Out of Body

Chapter 37

Tonight he had finally found her for himself. With the aid of the scrap from her clothing, he had summoned enough of the old power to seek out the pattern of Marley Millet’s aura. No two patterns were absolutely alike, although it was possible for him to make a mistake.

When he was fully strong, he never misread an aura, but in times of increasing weakness such as he suffered now, his eyesight deteriorated when he was transformed.

Now, too drained to stay and deal with her further, he had returned to his own place again, and to the young whelp who was his supposed helper. Soon he would discover if his horrible notion about his enemy’s identity was correct. If he was right about who had betrayed him to the Millet woman, the way forward was more dangerous than he could have imagined.

Only willpower kept him dragging his body forward while the young man scurried at his heels, gabbling in his fear. It would be easier to go alone and do what must be done, but this one must be there, too.

“Are we going to be found out?” the terrified whelp said, panting. He tried to laugh. “Can you save us?”

The questions didn’t deserve answers and he tossed his head in disgust.

“I’m sorry,” the younger one babbled. “Sometimes I forget you can always keep us safe.”

The Embran marveled that this weakling could be the product of his own being. Completely human in appearance, it was true—and without the power to transform himself into Embran form—yet he had come to being through the joining of Embran and human. It had been wise to hide this failure’s true partnership. “Shut up, you sniveling fool. Stay with me, and we’ll discover if you failed in the only important task I ever gave you to do.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I have never failed you.”

“We shall see.” He must regain the chinoiserie house. How long had it been gone? Where was it now? Was it safe? He choked on his own misgivings.

With each dragging step his torment grew. The red house was his access to the renewing chambers of the Lower Place, Safehold as some citizens called Embran, where he had begun his existence centuries ago. Weeks back he had been warned that it was time to return, but unfinished business here had tempted him to gamble on how long he could put off going for the infusion that brought him back to his full might.

He had obviously waited too far beyond his own limitations and an enemy had used his rare lapse in judgment to attempt to eliminate him.

Who was it? Did he know? Had he already unearthed the identity? The possibility that his suspicions were correct made it almost impossible for him to go on.

He paused to take a package from his robes. From inside the string-tied brown paper he removed a handful of dust and tiny bones. These he crammed into his mouth while he closed his eyes and waited for even the meager flush of strength the compound could bring. Eating the crushed shell and the bones of the dead Embran young inside had become his panacea for weakness. In the Lower Place, live young were used, but they could not be kept fresh on a journey to the Earth’s surface.

A minute passed. And another. Nothing.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

Slowly, he stumbled down the stairs that led to the basement and his possible answer. Soon he would find out if his worst fear was a fact. If so he had to work fast, and do whatever he must to save himself.

He heard his companion’s hoarse breathing and took a small pleasure from this one’s fear.

The cold of the basement helped calm the throbbing in his thickened skin. Ignoring everything but making it to the ice vault in the farthest corner, he wrenched open the door and fell to all fours. Crawling, he made his way deep into the vaporous compartment. He didn’t bother to look up at the swinging hooks—his tools to cause ultimate fear.

When he reached the first of the long row of white caskets, he started to count.

Grunting, he pulled himself forward. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…there it was. Fourteen.

With draining effort he hauled himself to his feet, tore off a hasp and raised the lid.

Empty. His human wife’s body was gone. “How can this be?” he shrieked, turning on his companion. “Where is she? Your only duty has been to look after all of these.” He indicated the lined-up iced caskets.

This was his way of making sure no one ever had proof that so many missing women were not only dead, but connected to him. Here, they would never be found and he was safe—unless some fool betrayed him!

“She must be there,” the other one said. “I check the cooling systems regularly.”

“You have not checked regularly enough.” He had come himself until every move he made became a decision. How long ago could that have been? Six months, seven—while the Lower Place had kept demanding his return? Then came the final desperate order and still he had ignored it—he had been so sure he could make it back at the very final moment. “When was the last time you opened this to make sure of the body’s condition?”

A blank expression met him and rapidly turned to horror.

“You have not been checking the body,” he whispered.

He leaned over and scrabbled to pick up a folded piece of paper on the bottom of the casket. Once unfolded, the paper revealed familiar flamboyant handwriting:

So now you know, husband. Did you forget the truth about me? I could always choose when I wanted to use my body. You should have made sure I was in my human form when you tried to kill me, old fool. I could not die if I wasn’t there.

I have taken my body with me this time, After all, at last I can dance whenever and for whomever I please. You can’t stop me now. So you are welcome to sleep where you intended me to sleep forever. After all, you will need to keep as cold as possible—for as long as possible.

But in the end you will give up and be gone forever.

Your flesh will rot from your bones first—can you smell it decaying already? Then your organs will slough away. Your foul carcass will trap you long past the moment when you beg for death. Your loving wife celebrates your hell, Belle

He screamed. Such a short time ago his frailty had forced him to leave that plantation house on River Road, and to leave Marley, who must know where Belle was. Belle knew too much, could make too much trouble. She could not be allowed to exist, but his only connection to her now was through Marley Millet.

If only he was as he should be, he could have made her take him to the chinoiserie house.

He must find a way back to her and force her to help him return to the Safehold in the Lower Place. Better yet, he would bring her to him here and get the information he needed. Dealing with Belle could wait.

Slumped against the casket, he renewed his personal promise: a woman who displayed herself in lewd dance while men watched had not deserved to live, not if she had the honor of being his wife. Belle’s days were numbered.

But it was the jazz singers who were his ongoing mission. Even he protected his own and one of his own had suffered through the arrogance of one of those singers. Somehow he would hang on until he had the revenge he had promised himself.

He smiled. There he was making progress. Fear soaked the city. With each singer’s disappearance, others had become too afraid and given up. The most annoying were gone or ruined. Dealing with them had become an unexpected thrill beyond compare.

His hide contracted painfully over his flesh and he stifled a howl.

When he was renewed and returned with the use of a powerful young human body, he would be showered with the female attention he deserved, and this time he would be single-minded in his purpose—apart from allowing himself some small diversions to boost his powers. When he came back to this great city it would be to finish his work for the Embran and eliminate the rest of the Millets from the face of the earth.

He struck his pathetic offspring who had let him down. “Worthless,” he told him. “You could not even make sure your mother was dead.”