Holidays are Hell

Joseph stopped. He tried to suppress the memory, but Six would not let him. He felt her warmth surround his thoughts, unrelenting, and after a moment he yielded to her. He let her see. Allowed her to watch how he had possessed the bodies of murderers and torturers and brought them to the graves of their victims, forcing the men to rest amongst the decay and filth of the dead. And when they were truly buried, he showed Six how he had summoned the memories of the dead, spirits who still wanted vengeance—and shown them what lay in their midst, and that it was their chance to take a pound of flesh.

And they did, Joseph told her. Not literally, but enough. Those men died. Died of fright, maybe. Or suffocation from the bodies I made them rest under. Either way, I was the one who killed them.

Are you sorry? Six's question was a gesture of politeness; he knew she was already aware of how he felt. But he said it anyway, because she asked, and it was something he had wanted to speak of for a long time.

No, he said, grim. I am not sorry at all.

He sensed her satisfaction with his response. Six was a practical woman. Why would you try to suppress that memory, then? It bothers you. I see that much.

Joseph felt a hard cold knot inside his heart; the place where the bones and the death resided. But it was also a place of bitter satisfaction, and there was power in that feeling. Too much power.

Ah, Six said.

It's easy to become a monster, Joseph replied. Easier for some than others. You can get a taste for it. Righteousness makes it simple. But it's a thin line.

Much like the one I am walking.

Yes, he said. Let's take care of that. How's the pain?

Better, now that I have gone deeper. I apologize for your hand.

Do I still have one?

I hope you like surprises.

Joseph laughed, and it took him off guard. He had never felt so comfortable with another woman; he had never felt so at ease revealing himself, as though her eyes were the same as his, without fear or judgment. He tried to imagine losing that. He could not. It did not bear thinking of.

You lied, Six said, suddenly. You have only helped two?

You will be three, he said, and dove into her heart, searching for a memory to save her life. He felt Six try to follow, and he held out a mental hand, tugging her alongside him as he sped through her life, tasting her spirit. No two souls were ever alike—a handful of snowflakes might have more in comparison—but Six was utterly unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Her memories of life were stark and cold, with moments of fierceness interwoven like charms.

But he did not find anything to save her life. Nothing that created a visceral reaction. Not enough to burn out the poison hunting her spirit. He could taste the first tendrils of it, snaking from the darkness beyond her thoughts. Moving faster than he had imagined. If he waited much longer, there would be hooks involved, tearing her apart. Stealing her heart. Making her empty.

No, Six said. No, Joseph. There must be something.

You have to fight, he told her desperately. You're a fighter, Six. You can do this. Find something inside of yourself that's worth living for. Hold on to it.

He felt, inside her mind, the memory of a window. A window with a view of a wall, and beyond that, rooftops and trees and sky. Freedom, he heard inside his mind. And then, beside that window, he felt another memory, this time, of him. Six's first memory, their first meeting, seeing him walk into the room at the massage parlor. He tasted her appraisal of his eyes, his face, and though it was a thrill to know she had noticed him even then, what made his heart ache was that in her deepest unconscious, she equated him with her symbol of freedom.

Is that what you are? Six asked him. My freedom?

You tell me.

No, she said. No person is freedom. But maybe you are a path.

Then use that path. He wrapped himself around her spirit, holding her. Fight.