Redlisted (41 page)

...and then I’m
back at the SpiraCom headquarters, back in remedial training, sitting
in front of the cathode-ray tube television on a hard metal folding
chair.

“Katherine
Avery,” Mirabel says from behind the screen. “Surely
you’re aware that stealing is against SpiraCom policy.”

I squeeze my eyes
shut and cover my ears.
Shut
up. You’re not here. I’m not listening to you.

Yet somehow I can
still see and hear her. “Do you really think you can make me go
away so easily?”

Mnemosyne, help
me, please, please make her be quiet...

“She won’t
be able to help you with this, I’m afraid. She’s never
been able to tell me what to do. I am Julian’s daughter, after
all.” She smiles with bared teeth.

It
doesn’t matter,
I tell myself.
I
don’t really need her help. You’re nothing. You’re
just a figment of my imagination.

“You don’t
really believe that.”

I do.

“But it’s
absurd.”

I don’t
care.

“I’m
right here in front of you—“

No, you’re
not. You’re hiding in your tower in Atlanta like the coward you
are.

“You
little—I’m not a coward!”

I stand, pick up
the television, and begin hauling it to the nearest window.

“Katherine
Avery! Put me down! What are you—“

The plug pops out
of the socket. Summoning all my strength, I hurl the television
through the glass. It shatters against the asphalt below.

“You’ll
live to regret what you’ve done to me,” I swear through
the broken portal.

With that my
consciousness filters back in to the basement complex. The ghouls
have turned on each other, fighting for one another’s blood.

What do you
think you’re doing!

They stand stock
still. Their eyes start to glaze over again.

Stop!

Shuffling their
feet reluctantly, they begin to file into little haphazard rows.

Get
over here!
I demand.
Find
me! Quickly!

Desmond’s
eyes widen as he hears the sound of the horde approaching. For a few
moments, he listens with a distant look on his face, as if he can’t
or won’t comprehend what he is hearing. As they close in, he
runs over and pounds on the door to the panic room.

“Let me in!
Oh God—how did they get inside?” He glances behind
himself, trembling. “You have to let me in, Kate!” He
grasps for an authoritative tone and fails.

The ghouls are
only a few hundred feet away now; the concrete walls amplify their
erratic footsteps to the volume of a stampede.

“You did
this, didn’t you?! You’re working with her!” He
begins to laugh. “Of course you are, you look just like her!
You must be one of her doubles!” He punches the keypad.

I feel a pang of
guilt over the prospect of letting him get eaten alive. No—of
eating him alive. The ghouls are under my control, after all...

“Don’t
you dare even think of letting him in here,” Mnemosyne hisses.

The nausea
returns. I can’t let him die—I can’t kill him—

He flails at the
door. “You can’t leave me here!” he screams, his
voice growing hoarse.

The ghouls lurch
closer and closer. My heart races; my grasp on the swarm begins to
slip.

“It’s
him or us!” Mnemosyne says. “If you let him in, he’ll
kill us. He’ll kill Adam. Are you a fighter, little human, or
are you as good as dead?”

Can I really force
myself to eat a man alive?

“Of course
you can.”

I open my eyes and
look at Adam lying lifeless on the ground.

Of course I
can.

This time I become
the horde; my consciousness merges with their undead flesh. I am a
hydra—I have a multitude of mouths in my many heads, each full
of a multitude of vicious teeth. I am a solifuge, a millipede, a
kraken. He screams his throat raw as I extend my limbs toward him,
embracing him.

The work is
exhausting. Human mouths and human hands were not made for this kind
of savagery. As sharp as our teeth are, his cold flesh is tough
underneath them. His blood flows in waves down our throats as we tear
through his ribcage, seeking his heart.

We find his lungs
first; the screams stop. We topple over one another as his heart is
revealed, the sight of it making us mad with desire. The strongest of
us—or the fastest, or the most fortunate—grabs it first,
wrenches it free and sinks our teeth into it like a stone fruit.

The taste is
unspeakable.

Once the prize is
gone, we are overwhelmed by the desire to continue devouring. He is
still so full of blood...

“Katherine.”

I don’t want
to return to myself. We are all so full of blood—even once he
is gone—

“Katherine!”

Once his gone the
weakest of us could go first. We could continue until only the
strongest remain—and then only the very strongest—and
then nothing—

“Katherine,
that’s more than enough. Desist.”

I snap back into
my body.

I can still taste
the ghost of Desmond’s heartsblood lingering on my lips.
Through the camera I see the ghouls disperse, running away as quickly
as they can on their ungainly limbs.

What did you
do?

“I sent them
away.”

Why?

“I cannot
afford for you to lose your head.”

I snort.

She ignores me.
“If you’re concerned about that girl Warden, we need to
act quickly,” she says. “The ghouls will seek her blood
the same as any other.”

She’s right.
I have to get back to the ramps to the incinerator room. But I can’t
drag Adam that far. I guess I could leave him locked in here?
Yes—he’ll be safe in here.

Next to the door
handle is a button. I push it; the mechanism releases. I throw all my
weight against the door to the panic room, shoving Desmond’s
ruined body out of the way. Holding the head in one hand, I stoop
down and collect the key clenched in one of his fists. I push the
heavy door shut, hoping to God that it will be enough to keep Adam
safe, and set off down the hallway to the ramps.

I hear us—I
hear them lurking not far enough away. I don’t know how
permanent what Mnemosyne did to them will be, how long it will keep
them from pursuing us. I’ll have to run.

As I reach the
double doors to the ramps, I can almost hear them decide to follow. I
sprint downwards, several times nearly toppling forward under my own
momentum. The heat is overwhelming. I start to feel lightheaded, my
vision starts to double, and for a second I imagine myself back in
the SpiraCom building, running down the stairs to Basement Level
Three—

No. I’m not
there, although I’m not sure I’d rather be here.

There’s
Haruko, slumped on the ground. I grab one of her hands—the one
that isn’t still on the machete—and tug her behind me to
the door. I take the key from my pocket and force my way inside. I’ve
just barely managed to lock the door behind us when the world starts
to spin. I think I’m going to pass out.

“No,”
Mnemosyne says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

What does she
mean? What else could I possibly do?

“Take the
Warden’s weapon.”

Even through my
vertigo, I comply mindlessly, wrenching it from Haruko’s hand.

“Bring it to
my tomb.”

I drag myself
across the obsidian mandala to stand in front of the coffin.

“Open it.”

I
can’t,
I protest.
I’m
not part of the House of Mnemosyne.

“Aren’t
you? You awakened me with your touch, didn’t you? Slice your
wrist open.”

Trembling, I place
her head at the edge of the basin. I draw the blade against my wrist,
slicing laterally. Bright red blood streams from the wound into the
basin. I pick the head up once more, wavering, just barely
maintaining consciousness long enough to see the liquid seep into the
stone.

“Push.”

The lid slides off
easily—too easily—and then her body is exposed to the
open air. The sight of it is terrible—

“Put my head
into place.”

I can’t. I
would, but I can’t. My muscles are spent. I’m going to
collapse—

“Don’t
you dare disobey me!” she hisses, shocking me awake. I reach
down into the tomb and position her head against her neck.

“Your
blood,” she demands.

I bring my wrist
to her lips.

Immediately, her
flesh knits itself back together. Her eyes snap open; her fingers
flex. She draws her left hand up, grabs on to the edge of the tomb,
pulls herself up to sitting, and from there to standing.

I stagger
backwards, but it’s too late. She seizes me with her terrible
gaze, and I am powerless. I have no will of my own, I am nothing. I
sink to my knees.

Mnemosyne steps
out of the coffin as if exiting the bath, her flimsy garment pooling
on the black floor around her. She kneels in front of me, smiling
with something that seems like kindness. She brushes my hair behind
one of my ears, kisses my forehead.

“You’ve
done very well tonight,” she says. “but I have yet one
more favor to ask of you.”

I close my eyes,
too exhausted to face what comes next.

Her lips meet
mine. She forces my mouth open, forces her tongue inside. I can’t
bring myself to care. If this is all she wants, what does it matter?

My throat starts
to burn, then to sting. It feels like I’m being lacerated from
the inside by a thousand razorblades. My esophagus fills with blood;
it streams from my mouth into hers. I can’t breathe—she’s
crushing me to her so tightly. Soon it doesn’t matter; my lungs
have started to fill. I might as well let go, give up, pass out. This
is the end. Soon I’ll be dead and gone—

Dead,
she whispers to my inner ear.
Not
gone.

She keeps me awake
until my heart stops.

///

My name is
Katherine Avery, born in 1980 in Richmond, Virginia. My mother was
Jewish; my father was Episcopalian. They were both schoolteachers. My
older brother’s name was Eric—five years older. He died
of a drug overdose when I was thirteen.

I was an angry
kid; I took karate instead of ballet. I dyed my hair black all
through high school and I had a nose ring. All I really wanted to do
was write, and it was probably the only thing I was ever any good at.
I wanted to educate people, to expose the injustices in society. I
edited my high school’s newspaper, won some awards, went to
Chapel Hill on a scholarship. I had a string of shitty relationships,
drank more than I should, lost my virginity to one of my TAs—I
thought he thought I was smart. I read too much, got obsessed with
things I’d never be able to change, problems I’d never be
able to solve.

I graduated, ended
up working for Spira Communications, and then the rest of it
happened.

And now I’m
dead.

{Mnemosyne}

The dhampyr’s
blood tastes of sweat, port, and coriander seeds. I know from
experience the blood of her kind always tend towards strange
permutations of flavor. Hers is particularly complex, with a
lingering finish that slowly turns earthen and vile. Peculiar.
Certainly much of the blood is Adam’s, which means the root of
it is mine, but that can’t account for the blackness that coats
the back of my throat well after I’ve released her.