“But I already am a killer,” she whispered, as if confiding a shameful secret. Her voice had become like a child’s, high and breathy, each word coming out more slurred than the last. “I killed my muh—muh—mother! I did! An’ others…”
Tears finally spilled from her one green eye. Human tears, salted with the stinging realization of guilt and loss.
“Scylla did that, Angel,” Marchey whispered soothingly. “You are Angel. You loved your mother. You would never hurt her.”
“Not… me?”
“Not you, Angel. Sleep now, Angel. Let Scylla go. Let this sick old man go. I’ll take care of him for you.”
“I—”
“Please, Angel.”
“I—”
“Please, honey. Please. Do it for me.”
“For… you…” she whispered, slowly relaxing her grip. Brother Fist fell back, gasping and wheezing as he tried to suck air through his bruised and bleeding throat.
Scylla’s arms dropped to her side. She sighed heavily. “I… so… tired…”
“I know, Angel, I know. You can let it all go now. Sleep. I’ll watch over you. Sleep.”
For Marchey the human body was an open book, and he knew every page, every line. He thought he could safely try to manipulate her voluntary muscles now that all the fight had gone out of her. But it was a slow, subtle business. If he’d tried before, she would have resisted, and probably killed him for trying.
He changed the position of his spectral hands, making that bundle of muscles contract, those slacken, gently guiding her down to the floor. Her eye was shut now, her face smoothing as sleep overtook her. He followed her down, still crooning her name, still telling her to sleep, still promising he’d watch over her.
At last Angel was stretched out on the floor, all but asleep, the vengeful angel Scylla quiescent.
Marchey knelt there beside her, gazing down and trying to see the Angel face hidden behind the face of the angel. He bit his lip. Maybe if I just…
He reached out hesitantly, then slowly swept an invisible hand across her face.
The demonic mask vanished under his touch line by line, revealing the pale, smooth face of a rather pretty woman in her mid-twenties. Her expression softened, as if she somehow knew what he had done. Like a light kindled after a long night, a shy half smile appeared, curving her lips.
Marchey sat back on his haunches, sudden tears in his eyes, utterly undone. She was so beautiful that it was almost frightening.
He reached toward her again, drawn to touch that sweet face one more time.
He never got the chance. He heard a rustling sound and a muffled grunt behind him.
Fist! He’d forgotten about F—
Realization came too late. Brother Fist crashed onto him from above, landing on his back and nearly knocking him down.
Marchey threw his head back and screamed as Fist drove the knife clutched in one bony hand deep into his back. He twisted desperately, white-hot pain ripping outward along every nerve as the knife was wrenched out of his flesh.
Operating on blind instinct alone he reared back, bucking his attacker off before he could strike again.
He spun around, slamming his knee down on the knife arm, hearing a satisfying crunch as Fist’s brittle bones broke under it. The old man hissed in pain, the knife tumbling from his fingers.
A guttural curse at his lips, Marchey thrust one immaterial hand into Fist’s scrawny neck and squeezed. Those hate-filled yellow eyes bulged as if about to explode from their sockets. His seamed mouth stretched wide in soundless, breathless agony.
Marchey felt his lips peeling back from his teeth in a feral grin. His pulse hammered in his ears. Adrenaline surged through him in a fierce red tide, washing away his reason and leaving only the urge to expunge the life from the vile creature writhing under him. To avenge Keri Izzak and Angel and her mother and every one of the countless faceless innocents who had suffered at his hands, to—
His spectral fingers closed around the old man’s spinal cord and he braced himself to rip it right out of his body.
He took a deep breath, gathering himself to—
—to become a killer, now that he could be a healer again.
He let out a furious, frustrated growl. Changing his grip, he expertly and ungently snuffed out Brother Fist’s consciousness.
But not his life.
Marchey sagged back, panting for breath and shuddering from the effort it took to get his emotions back under control, sickened by how close he had come to committing murder.
After a minute he heaved himself to his feet, gasping as the pain from the gash in his back came rushing back almost hard enough to knock him down again. Biting back a moan, he closed his eyes and recentered himself, then reached awkwardly behind him and closed the wound. He didn’t wipe all the pain away; the residual ache would be a reminder to be more careful.
Now what? he asked himself, looking around dully.
He found himself drawn back to gaze down at the sleeping form of Scylla.
No, he reminded himself, Angel
She looked so peaceful. Almost, well, angelic.
But sooner or later she would waken. What then?
She would need help, probably more help than anyone else in this terrible place if she was going to overcome the things which had been done to her. The fairly straightforward task of releasing her from the prison of that exo would only be the beginning of a long, slow, painful process. She had been a thing for years, and it might take just as many years to make her whole again. He would have to make Brother Fist tell him exactly what had been done to her to improve his chances of reversing the damage.
Which brought him to the fallen tyrant. The old monster was neutralized for the moment but would have to be watched closely for his own safety and everyone else’s. There had to be some way to keep him from being killed by those who had ample reason to want him dead, providing a chance to pry his secrets from him before he died.
Thinking about it now, Marchey realized that he might owe Fist something for proving his Oath’s precept that even the meanest human life had value. Abomination that Fist was, he had found a way for the lives of the surviving Bergmanns to have meaning once more.
Maybe so, but he hoped that this unwitting good work tormented the miserable son of a bitch to his dying day.
He had to get word back to Sal Bophanza, let him know that at least part of the dream could be salvaged. Let the others know that the Nightmare Effect was no more.
There were so many things to do. All Ananke was in need of his services. First to mind were a handless man, a scarred and trembling woman, and a one-eyed boy under the shadow of death. After that, who knew how many others.
As daunting as that task appeared, he knew that the wounds of the flesh would be simply and quickly repaired compared to the wounds of the spirit. Those would take him the longest to heal.
Him.
It finally dawned on him that he was assuming that these tasks were his to perform.
His blood went cold, chilled by an icy wave of doubt.
Had it been too long since he’d been anything other than a meat mechanic? Had he lost his touch? Had the years of drinking and apathy and disconnection damned him to be what the last years had made of him, now and forever?
He reached up, invisible fingers tracing the shape of the silver pin hanging from his slashed tunic. First it had been his pride and his hope, then his curse and his shame, and in the end the marker for a dead dream.
And now?
Could it be that this was his chance to begin putting his life back together in a new way? Had he met his own personal knight in shining armor in the form of a silver angel named Scylla, her entering his life as irrevocably changing it as his entering Merry’s had done?