IX

He was somewhere else. Still in Widow Booke's small, bare room, still sitting on that thickly woven rug, and there was still that shelf mounted on the wall – full of glass jars of dried herbs. His eyes told him that he hadn't gone anywhere. His ears did as well, bringing the sound of the hissing wind from outside the wooden walls. Despite the evidence of his senses, he just knew he was somewhere else. He also knew that the door behind him wouldn't open into the rest of the Widow's house. How he knew these things, and why, he didn't know. The difference between what he saw and heard and what he knew should have confused him. It should have.

There was a soft edge to the world. It was a loose, dreaming feeling. He didn't have to be confused if he didn't want to. Didn't have to be scared, cold, or tired. Didn't have to be anything anymore, not unless he wanted to. It was nice, so nice to just not be. He drifted in it for a long time, letting the driving wind fill the quiet. There had never been a calm like this, not in all his life. Nothing could compare to it. Nothing would match it, should he try. There was no reason to try. No reason to do anything, now that he thought about it. He was at peace, here and now, and saw no reason to leave it.

The wind howled. It shook the walls around him and he watched it tear them away, board by rattling board. He stood now, in a field of grass. Endless, waving grass. Ink-black, shin-high. Pressing not against his legs but through them. That was fine. He breathed in deep and filled his senses with the clearest, freshest air he'd ever tasted. It made him laugh. Made him smile. A vast, clear sky unraveled over the endless plain. He could spend forever here, and gladly. There was something in the distance. Just a smudge of shape on the horizon. He wondered what it was. He wondered if he cared enough to find out. The wind blew into him, through him, pushing him towards it. He eddied along above the grass as the smudge came closer and closer.

It was shaped like a person. The wind that brought him here gentled into a breeze and set him down. A woman was before him. Her hair was long, she wore a blue silk dress with little black ruffles, and he knew her. From somewhere, he knew her. He had known her name and she had been important. He didn't know why, not anymore. It had been taken from him, or he had given it away. Gone now, regardless. She said nothing to him. He said nothing to her. There was no silence between them to fill. It went on; her looking to him and he, looking back. In that time he realized; he'd forgotten his own name. Given up or taken, it was gone. There was nothing but the grass and the wind and the two of them.

It was perfect. They were at peace. They'd gone on. Until, after he didn't know how much time passed, a thought came to him. A curiosity. It was so small and pointless, hardly worth exploring. He didn't have anything better to do, so he turned his attention to it. How did I get here? He was already here and happy for it, so it didn't really matter how he'd done it, but he still wanted to know. He couldn't help it. The small, pointless curiosity took root and grew. It was clashing with the calm, empty peace that had filled him, but he couldn't stop it. Worse than that, he didn't want to. He wanted to know. “How did I get here?” he whispered. The wind should have carried his words away. She heard him. She turned her hollow eyes on his.

“Does it matter?” she answered.

He found that it did. More and more, he found that it did. It made him feel more solid, more real. His feet touched the ground. The grass pressed against his legs. The wind buffeted his body, tugging at his clothes. “It does,” he said, then asked again, “How did I get here?”

She shrugged, indifferent. “Same way I did, I suppose.” Her arm was missing. Gone at the shoulder. He saw it now. Her long, beautiful hair was snarled and matted. Long, thin bruises were on her throat. Her face was gone. A wound bled in her side. A hole torn through her dress, her flesh, her bone. Tore out her liver. Took it, as it was so full of life.

“How's that?” Caff asked.

“You died,” said Ruby, and the world collapsed.

- - -

Keep your mind on what you're looking for, the Widow had said, you should be okay. He hadn't. The once piece of advice he had no issue at all with following and he'd gone and not done it. He was a lucky fool. Only an idle thought, a moment's curiosity, had saved him. Without it he would have drifted above the endless plain of gravegrass until his body withered away, until his soul went on in truth and for all time. He had come so close to that, so terrifyingly close to death. Worse, he felt an urge to go back. He wanted to return to that peaceful, empty eternity, so free of all of life's burdens. It scared him how much he wanted it. He wondered how many people would come to his burial. To see him lowered into the gray, graveyard earth.

The world rebuilt, and he no longer stood in the endless plain. There was still that vast, unraveled sky above him. A night's sky, now. An ink-black expanse broken by the small, silver light of stars. There was no moon. Hard, dry desert earth crunched beneath his feet. It stretched out into the night. He knew where he was. Behind him, back to the west, would be Calavera. He still felt the urge to go back, but curiosity rose against it. He wanted to know why he had come – or been brought – here; a little less than a mile out of town. He wanted to know why he couldn't remember Ruby's face. Before his feet touched the ground, before he crept a few steps away from the edge of death, he'd seen it. She had been so beautiful. He'd seen it. Now it was just gone. He wanted to know why that was, too.

Something stirred in him. A small multitude; wants, desires, yearnings. They rose warm, fractious, and alive against death's cold, empty peace. Each reminder of life pushed away the urge to leap into the void just a little bit more. It would never truly fade. Now that he knew what it was like, there would always be a part of him that would be ready to go on. In the here and now, though, he was alive. He had a job to do.

Ruby floated near him, bare feet inches above the desert earth. She wore the dress she died in, her face a hollow and empty thing. He felt her gaze on him. Without eyes to do it, she was looking at him. It bubbled up within, what he'd felt since being told of her death. The words rushed out before he could stop himself, “I – I'm sorry,” he said. His own voice sounded strange. “I...I couldn't...I didn't know.” It was just the two of them out here. He said it again, feeling helpless and inadequate, “I didn't know.”

A long time passed in pure quiet, not even wind to disturb it. He wasn't sure she'd heard him. He wasn't sure why he'd said it. Maybe he wanted her to forgive him or absolve of what he felt; the guilt and shame at his failure to protect her. He hadn't been enough, and she was dead. She should hate him for that. Shouldn't she? Except she didn't look like she did. She didn't look like she cared at all. He even knew why.

Sure, she had died badly; alone and in pain and afraid. That was done with. Over. She'd gone on and left it all behind. There was no reason for her to hate him or forgive him or do anything at all. She was dead, and all of that was the trouble of the living. His troubles, which she no obligation or interest to resolve. He wanted it from her. He didn't think he could do it to himself. He looked around. Calavera was not behind him. Just more desert. “Where is this?” he asked.

“It doesn't matter,” she said.

He figured. “Tell me anyway.”

“I died here,” she said, and he shuddered to hear those words delivered with such apathy.

“Who killed you?” he asked. This was why he'd done this. Why he'd let death touch his soul. She began to respond, and he interrupted her, guessing what she was about to say. “It does matter. Just...who killed you?”

“Come and see,” she said, and the world rippled. A dizzying sensation lurched through his mind. His vision blurred, then cleared. He took stock and saw they were still in the desert. It was still night, still lit by the distant, silver light of the moon and stars.

The difference; Calavera lay before them. The sprawl of buildings and warm, yellow light was so ordinary, so mundane, that it was strange to look at. They were behind O'Neil's Hotel and Bar. The sounds of a roaring trade came from within: laughter and music and the clashing shouts of dozens of conversations. There was a door in front of them that led to the taproom. There were two people stood near it, far from the light spilling from the windows. The dark clung to them in a way that was horribly familiar. It was like tar, like oil. This shifting wrongness. Just like in the mausoleum. Just like that.

That back door swung open. A couple's laughter preceded them. A man – a boy – being pulled by the hand. His laugh was high and nervous, eager and afraid. He was wearing his best, patched and mended as it was. It sat uncomfortably on his frame. It was Everett Swanson, the sixteen years old son of Gus. The sight of him, in that space and time, was so very confusing.

The woman wore a blue silk dress, little black ruffles at the edge. Her face was hidden by the shadow her long, beautiful hair cast. The laugh and smile she gave Everett was full of false humor and allure. It was an empty, professional thing. Caff wondered how such a hollow expression would fool anyone. Maybe it would, if they knew what he did. Ruby pulled Everett around, putting his hands on her hips and backing into the wall. She looked up at him, smiling, and said something. Her mouth moved, but Caff could not hear the words. He replied, his voice cracking in the middle of his words that again could not be heard.

Ruby – the living Ruby, the past Ruby – giggled and tossed her head. Her hair curled over her ear and spilled down her shoulder and over her chest. Everett followed the suggestion as her hands moved up his arms, pulling him further into her. Their bodies touched, and he leaned down to kiss her. In that moment, the shadow moved. It fell away from those it concealed. A hot spark of rage came to life in Caff's heart. Rupert Wagner stood, cocksure and calm, eyes glinting. Next to him stood pale-eyed Elijah. The thrill of being right twined itself around Caff's anger.

Rupert said something. The words themselves couldn't be made out, but their intent and tone were clear enough. He was amused, almost languid. Everett jolted and pushed Ruby away from him. She bounced off the wall, curls tossing. Shock crossed her face clear as day before turning to anger and she spat questions of Everett's manhood at the boy. His face flushed, embarrassed and angry about it. He cursed Rupert and Ruby both, shoulders up by his ears, spoiling for a fight.

There was something wrong with Rupert. He wasn't afraid of Elijah. Nobody was. In fact, it looked like nobody paid the vampire any regard at all. It was strange, different enough that it caught Caff's attention. Rupert again spoke to Everett, telling him to leave. The boy didn't. Out of wounded pride or stubbornness, he didn't. He stepped forward instead, his hands curled into tight fists. It was awkward to look at. Ruby had pushed away from the wall and was looking between the two as she backed away.

Smart. Not fast, though. Rupert turned his head to speak to Elijah, over his shoulder. Only then did Elijah move. Between one moment and the next he had gone from behind Rupert to standing over Everett's sprawled form. The boy lay on the ground, pale-faced and clutching his chest. Wide, fearful eyes stared up. He wet himself as he began to cry, pleading for his life. With a careless wave of his hand, Rupert gave it. It was such a kingly, better-than-you gesture that Caff found himself hating the man. Everett scrabbled backwards in the dirt, eyes never leaving Elijah, until he turned and fled into the night.

Ruby was alone. She had fallen, stumbled back in shock and surprise at Elijah's speed. On her knees, she stared with naked fear and trembled. She looked like she'd bolt. She didn't. Her mouth worked, dry lips shaking, and no words came out. Rupert walked towards her, casual as a day of rest, and all of Caff's heated emotion drained from him in a heartbeat. He was about to watch Ruby die, to watch the last moments of her life and be helpless throughout. It was a sick feeling; a cold and wet feeling. He wanted for all the world to change this. It had already happened. The soul beside him was testament to that. All he could do was watch.

Ruby tried to run. Rose on shaking, unsteady legs to follow Everett into the night. She staggered on her feet, giving Rupert more than enough time to grab a fistful of her hair and haul her back. She cried out as he pulled, lashing out blind with a flailing hand and catching Rupert in the mouth. He swore and threw her to the ground. She landed hard, breath snatched from her body. She tried again, on hand-and-knee she tried again. Rupert kicked her in the side and she fell, curled around the blow. He wasn't casual anymore, no longer amused. Not pity or anything like it either. The look he gave her was empty. He didn't care. She asked something of him, weeping and gasping for breath. She asked for her life.

Rupert shook his head. He crouched by her, and she struck him again. This blow, aimed and desperate, caught him in the eye. He fell back, clutching at it. She lunged at him, screaming and furious. They fought; a scrabbling, clawing, striking mess of a thing. Each strike she landed filled Caff with a vengeful satisfaction. Each strike landed on her weakened her and took it away. Soon, she was overpowered, straddled by Rupert with his hands around her throat. He bore down as she clawed at his hands, arms and face. Her legs kicked uselessly, tangled in blue silk. Her face was flushed, her eyes bulging. The veins around her eyes were swollen. Slowly, gently, her struggles slowed.

Nearby, Elijah stood corpse-still and blank. Rupert's hands were knuckle-white around her throat. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she was still. Not dead, not yet. Rupert spoke, and Elijah moved. The vampire came to stand over her body, bent down, and plunged his hand through her body. The sound it made as it tore through fabric and flesh, muscle and bone, was nothing compared to the sound of him tearing her liver out. He stepped away, and Rupert followed. They stood over her body and watched her life's blood pool in the dirt around her. After a moment, they left. The clinging shadow returned as they did, wrapping around them and carrying them away.

Caff saw the moment she died. It was a small, quiet moment that passed in the star's reflection in the dark pool around her. She died alone beneath them, with only Caff and an indifferent soul to watch her body grow cold. He heard music; a gentle, hummed melody that he knew, though not where from. “Stop,” he said, voice a rasp. “That – that's enough. I...that's enough.”

There was no ripple, no collapse of the world. It didn't bring him somewhere new, or back to the small room in Widow Booke's home. He remained, eyes locked on Ruby's body, soul-sick and lost, as the song grew louder. He wanted to weep. He wanted to sunder Rupert and Elijah, feel them break beneath his hands. To see them suffer and fear and die like she had. He smelled something. Not blood, but an earthy mix of smoldering herbs. He looked to Ruby's soul, hollow-faced and uncaring. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “I'm so sorry.”

She said nothing. On the ground, the skin of her face began to blacken and flake and char. He woke with a gasp, laying on his side in Widow Booke's small room.