. The inappropriately priced suit he wears does all the necessary talking. That, and the caliber of his soul.

The angel made flesh is a hand taller than Raelle, obviously inhuman. His perfect skin, close-cropped blond hair, toned physique, and all-American good looks can be overlooked. That is not what gives him away. It's how Shigan moves, the grace he bears even standing still, his eyes. He is an alien, terrifying and wondrous, crushed into human guise. His skin seems too tight, too still when he moves, and he stands as if he bears the weight of wings stoically. There is rigidity to Shigan like that of poured silver, smooth lines meeting impossible strength and control.

Raelle always feels like a slob next to his liege, preferring to clothe his hosts in jeans and T-shirts, the occasional button-down. He had to move fast, not look like he was ready to attend a gala, though Shigan gives off the impression he could move quite well despite the sleek, fitted getup. Shigan always makes the collector a little nervous. They'd known one another for almost seventy years but in all that time Shigan has never made a connection with his collector besides one of obligation and remorse for past deeds. Raelle has never gotten a straight answer out of him, either. His pleas for information and direction were all ignored, waved away. Raelle always has to figure things out for himself. Some mentor.

The redeemed drifter, Raelle, had been accustomed to a solitary existence from the start. At first he had thought it was part of his penance for committing suicide and unspeakable sins. Then he discovered it was no longer 1891, the year of his death. Over four decades had passed but the next thing he remembers after tucking his chin over a rifle was Shigan's perfect face grinning ecstatically down at him, saying he was meant for so much more. That was in 1934.

The men stand silently for a time regarding different things, then Raelle shifts his attention to the bustle of an afternoon metropolis on the streets fifty stories below.

Raelle is always uncomfortable in Shigan's office. Shig had left him here alone a few times and the collector's anxiety had gotten so bad in all that stillness that he always made excuses to avoid it. The room is as silent as they are, without even ambient noise from other floors or offices. They are alone here, as if in another world. He knows Shig likes it like that way. The angel says it reminds him of home, a place so still you would think true death had come. Shigan is obsessed with death, as all deadborn are. He is an angel, one of eight that collect from the Nursery. Each of them has a specialty, a type they harvest. For Shigan, it is women, so for Raelle it is as well, helping the angel contain wayward constituents as it were.

Shigan draws a breath that raises and lowers his chest, then turns and eyes Raelle with obvious approval. There is a playfully serious wont in his startlingly pale blue eyes.

Nice body, Raelle. That's not standard issue. Where did you find such a nice piece?

Raelle gives the smartly dressed angel a disgruntled frown and huffs, walking away. Could you not do that this time? Just this once. I'm having a bad day.

What? Shig asks, a hand to his chest and face bearing sincere affront. Me?

You know what I mean. You ogle every body I decide to wear, make comments about how good I'd be in bed. Really, just don't this time. I'm not in the mood. I know form is fun and all but really. My virtue is at stake here. Raelle returns to the desk as he talks, sitting on the lip and briskly untying the bulging manila envelope he'd brought.

Shigan follows but stands a little too close, peering down at what Raelle has. How did it go with Constance? he asks, voice pitched low and as melodic as ever.

Raelle looks up at Shigan from under his brows, frozen in the act of unsealing the packet. The men meet gazes, then Raelle wordlessly upends the envelope and shakes it until the contents fall out. A bundle of female clothing, jewelry, and some small metallic stones. Tooth fillings.

Constance, the collector states with constrained anger. The slim man then rises from the table and stalks away, rubbing his hands off on the thighs of his jeans. He has silver bands on all his fingers above and below the knuckle, thin and fitted, tarnished by long use. Other bands encircle his wrists, ankles, and neck. New piercings have been made in each of his ears and one of his nostrils, small dots sparkling within each hole. Silver coins he has dropped into his shoes and the pockets of his pants.

Shigan doesn't seem perturbed by the display or the remains. He goes through the odd remains on his desk with a tapered finger, prodding aside what he is done viewing. Giving a sigh he clasps his hands together at the level of his chest. He gives them a slight shake, as if signaling a regrettable though unavoidable event.

Raelle snorts at the angel. That's not going to cut it, Shig. What happened to her? What happened to her host, Shig. The body is just gone and so is Constance. Don't you care about it? She falls under your jurisdiction, doesn't she? Both of them would, they're women.

They do. Constance a long time ago, Venicca now, Shigan replies mildly, watching the agitated collector without concern. Seeing Raelle's features tighten for another verbal onslaught, Shigan raises a hand. Do not be concerned for the host, Raelle. Sometimes, what we perceive as wrong or untimely is actually quite timely indeed. Venicca Domes is where she is meant to be, as is Constance.

Is that really all you have to say on the issue? Don't I have a right to know if this could happen to me? I can understand why I'm not supposed to hear what happened while drifting, or what happens to those who move beyond me, but damn it, Shig, this concerns me! I was on a fucking case with Constance when this happened. I found her like this. What if I'd been counting on her help? Realizing he is shouting, Raelle calms himself by punching the wall nearby. The dent it leaves is sizable, wall puckering in from a foot out, but he doesn't feel a thing. His hand does not break, his knuckles do not split. The magic defending his host works well even if the host's soul is gone. Cursing, he kicks in the wall for good measure then stalks back to the table.

Pinching up one of the fillings, he brandishes it in Shigan's impassive face, This is from a filled cavity, Shig. The host and Constance disappeared but everything inorganic was left. That's some alien bullshit. I've never seen that before. Did her possession backfire?

Is that what you think happened? Shig responds with maddening calm and a slight tilt to his head. He gentles the fragment from Raelle's hand and rolls it between his fingers.

Raelle wants to punch him now, fists forming impotently. I don't know what to think, Shig. I've never seen anything like this.

Collectors disappear. You know that, the angel reminds him, setting the stone down primly on the corner of his desk. He returns his attention to the collector. New ones arrive. That is how it works. Perhaps it was her time. There is surely an angel for collectors, too. The smile he gives Raelle is condescending.

You know more than that, Raelle insists, losing steam. You must, Shig, don't you?

Shig's gaze turns sympathetic and he reaches out to cup Raelle's cheek lovingly. The silver-ringed man jumps a little at the contact then settles himself. Shigan turns his head sadly.

Raelle. You still don't trust me? I do my job, you do yours, remember? Your words. I catch the ones who obey, you catch the ones who stray. Together we keep our corner of the Nursery running smoothly and help those who need it. He lowers his face to Raelle beseechingly, as if begging his trust through proximity. It looks like Shigan is nearing for a kiss.

Raelle turns away then, scowling at the floor. Shigan drops his hand and smiles at the man as if nothing were amiss. He does not back up, keeping himself an inch or so opposite his collector. Are we all right, Raelle?

Yes, the collector responds, still staring angrily at the floor. But will that happen to me? His finger jabs at the unimpressive pile of belongings, Will I one day just disappear, take someone with me?

You know that no one can go with you. Shig picks up a waste basket and sweeps the desk clean. Setting the bin down, now filled with Vennica Domes' effects, the angel sees the filling he'd set aside still remains. He pockets it in his suit as if that had been the plan all along.

They cannot survive, it makes permanent drifters of them. No one is meant to have that happen, it's why there are safeguards, why we train you...what happened to Constance bears more investigation. She was an excellent collector and if it was not her time we should know about it. Arco will be sad to lose her. I need to let him know.

I already did, Raelle comments, feeling numb. Shigan was lying to him.

Shig offers the collector a brilliant smile, Very good. I appreciate everything you do for me. You will most likely want to work alone for a while, will you not? It is understandable with everything that has happened.

Yeah, I will. Raelle drags his gaze up to Shigan's, trying to mirror his smile. Alone is better. Alone there are only my own mistakes. On my own there is no one to betray me.

Then I will call you if I need you, Shigan concludes, returning to the window and resuming his curious vigil. Raelle stares at the garbage pail for a moment. The ankle of a stocking hangs over the lip, looking broken. His borrowed heartbeat begins to race, throat to constrict. Turning on his heel, hand to his neck as if wounded, Raelle hastens for the elevator before he loses his shit.

All the way down on the elevator Raelle is trying to rationalize everything he knows. He cannot. It's too much. Constance is gone and so is her host, and no one seems to care. There would be no investigation, there would be no further consideration. It is already a done deal in angelic opinion, but not in Raelle's. He leans his back against the cool metal wall, silver-bangled hands gripping the rail bar so tightly his knuckles tremble and lose blood. All the muscles in the arms of his body are rigid. He looks like a man trying to keep from falling even though there is no cliff before him. His cinnamon-colored eyes are wide and staring, the pupils wavering drastically again and again even though the light is stable. Veins begin to define beneath the skin of his arms as he stares at them.

Raelle's eyes roll pleadingly skyward, Not now, he pants, hating how weak the voice sounds. His body sounds like it's suffering because Raelle is suffering. He can feel every heavy heart beat, his senses monitoring the host as always. They are linked, but not like this. This attack was all Raelle's. Raelle begins stripping jewelry off his fingers and wrists, unclasping necklaces and anklets. He leaves the coins in his pockets and shoes, dropping everything else to the floor of the elevator. He can't risk losing it to this. Raelle knows he's already lost hold over his possession. It's only a matter of time until he drops out completely. Already he feels like he's dug in by his nails and being dragged away. He wants to run but can't leave like that. It would raise too many questions, lead someone to investigate the building. He didn't know what would show up but he knew it was frowned upon to attract undue notice.

He is on his own. What happened to Constance can happen to him. Constance was far older than he, but the end would be the same. Perhaps it had just taken her, time? No. Was she...drifting again? She had seemed sad when he last saw her, but Constance was a good agent, and as Shigan had often told Raelle, collectors were not subject to the natural constraints of time. They couldn't drift. And he'd been in the building with her. It was impossible for her to have done herself in so mysteriously. The clothing he could understand, but the fillings?

That means something had gotten her, that means something could get them all. And collectors disappeared, yes, that much was true, but this time there is evidence that something had gone amiss and they still aren’t checking it out. Realizing it makes Raelle only feel expendable and fragile. He entertains doubts too. He lives with remembrance all the time, walking as a permanent ghost through the world that once was yours, seeing the changes but never making them. Not being able to, unless you were being hosted. Even so, Raelle is fearful now. Maybe possession is dangerous. It was something all collectors were capable of, one of the reasons Raelle thinks they are chosen. That they live so long is probably convenience. The ability to possess or embody an object is rare.

He knows Shigan isn’t overly attached to him as a person, that is no revelation. All angels felt deep and spiritual love for all life but they felt no love for individuals. Individuals were just temporal phenomena, whereas souls lasted for eons - like they do. They had never been inside of time and so had no sympathy or understanding for those that were.

Shigan is lying. He's never lied to me before, why would he start now? Raelle thinks furiously. With Constance, with this? The only reason...I won't like what he has to say. It can happen to me, he knows full well and does not care if I mind. It's easier for him to have me not know the truth. To him it's all a part of his glorious design, the process that needs him, and he expects me to just accept it. It can't possibly be another one of those rules, unless by rules he really means, you can't know this because it would drive you insane. Maybe Shigan really doesn't know, what if he's as panicked as I am?

A quick thought back to the scene that had just unfolded between him and Shigan banishes the supposition. He can't imagine Shigan up there right now tearing out his pretty hair or falling to his knees in torment for what had befallen a lowly collector. In fact, Raelle knows Shigan is still standing at that window, immobile until another guest joins him.

He cannot bring anyone in mind to tell, to talk to. Raelle can't even stop his elbows from unlocking. They want to collapse, all his joints do. He wants to crumple to the floor of the lift with spectacular woe and tear at his hair. He fears drifting again so deeply, true disembodiment. He can't imagine Constance returning. She is gone, but where? Where the fuck had she gone? Where the fuck would he go? Was this the purgatory of self-atonement before they went to Hell for their sins? Did that mean the rest were judged immediately?

He wants someone to comfort him, be able to comfort him. Raelle knows why only redeemed drifters can become collectors. Even robbed of knowledge of their drifting years, every collector knows what they must have become, and their potential for it terrifies them still. A life as a collector is better than a life as a murderous or sociopathic entity. This is truly redemption. Another chance to make things right. All stories drifters have shown or told him about their broken lives only reinforces Raelle's desperate desire to put things right for every soul he can, because he can understand their choices and pains.

But collectors were loners and loyal to their angel and cause. Each hunted only the wayward of their master's charges. Raelle himself was only sent when women were involved. Constance had been involved with girls. Their last case had taken them in with a mother and daughter. He'd liked Constance, felt camaraderie with her and many of the others he'd met. When the job was done, however, they'd always part without histrionics. Theirs was a pain and a life to bear alone, in contemplation of what they had done to themselves, and what they could still become.

Knowing he's truly alone by rules and by pain does nothing to ease Raelle's panic. He wants a chance to say goodbye to her again. He had made her and others like him a constant. Now rhat was gone. There was no Constance.

Passing the thirtieth floor, Raelle begins to overheat, swallowing bile. At the sixth he realizes he's shivering despite the heat of his body and moans a soft curse, Please, not now. Just let me get out of here, please. Just let me get out first. He knows what's happening even though he has no control over it. The episodes have become less frequent, long months, sometimes years instead of weeks, but it's always the same. He was possessing the body, damn it! Physiology shouldn't apply to him, he didn't have it. Raelle is having a panic attack, nevertheless. It is not the host's panic, it is his. The host body is merely responding because they're linked and it only makes it worse.

Raelle professes not to know much on any subject but he knows that isn't possible, especially with his chosen host long departed from the Nursery. The body is empty, he is the only one in it, but it is not his. He is just a rider, a puppeteer. Until this.

Raelle thinks to force the elevator doors apart faster when they reach the ground, he's strong enough to do that casually, but it takes all his energy just to move towards them. Everything seems to be moving at half speed, including the body he's riding. Only his thoughts are quick and they drown one another out, chasing tail, feeding on paranoid logic.

Stumbling ashen-faced and gasping past the building's doorman, thinking only of air, Raelle makes the street and nearly breaks the glass door trying to claw his way back in. The day is too bright, noisy, fast; people jostle past him on phones, dragging bags, children, collapsible shopping trolleys. His senses are screaming and all those people are looking at him. He isn't used to that. He hates being forced into these bodies. He likes being glimmers and dust, glitches people forget about. Raelle likes being able to walk everywhere, do everything, as a ghost. But some cases called for flesh, and Shigan demanded it for their meetings. He had told Raelle repeatedly that there were enough soulless, vegetating bodies to keep the entire deadborn race hosted until the end of time, and Raelle had seen enough to know it was true. But still. He is more, he is potent, he is unstoppable and intangible in his true state. He never has panic attacks this frightening in his true state. Encasement in flesh diminishes and unhinges him, no matter how skillfully he can puppet it.

Raelle wishes he were invisible, then no one would have to see him like this. His episode would remain a silent affair, perhaps only the street lights would short. What made the desire to disappear so macabre is that in his first life he'd sought the same thing. As a collector he'd been granted that wish. It is possible for him to lose substantiality, be an intentional ghost, not be trapped in an overreacting body. People can see him and Raelle feels naked, vulnerable. People who are giving a wide berth to the gasping, bloody-faced man at the glass door. He can see their reflections. And he can see his.

Meeting it, Raelle sees a madman. Blood trickles from his nostrils, and his bloodied mouth is agape to draw in air. His eyes look huge, too black, no color of sunset showing through. His face looks gaunt. His image shines in the glass as if he were a hologram. Shutting his trap with an audible snap, Raelle reaches up to touch his cheek and it comes away slick with sweat. His reflection just stares at him and does not move at all. The color starts to go out of the day.

Making an abrupt decision, each inhale burning his chest and throat, each heartbeat throbbing through his skull and sight, Raelle pops the collar on his jacket and wipes at his nose with it, threading a clumsy way into pedestrian traffic. He jams his hands deep into jean pockets, snuffling more blood flow. He doesn't get far.

After a few blocks Raelle has his arms out for balance. His limbs feel too light and he turns in slow motion to look at his hand. Every host he takes wears the same charms, his charms against violence. They are gone, left in the building for Shigan to reclaim and send to him again. The sidewalk feels like it's tilted to him, his vision begins to dim.

Jerking his gaze forward, all is suddenly silent. No wind, no cars, no people, no whir of the constant motor or creak of the earth moving, nothing but a steady hum and his own harsh breathing. His chest feels too big. Raelle crosses the street like that, cars moving slowly and him suddenly very conscious of the unreality of where he is.

The world has continued to fade until only the outlines and concepts of things remain in hazy silhouette. He staggers back up onto the curb, gravity churns sideways, and he is on the ground with limbs trembling. Suit-shirted businessmen and some tourist with a cell phone circle him to help. Their mouths are all moving but Raelle cannot hear them.

A cellophane wrapper blowing by catches his attention, and everything else dims out. It's pushed by a silent, unfelt breeze. The wrapper looks peacefully buffeted. He tries to make it the center of his focus, to push down the irrational attack. Now his panic comes from the state he is in. He can't pull out of the host no matter how hard he tries. What's happening to him is happening to it as well, and vice versa. Raelle suffers the palpitations and hyperventilation, loss of vision and muscle weakness. The body suffers Raelle's fright, worry, pain, and panic.

The cellophane gets away from him, skittering out of his line of vision. Raelle's eyes roll back in his head, black on black, no color showing through. Just a little too large. Bloody foam peeks from between his lips as he slumps to the sidewalk. He feels like there's an earthquake, a rumbling moving towards him from far beneath ground as well as above. The earth and sky clapping hands and he at the deafening middle of their pending concussion. Coming, coming. He begins to panic again. Can't they feel it? Can't they feel it coming?

He barely has time to prepare himself, let alone think to warn others. Everything explodes to silent, still, formless whiteness for a space of seconds. Then a rustling legion of black dots consume the world. There is darkness for a long while then, and Raelle cannot move but blessedly feels nothing.

Chapter 3

Love your enemies. Matthew 5:44 ToC

Remy feels perfectly comfortable having a Reuben von Crashed sandwich nestled inside a Boeing KC-97. The green vinyl booths and the overhead lighting of the restaurant are much more comfortable than her last experience in a Boeing. During the Pacific Theater Remy took a jaunt across the ocean that unfortunately ended with a Superfortess doing a face dive into the big drink. It's bound to happen when your wings get shot off under enemy fire. She stops chewing on her Reuben momentarily, remembering the uncomfortable experience of dropping a thousand feet out of the sky to get obliterated across the surface of the Pacific. Those were good boys she flew with; too young to be fish food. Remy starts to chew more enthusiastically. Her friend is late. Remy wonders what is keeping him. Usually Skelton, El for short, isn't late. Or is he? Remy can't remember. She orders another Jack and Coke and settles in to wait, munching away. Finally, with only a third of the Reuben left and two drinks down, a dark head of hair enters the plane. The figure has his hands in the pockets of his black trench coat, shoulders slumped and unhappy, a disgruntled look on his pale face, his dark eyes hunting around the Boeing. The young man reminds Remy of a television star the director David Lynch was fond of using, though mostly only around the eyes and mouth. He sees Remy. She waves a fork full of food at him. He comes forward sitting down in the booth across from her, obviously disgruntled that he has to sit with his back to the door.

Do you want something to eat? Remy asks, mouth full. A tiny particle of bread shoots out to land near the edge of her plate.

No. Skelton grumbles. His dark eyes watching Remy eat. What do you want?

Aw, El. Remy says. At least have a drink. You should enjoy that tummy of yours. You won't have it forever.

Listen, Remy. I don't have time for your hoodoo voodoo and I don't like dealing with your kind. If I thought it would do any good... the man cracks his coat so Remy can see the shiny barrel of a LeMat. I'd redecorate the ceiling with your grey matter.

My kind? Remy says setting down her fork. And what kind is that, you short chauvinist pig? Hmmmm? She glares at Skelton then takes up her Jack, slurping happily.

What do you want? Skelton asks again watching her carefully, his hands placed on his lap below the table where she can't see them.

Just trying to help you with your HR, Remy replies, ignoring his hostility, and very pleased with her French fries, sopping them till they are soggy with ketchup.

Skelton frowns at her.

Remy sees the waitress coming and waves the woman over, her lips parting into a pleased 'happy to see you' smile.

A margarita for my friend here and another Jack and Coke for me.

Anything else for you sir? The waitress asks Skelton.

He shakes his head his dark brown hair, almost black, shifting shaggily under the motion, his eyes never leaving Remy.

This is not a social call, Remy, Skelton growls.

Remy glances back up at him and huffs. Fine, she says, setting her fork down and reaching into a bag at her side. Skelton tenses as she does so and Remy rolls her eyes at him.

Down, big boy, she says in her best southern drawl as she drops a wallet on the table.

Skelton reaches across. Opening the wallet, he pulls out the driver’s license. It is Plain Jane's.

Who's this? he asks, looking the ID card over and going through the rest of the contents in the wallet.

A latent psychic, or sensitive, as you like to call them. Remy crosses her arms on top of the table so he can see her hands. I know you can always use the extra help and she is in need of a heads up. So I thought I'd get you kids together.

Skelton sets the wallet down.

Listen. I don't know what kind of game you're playing at but I'm not interested. He starts to stand, all 5'7" of him, with plenty of space between him and the curving fuselage.

But I ordered you a margarita and everything? Remy’s face is all big eyes and pouty lips.

Skelton glares at her and turns to go. Remy is on her feet in a moment and pressing the wallet into his hand.

He almost swings on her, but stops himself, glancing around at the occupied tables.

Throw this away if you don't want it, she says in a low voice. Standing, they are of a height. But this girl is probably scared out of her mind and needs somebody to look out for her, and despite what you think, you can use all the help you can get. She gives him a significant look.

Skelton holds the wallet considering it for a moment, then stuffs it in his coat pocket. He grunts at Remy then continues down the thin aisle of the plane, passing the waitress bringing his drink. Remy sits back down and waves the confused server forward, accepting the drink for herself.

Thanks, she tells the woman raising the glass to her. She takes a big long sip, getting salt on her upper lip. The server smiles back telling her she's welcome, then moves on to the next booth to help a woman who is missing her salad fork.

That boy really needs to get some sun. Remy decides out loud as she pulls cash from her purse to pay her bill. Skelton isn't a problem, but he certainly has convinced himself he knows what Remy is. She smiles at that. The young stubborn angry ones are always adorable. Next time she'll pat him on the head and sing 'Everything's Gonna Be Alright'. He'll like that.

Remy exits the restaurant, stepping off the plane and moving through the interior foyer where more diners sit and eat and people waiting for tables drink at the bar nestled against the far wall. Stepping out into the dimming daylight, a cool mountain breeze whips past her, blowing up her long sweater jacket, her dress flapping in the breeze like a flag. She pulls up the hood around her shaved head and quickly buttons up the front. A storm is coming. The air feels charged with electricity. She crosses the restaurant's parking lot, her army boots crunching against the littered rocks and debris beneath her feet. She stops in front of a tan 1936 Nimbus with a sidecar. The paint job is getting a little run down, there are spots of rust around the wheel well, but she likes it that way. A famous pin-up, the Rocketeer, has been air-brushed along the bucket of the sidecar. She is very fond of the image, despite the overdone display of ass and red panties. If she could wear the Rocketeer helmet instead of the lame yellow thing she keeps stowed in the bike, she would.

Remy slips a pair of aviator goggles over her eyes, tips her head down and into her lemon colored helmet and tightens the chin strap. It takes her three tries jumping on the choke before the engine putters to life. Remy smiles at the familiar rumble, and kicks it into gear. Turning north onto Powers Boulevard, Remy's eyes are drawn to the sky. Over the Rockies, dark clouds are gathering. She frowns, smelling the electric charge in the air, getting that itch between her shoulder blades again. Something is coming, again the game is changing. Remy glares at the traffic ahead of her. No rest for the wicked, she thinks, then barks up an absurd laugh that makes the drivers in cars around her turn to look. Remy contemplates pulling over at the next run-down motel she sees and taking a nice long nap. Sometimes it’s best to just sleep through the thick of it, go on holiday. She doesn't pull over. She pushes on, humming to herself now. Taking a nap sounds really dull.

Chapter 4

The desire accomplished is sweet to the soul. Proverbs 13:19 ToC

Raelle Absalom comes to when he realizes why he seems paralyzed. He is no longer in control of the body. He hadn't realized what state he was in. Raelle was still piggybacking, but the body refused. There was nothing more it could do, Raelle had crippled it. Without a soul of its own, however, the suffering of its death had fallen to Raelle. The collector was now the only thing keeping it alive. Instead of popping out at the moment of his host's untimely demise, or leaving it naturally, he had remained within even after their connection was shorted. Raelle doesn't know what to make of it.

He'd lain in the dark for an unaccountably long time trying to open his eyes, move, ghost away. Nothing had worked. He'd begun to panic again. Then Raelle had heard the beeping of monitors and the shock had woke him up. A hospital!

The arms he was trying to move would not obey him because they were dead arms. Truly dead. The body could not be puppeted until it was repaired. Then again, Raelle never thought of his hosts as his, they were always borrowed, always discarded. By only taking bodies empty of souls, but inexplicably alive on human technology, Raelle also sees himself as a liberator. The flesh of the deceased deserves rest and after serving him briefly it finds final reprieve. Life support gives Raelle the creeps. He knows if he had a body of his very own, he'd opt not to be resuscitated. Better risk a wasteful death than end up like this poor corpse.

With a soul infesting such a body, having access to memories of its owner's life, doctors couldn't doubt the miracle. Raelle was good at convincing strangers he was who he claimed to be. That's why he avoided potential hosts with family lurking around or rabid lovers and children. In perfect health, with his maladjusted or orphaned host, Raelle would leave the sliding doors into bright sunshine and disappear about his rounds. It was always for a purpose, though. He never took a host for pleasure, for a chance at some enjoyment. It never occurred to him and it seemed mildly wasteful even if he were freeing the body from it's unnatural afterlife.

But a body like this could never serve him. It was a broken doll where it counted. The medical staff hadn't yet discovered the hematoma occluding the host's brain, the clots in his major arteries made impotent by Raelle's presence, the blown nerves.

Raelle opens his eyes and sits up. What used to be the body of a man named Andrew remains where it lays, attached to tubes and drips, oxygen plugging his nose. Rubbing his hands over his face Raelle then gets himself off the gurney and gazes down at the young man who'd hosted him, attending his true last rites. On the monitor the blips spike, then go flat. Alarms sound both here and at the nurse's station down the hall.

Orderlies come running and Raelle steps politely out of the way, even though he cannot impede them. He would if he could, though. Their efforts are an exercise in futility. Andrew and Raelle's body dies without a jerk or shaky breath. There's nothing animating it any longer, not medical, natural, or spiritual. It simply stops functioning. They'd never met, he'd already been gone by the time Raelle got to his vegetating corpse, but Raelle knew the host's name. Andrew Kuborski. It had been on his medical charts the first time they'd met, but it was only the body that was extended on respirators and saline drips, not the man who'd once inhabited it. There was no coming back, for some.

Raelle catches a warped reflection of himself in a monitor screen as a nurse pushes it out of the way. He sees dark-clothed limbs and pale hands, worn boots and belt in black leather, the canvas cap upon his head. Around him people tear open packages and roll machines into place. Everyone is smocked and gloving up, calling orders and preparing to shock Andrew's heart.

A female orderly in soft pin scrubs rushes past him bearing a handful of tubes. Her elbow clips him, meeting no resistance. Raelle watches her reach the doctor's side and unscrew one of her burdens with haste.

No one can see or touch him, not by reflection, not by eye, not by hand. He is the ultimate observer. Sure, there are those who might have a keener eye, a stranger sense of reality, but they're rare. One out of thirty or forty could barely see glimmers of drifters, collectors, others. Any more attuned and they were considered sensitive. They could exhibit their sensitivity in a number of ways: prophetic dreams, channeled voices, headache-inducing visions. In rarer cases, they saw the deadborn clearly, heard them as if they walked the same plane. Most rare of all were those who could interact with them totally. Too rare to dare hope for any in this setting. As expected, none of those crowding the cubicle notice a wraith in their midst.

Casting a final glance over the room, Raelle leaves the team to their motions and rises through the ceilings of several floors. He then moves along the ceiling of the highest level, slaloming light fixtures. He is ether, a purposeful, invisible mist. He has no temperature, no substance, no color, no form, but he remains who he is and glories in the freedom. Raelle hadn't had Andrew long, but the one before it had been his for nearly a year. He had decided to take care of a number of walkers at once to minimize his human profile. If a lot of coma cases suddenly starting walking out the door then dying a few days later in the streets there would be suspicion or paranoia. Besides, Raelle doesn't like blowing out his hosts, he has an affection for who they were. By inhabiting, he can usually gain their history and it endears them to him.

Whatever fit he had had is now passed. Raelle feels better now than he has in a long time. He even looks forward to his next mission and host. This time it will be on his terms. Shigan doesn't matter. Raelle decides this in an instant, leaving the interior of the hospital and inking into the wind.

He is alone in this, but that means he can do things his way. Raelle is through with unnecessary restrictions. That meant knowing what was going on, what the fuck had happened to Constance. Raelle really just wants to know what the constants are. He would still serve, still collect, but use his status to take him where he should be, who he needed to speak to. There was a way to know and he'd find it if he could, if what happened to Constance didn't happen to him.

Collection took him to strange people and places, and drifters knew stuff he didn't have access to. One of them might even remember something about who he was, or some article in the world. Spirits or demons often held a sparse collective memory. Raelle figures he may as well learn all the secrets if he were going to uncover one. Shigan will punish him equally no matter how many infractions, and Raelle is sure it will be severe. He'll have to catch him, first.

For a moment Raelle rues the loss of his protective bangles. They would have come in handy, but without permanent form he has no way to port the objects with him. They exist in this world for that purpose alone. Raelle is only a part of that world when he is borne by a host, and that is consequently the only time he requires the bangles. Any host he takes from now on will be vulnerable. That will take some getting used to. Brute strength has long accomplished Raelle's means.

It is worth it to learn finesse. It came at the expense of Shigan. That is worth any growing he'd have to do. These choices make Raelle feel liberated, light again. This is a life he knows, that he can understand. Hunting something, making sure the Nursery stays a safe place.

Rising to join the skirl of wind rioting above the skyscrapers of New York, Raelle tatters westward. Newark and Philadelphia recede quickly, then the lights of the big city's dim and there is only him, the wind, and stars and darkness all around. There is peace.

Raelle lets himself drift insensate into the nursery wall. He thinks as he does of what possibilities are afforded him in this. What he's really prepared to learn, to become.

There will always be drifters just as there will always be those among every people who choose another path. We do it in life, we'll do it in death. We can only do what comes naturally to us, after all.

I suppose there will always be those among us who feel compelled to right that wrong, as well. Collectors, though by other names.

...Drifting is something I am almost glad not to remember, though I would like to know, Raelle thinks. Without the emotions, the history attached to it, I could know. I could handle it. I have my suspicions already. Why else would all collectors be possessors as well? It's not a gift someone just comes by, they have to be given it, or learn it by proxy.

No. We were among the worst of the worst, spiritual hosts for true evil. Our desires in drifting death garnered awful gains. We learned our abilities by proxy from our possessors and carried them into our lives as collectors. It is probably why we are chosen. No one could be a collector without the ability to walk both worlds, there are too many out there who keep form or transform. Such things could not be stopped by corporeal hands. Only redeemed drifters with this gift could suit, and there must not be many of us.

Raelle thinks for a moment what it must take to lure such a demonic element into oneself then decides not to consider it further. The very thought raises his hackles. He had not believed himself so desperate. Raelle wants many things but would never dream to ask for it at that cost. Many things more than he should after two so-called failures at life, but he doesn't feel greedy. He thinks he's owed something, some candor after all he's survived. Why choose him, why choose or save any of the drifting, if there was no purpose left to them? Was this his limbo, an actual penance? Did all drifters have to serve in some way?

The questions have no end, but neither does Raelle, and he is part of the jet stream itself, now. He can't be bothered.

It's moments like these that Raelle is glad for his deadbirth, his unlife, his unaccountable third chance at redemption. He is happy with his role of collector, just not with a collector's existence. Raelle wants more. He doesn't expect it, how could he presume to expect anything from the universe after two consecutive failures at life? He deserves nothing, but wants everything. He wants a chance to walk as flesh and blood again, to forget everything that has ever happened to him and just step into the Nursery as a real, living man. Raelle wants to go back in time to the moment he signed up for the militia and smack the pen out of his foolish boy's hands. He would have kept his legs, his farm, his family. That is the moment everything ended