Page 65 of The Sin Eater
Damon makes a grunt, like he’s bit down on the urge to ask how and why and when. Brandon just nods, his hand resting on the box. “Is there anything else you want from this man besides the name of the woman he killed?”
“No,” I say softly. “Unless maybe it’d be worth asking if he killed anyone else.”
“Right.” Brandon glances at Geordi. “What do you think? If he’s willing to talk, what else should I ask him?”
“I’m not sure. You’d pretty much be on a fishing expedition.” Geordi shrugs, a gesture more casual than the moment seems. “Use your best judgment now, and we can hang onto the relics, so if there’s a reason to bother the guy again, you’ll be able to.”
Damon mutters something soft and sharp under his breath. I put a hand on his arm and squeeze gently, hoping to transmitI’ll explain laterthrough my touch. Later, like when I can no longer avoid explaining how I came to have hair and nail clippings in a box.
Assuming we have alater, which is feeling less and less likely.
“Do you need anything?” Micah asks Brandon. “A candle or something?”
Brandon shakes his head. “I’m good.” After a minute, he starts to speak, and it’s like the sound comes from another place entirely.
“I call upon those who rule the underworld. Hear me, Hades, Pluto, and all you Shinigami. Share your power, Owuo, Abaddon, and Shiva. Look down on James Smith, O Bast, and raise him in an unnatural life. St. Michael, grant me this gift to restore the balance in your scales.” The air around us starts to move, as if someone has opened a window or turned on a fan. There is no fan and the windows are closed. Micah’s jaw is tight, Geordi’s grin has shades of pride, and Damon’s gone still, his gaze on the box. I can’t tell if anyone else can feel the air move, or if I’m the only one. It’s almost like when the sins move from the body to me, but both stronger and less direct.
It’s creepy af.
A light grows about eight inches above Brandon’s hand. It starts smaller than a pinprick, tiny and bright. Over the next few seconds it grows larger, to the size of a cherry, then a plum, then an apple. It’s about all I can see.
“James Smith, is it you?” Brandon speaks in a clear voice that carries a surprising amount of authority.
Yes.
The answer is so soft it’s like someone is whispering directly into my ear. I glance around, wondering who else heard it. Brandon nods, so he must have. I’m not sure about the rest.
“I have called you here to ask a question, James. Mr. Smith. We’ve learned that during your lifetime, you killed a woman, and now we want to know her name.”
The question carries me back to the morgue, to the vision, to the pleasure that wracked him as he wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed. I close my eyes in a slow blink. It’s too much.
The only response is very faint laughter.
“Nah, man, you don’t understand,” Brandon says, the clear authority in his voice rising. “I can hold you here and you can’t do shit about it. Tell me what I want to know or I’ll trap you in a jar and keep you.”
Fuck you.
“My boyfriend would object.”
The shade of James Smith makes a disgusted sound, and Brandon glances at Geordi. “Get me a jar.”
We all sit in silence while Geordi leaves the room. The air is still moving, the flow sharper, prickling my skin, making it hard to keep still.
“Maybe you could tell me something else while we wait.” The light over Brandon’s hand flickers, like it’s threatening to go out. “Do that, and I really will keep you in a damn jar. Now tell me this. How many people did you kill?”
There’s a pause.Enough.
Damon’s exasperated snort lets me know he can hear the shade too, which is reassuring. I shift so I’m sitting closer to him.
“Have you ever been in a jar before?” Brandon asks, his tone mocking. “I’m sure you haven’t, and I’m also sure you’ll hate it.”
For all I know, it might be an improvement.
“Really? I’ve talked with more than one shade who’s said there’s nothing on the other side, that there’s just this big cloud of energy. The thing is, they tell me that, when you dive into that cloud of energy, you’re surrounded by consciousness and peace.”
He speaks baldly, like he doesn’t give a fuck what James Smith chooses, one way or the other. “All you’ll have in the jar is your own bad attitude.”
There’s a long silence, like Brandon is giving the shade time to think through its choices. My stomach grumbles and Damon gives a soft laugh. The light over Brandon’s hand goes dims, becoming little more than a hazy shadow.