Interlude (Part 4)

Part Four is a week late due to Mr. 37 being slammed with edits for Fates and Curses, coming next month. This installment is longer though, so I hope it was worth the wait. You can purchase The Warning on Amazon by clicking this link.

If you haven’t already, don’t forget to support indie comic artist Richard C. Meyer’s Jawbreakers comic on indiegogo here as well as Ethan Van Sciver’s Cyberfrog: Bloodhoney comic here.

Interlude (Part 4)

It was probably the most normal job he’d ever had, Caleb realized as he methodically poured over a mountain of paperwork, scanning each line for inconsistencies and most importantly, over-payments. Technically he was Yakuza now, but his role was actually a lot less violence and a lot more bookkeeping than he’d originally anticipated. Nearly six weeks had passed since he’d succeeded in taking down the saiko-komon, but the time had passed quickly. He’d been strongly encouraged to take a room at the family compound, and against his better judgement, he’d accepted the offer. He still paid the rent on his empty apartment, and if Omri was having him watched, let him make of that what he would.

Hiro had taught Caleb many skills, the most valuable of which was not swordplay, as Caleb had first assumed, but the ability to speak in the Yakuza’s native tongue. It had been a fair trade at the time – Hiro had barely managed to master English, and Spanish was eluding him entirely. Caleb had taken up the mantle of interpreter, and Hiro had slowly taught him Japanese. Caleb had caught on easily to the methodical patterns that were very different than his native English and her fiery cousin Spanish. They’d used it like a secret code between them. Now this tool had become invaluable.

Caleb had skirted the line of the law for years as a bounty hunter, but he’d never crossed it. As a kid making his way to a different sort of life of crime than the one he’d been raised in, he’d entertained the brief notion of working with a cartel. He’d start small, maybe work his way up the ladder after he’d proven his skill with a side iron and his knowledge of the business. Hiro had found him on step one, and in a way, it was surreal to be here now, on the other side, starting not from the bottom but from the side, digging his way into the cartel from across an ocean but digging his way in nonetheless, much closer than he’d ever been running petty scams in dirty parking lots for tourists.

Few in the family spoke English, and none Spanish. This alone was a huge logistical problem. He’d already found half a dozen discrepancies, indications that the cartel that supplied guns to the family were either ripping them off or that someone in the family was siphoning off the top. Caleb wasn’t sure yet, but the answer was somewhere in these numbers.

A knock at his door drew his head up from his work. Behind the paper screen he could see the shadows of three men.

“Hai?” he answered. The screen opened, and in stepped Masaharu, Hiro’s younger brother, and two of his goons whose names Caleb hadn’t bothered to learn yet. Caleb’s eyes flitted to the brown bagged bottle in Masaharu’s hand, but he quickly looked away.

“A delivery,” said Masaharu, holding up the bottle.

Caleb steeled his expression. He hadn’t expected Masaharu of all people to intercept his delivery. He put his hand out for the bottle and took it with careful fingers. He pulled the bottle out of the bag a few inches. Top shelf American bourbon, and to his relief, the seal was unbroken.

“Care for a drink?” asked Caleb. It was reckless, but to not offer would have been even more suspicious.

“Of American trash? No thanks,” said Masaharu, making a disgusted face.

Caleb smiled.

“So, what brings you here? I doubt you came just to deliver my packages,” asked Caleb as he set the bottle on the table. Something flashed across Masaharu’s face, and Caleb knew the look. There wasn’t much physical resemblance between Hiro and his brother, but there was something in their expressions that Caleb was painfully aware of and couldn’t ignore. He’d said something to piss Masaharu off – insulted his worth to the family, maybe.

“My father wants to see you. He sent me to fetch you.”

Ah. So, the package that Masaharu is delivering was Caleb. With a silent nod, Caleb grabbed his jacket.

The night was brisk, but dry, and the car that took them to an undisclosed location was stiflingly luxurious. Caleb stared out the window absently, pretending to ignore the rapid conversation taking place between the others. If anyone is stealing from the family, it’s probably Masaharu, but that was a thought that Caleb quickly pushed from his mind. He needed hard evidence.

Caleb was unable to read the delicate sign of the business they stop in front of, but to his surprise, it didn’t seem to be a restaurant. The street was lined with unassuming, condensed houses.

Inside, the walls were adorned with delicately carved wooden masterpieces, brightly lit from overhead. The place was clean, very clean- even by Japanese standards, and there was a slightly medicinal smell. Caleb followed Masaharu wordlessly into a backroom where they found the oyabun laid out on a white futon, unclothed from the waist up. The horishi was leaning over him, working carefully on the colorful and intricate irezumi that adorned the boss’s back.           Caleb felt a twinge in his right arm where he’d let Hiro tattoo him years ago. The spiral design was a copy of Hiro’s. He’d never considered what that meant to Hiro’s father. Was it normal for an assassin to mark his prey in such a way?

“Ah, Nijuro.”

Caleb was allowed to adopt a new name for his new life. The one he chose was decidedly simple, and the slight homage seemed to please his boss as well.

“Hai?” He still had no idea why he’d been brought there. Instead of telling him, the oyabun turned to Masaharu:

“You can leave now,” he said flatly.

Again, that look of unbridled irritation flitted across his face, but Masaharu wordlessly obeyed. Even he wouldn’t dare contradict the boss.

His absence left the three men alone in the room. Caleb still wasn’t sure why he’d been brought here, but finally the oyabun spoke:

“Show him your arm,” he said simply.

Caleb wordlessly obeyed, rolling his sleeve up to show the tattooist the spiral design that covered his inner forearm.

The man’s eyes crinkled, and he gave a slight smile.

“Waruku wa nai,” he said softly.

Caleb realized he was meeting the artist who’d drawn the original. Hiro had copied his work meticulously, and Caleb had felt proud to wear the same tattoo as his teacher despite the pain.

“Hiroshi was always drawn to the rasen,” said the oyabun. “It was an unusual choice for a horimono, but he insisted.”

Caleb rolled his sleeve back down. The oyabun rarely spoke about Hiro, and it always gave him a jolt to hear him referred to by his real name.

“He told me it meant the journey of life,” said Caleb, flexing his arm reflexively. The oyabun smirked.

“Some say it represents slowly revealing that which was once hidden,” he replied, nodding to the horishi, who quickly got back to work.

To be honest, Caleb had never given it a lot of consideration: he’d just thought it would be a cool tattoo. That was very much like Hiro though, and Caleb wasn’t necessarily surprised. He made an objective decision on the spot not to think about it too deeply.

“So, what can I do for you, Boss?” he asked, changing the subject.

From beneath the needle the oyabun turned his head.

“I wanted to introduce you to him. He’s a good artist. The best,” he said, with a slight nod toward the horishi who didn’t look up from his work.

“You want me to get a tattoo?” asked Caleb.

“You earned it. When you killed that no-good bastard.”

Caleb felt a jolt in his chest. Which one?

“You’re a brave man. Coming here, after what happened . . . Telling me about my son face to face, knowing that Hiroshi was sent to . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the sentiment wasn’t lost on Caleb, who stared blankly at the floor.

It could be a trap, a test of his loyalty to the gokudō. Caleb knew it was unwise to turn down the offer, nor did he want to.

“Arigato gazaimasu,” said Caleb, lifting his eyes.

The oyabun nodded, dismissing him. Caleb didn’t linger.

Masaharu was waiting outside the shop. His eyes were cold, and Caleb could read the malice there. This wasn’t going as either of them had expected.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said, climbing back into the car.

They rode back in silence, which Caleb was grateful for. He hated small talk, and he had a lot on his mind.

He realized he could get comfortable here. Not in this car, sitting next to Masaharu, who was likely as corrupt as the saiko-komon he’d executed had been, but here in Japan, in this life. It wasn’t what he’d come here to do, but it was a possibility.

The bottle was still sitting on his desk when he got back. Closing the door and locking it behind him, Caleb picked it up, studying it. Every few days a new bottle was hand delivered. He’d have to take more care to make sure that he intercepted the deliveries from now on. American liquor was rare here, but what the bottle really contained was even rarer. He slowly twisted the lid off, taking a small whiff of the amber liquid inside. The smell was pungent, and he quickly screwed the cap back on.

Opening a small, locked cabinet with the key he wore around his neck, he deposited it with the others: He’d collected eight so far. Quite the collection. If anyone found it, he’d likely be killed. There’d be some uncomfortable questions, to say the least. After all, what did a mere secretary actually need with eight bottles of petroleum?

 

Interlude (Part 3)

It’s getting real. Enjoy Part 3 of Interlude, a prequel for my next novel, Fates and Curses, coming July 2018.  My debut novel, The Warning, is available for purchase by clicking here.

Also, there’s still time to support my boi Zack’s Indiegogo campaign for Jawbreakers, a dope indie comic that’s currently on path to be one of 2018’s most successful graphic novels.  Be a part of that by clicking here.

Without further adieu. . .

Interlude (Part 3)

The low table was heavy set with a lavish feast of steaming food and chilled alcohol, surrounded by men in well-fitted suits that hid their ornately decorated bodies. At the head of the table, an old man wrapped in an embroidered silk robe sat flanked by his second-eldest son and a carefully-dressed assistant with nimble fingers who only picked at the plate set before him with languid chopsticks and never touched his drink. A nervous waitress circled the table, refilling glasses as needed with warm alcohol and taking away empty plates. She looked uncomfortable, like she wanted to be anywhere else but there, her discomfort largely unnoticed and completely ignored.

Despite the general merriment of the group, this was a business meeting. All the seats were full: Everyone had arrived, and they could soon begin. It was the son who called them to attention, and the chatter quickly died down. The old man stood slowly, though his legs were still quite strong. Assured of his clan’s full attention, he opened his mouth to speak – but was quickly interrupted by a shriek outside the door. The waitress nearly dropped the bottle she’d been pouring from and backed into the corner to make herself a smaller target.

Hands flew into jackets, and soon there were half a dozen guns pointed toward the commotion. The delicate door flew to the side, and there stood the man all of them recognized, but none of them had expected.

At his side he held a katana the old man recognized very well. Its black sheath gleamed beneath the halogen lights above them. Other than the sword, he appeared unarmed, and everyone held their breaths, fingers on triggers, waiting for an order from their leader.

The old man slowly stood, bracing his weight on his knee to push himself upwards unassisted. The carefully-dressed assistant remained seated, as did the second-eldest son, their eyes narrowed at the unexpected visitor.

“You have a lot of nerve showing your face here,” said the old man in careful English. The katana stayed still at the stranger’s side, his breathing as tempered as his reply.

“It’s been a while,” said the man who now called himself Caleb Callahan. Over a decade had passed since he’d last set eyes on the old man, but he did indeed recognize him.

“So it has. Did you come here to kill yourself on my sword?” asked the old man, stroking his gray beard. “If you provoke me, you know that’s the only outcome there can be.”

Caleb’s eyes darted around, studying the guns now pointed at him.

“Not exactly.” The old man narrowed his eyes as Caleb’s free hand rose to his chest. Fingers tightened, but still no one fired. Tied to a simple sling, Caleb bore an unassuming silver cylinder, too small to hold a gun, and it was this he lifted from his neck, and with slow, smooth movements, set it down in front of the old man, who knew immediately what it contained.

His face was an unreadable mask, and Caleb held his breath. At last the old man sighed, and resumed his seat, his eyes never wavering from the tiny metal urn, and for a brief moment Caleb felt a stab of pity for the old man, because he knew that despite what little was left behind, the old man felt the gravity of what had once been.

At last the old man spoke, and Caleb steeled his nerves for words he had no way of predicting:

“I heard rumors . . .Now I know they’re true. My son is dead.”

Caleb said nothing, his eyes trained on the urn as the old man’s hands reached out for it. Part of him wanted to take it back, but it had never been his to begin with, to give or keep. This was the right thing to do.

“Tell me how he died,” said the old man, holding the urn in his hands, his voice steady. The mood in the room seemed to shift, and guns lowered. If the strange visitor tried anything, there would be plenty of time to react. Caleb took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“He took a bullet to the spine. It happened instantly. He didn’t suffer.” The confession came easy, whether because he’d rehearsed the words so often or because it was the truth, and the old man’s face showed no reaction: He only gazed down at the urn. Caleb’s grip tightened around the katana. It was all he had left now, and if anyone tried to take it from him, he’d take their hands with it. “He died protecting the man he was sent to kill.”

“So, you know,” said the old man. “Yet here you are.” He looked up at Caleb briefly, then back down at the urn, as if trying to ascertain its purpose, its intricate meaning. “Did you come here to taunt me? Or did you come to be killed by me?”

“Not exactly,” said Caleb, his thumb sliding along the length of the polished enamel, pushing the blade of the katana ever so slightly forward. He refused to let his face show emotion, his eyes never leaving the old man’s. He understood very well that one wrong move would undoubtably result in in a dozen bullets piercing his body, but he hadn’t come here without a purpose. The old man looked up again.

“So why? What is it that you seek, if not death?”

“The third option.”

Caleb struck without warning, his movements as quick as a snake. He’d been trained well, and before any of the thugs surrounding him could react, his blade had found its mark.

The old man lifted his hand once, a silent signal to a dozen pointed guns. There was blood sprayed across his robe, but he hardly seemed to notice.

The assistant who’d been sitting on his left fell forward as Caleb extracted the blade from his chest. He’d struck him in the heart, and the wound was instantly pumping blood over the table.

“This man’s been meeting with your rival in secret. He was planning to betray you.”

If the old man was surprised by Caleb’s accusation, his face didn’t show it. He merely nodded curtly and gave a waving gesture to the others to lower their guns once more. Reaching out, he took a clean napkin from the table and wiped the splattered blood from his own hands, ignoring the river of red that continued to run down the table and onto the floor.

“Oto-san-” said the man on his right, rising slightly, and Caleb narrowed his eyes.

“Damare.”

There was no room for argument in the tone of the old man’s voice, and the entire room went silent. The man sat back down, his face contorted with rage. Meanwhile, the old man’s eyes never left Caleb’s.  He tossed the bloody napkin down onto the table.

Caleb finally lowered the sword. With a swift, careful motion, he wiped the blade on the white tablecloth before replacing it in its sheath. With a nudge, he pushed the bloody corpse aside, letting it topple to the floor in a heap.

“We’re in the same business, Oyabun,” said Caleb. He took a seat in the now empty chair next to the old man. “And it seems you have a vacancy in your organization.”

Interlude (Part 2)

Thanks for reading. The countdown has begun, so please enjoy part 2 of 5 of Interlude, a short novella set between the events of The Warning and Fates and Curses, due to be released this summer.  -A. Rivers

Interlude (Part 2)

The sound of rain on the roof of the dilapidated apartment should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. Caleb was wound tighter than a two-Amero watch, sitting in the dark with his fingers clenching an unlit cigarette, waiting for something he couldn’t really name. He’d been in Nihon for two weeks now.

The neighborhood was a slum; the buildings rotted and neglected, the streets dirty, hookers cloistered on the corners – but nothing Caleb wasn’t already used to. As the days passed, he was finding it harder to fall asleep, not easier like he’d assumed he would, and would still find himself dozing during the day and wide-awake in the middle of the night. He knew he’d have to get used to it soon and pull himself together: He couldn’t stay holed-up in this empty place forever. He’d come here with a purpose, a mission. He’d probably die here, but not until he finished his work.

The rented room was no home: just a temporary waiting room that happened to be close to a place he’d only ever heard about in passing. The space was practically empty, sparse of furniture save for an old wobbling table and a couple of beat-up chairs. There was a cellphone nearby, and more than once he’d wanted to pick it up and call a certain number, just to hear a familiar voice. But he hadn’t.

In another timeline, maybe he would have dialed the number and made that call. Maybe he wouldn’t even be here at all. He might still be in Los Angeles, or Tijuana, or hell, maybe even Memphis. He knew now that a part of him would always want to go back, but he’d at least accepted that there was no going back now.

The neon lights outside were reflected in the raindrops hitting the tiny window, and he watched them dancing there, his long fingers dangerously close to the damn phone, but an equal distance from the half-empty bottle of swirling amber.

A knock at the door broke his silent meditation. Narrowing his eyes, he reached across the table, away from the phone, and picked up his piece. The Desert Eagle .50 had been a small going-away gift to himself, purchased with money he didn’t feel like he’d really earned, but that he’d taken nonetheless. It was a little heavier than what he was used to, but he liked the weight – it was what had drawn him to the gun. The safety was off, and there was a bullet in the chamber, so with little trepidation he walked quietly across the soft carpeted floor, avoiding standing directly in front of the door.

“Donata?” he asked in a low voice, holding the barrel up to the door, ready to fire through it if necessary.

“Gaijin-san, it’s me, your friend,” replied a high-pitched voice in broken English.

Caleb lowered the gun a few inches, not because he was lowering his guard, but to accommodate for the unexpected visitor’s height. He recognized the voice: one of the more determined prostitutes who worked the streets below and harassed him whenever he left the confines of his empty room.

“Usero,” he replied in a low, gruff voice, but on the other side of the door, the woman just giggled.

“I have gift for you,” she called out.

Caleb narrowed his eyes. It could be a trap. He was well aware that his presence in Japan wouldn’t go unnoticed for long if he hadn’t already been revealed. With a sigh, he loosened the chain and turned the deadbolt, cracking the door open just a few inches.

The whore was soaking wet, and dressed in so little it was doubtful she was hiding a gun anywhere on her person. Caleb wasn’t a fool though. He knew even whores dressed in rags could hide little knives or needles in places he didn’t even want to imagine.

“Nandesuka?” he asked, keeping the gun concealed behind the door but still aimed at the woman standing in front of him.

She smiled brightly, and walked forward, putting her hands on his chest. They were surprisingly warm.

“You speak Nihongo so good,” she said, pushing him back with unanticipated strength. Caught off guard, he let himself be pressed backwards a few steps.

“What the fuck?! Get off me you stupid bi-” he began, narrowing his eyes angrily as she kicked the door closed behind them.

“Shut up,” she said sharply, her accent changing completely in an instant.

Caleb’s eyes widened in surprise, and he brought the gun between them without hesitation.

“Calm down, cowboy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We both know you aren’t going to use that in here.”

It was then that Caleb realized she wasn’t a Nihonjin at all.

“You’re British,” he said, not bothering to hide the surprise evident in his voice.

She rolled her eyes again as she began to case the room, running her hands beneath the table where he’d just been sitting and along the edges of the baseboards.

“What are you doing?” he asked with gritted teeth, acutely aware that she probably wasn’t really a prostitute either.

“Watching my back.”

Caleb felt a chill.  It wasn’t his gun she was worried about, but something more devious – a listening device or a hidden camera, perhaps, but her thorough search seemed to reveal nothing, which was a relief to them both.

Finally, she brushed the dust off her hands onto her skimpy dress and sighed.

“Well, that’s some good news.”

“Mind telling me who the hell you are now?” said Caleb, crossing his arms.

The woman smiled coyly.

“Let’s just say we have a mutual friend.”

Caleb’s mouth opened slightly, but he closed it just as fast.

“That’s right. Just shut your mouth and listen: I’m only here because I owe our friend a favor, and that’s it. We don’t have a lot of time, so to make a long story short, you’re going about this completely the wrong way.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, her expression thick with contempt.

“They already know you’re here. They’re probably just waiting for you to make the first move, then they’ll kill you.”

Caleb sat back down at the ragged table, leaning his head on his palm and sighed.

“That it?”

The woman frowned. This obviously wasn’t the response she’d been expecting after delivering the news that he was on a path toward certain death.

“You’re kidding me, right?” she asked incredulously, yanking the other chair out and sitting down, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“This isn’t my first suicide mission, lady,” he said, pouring himself a shot from the bottle of liquor warming on the table.

Her face contorted with what could only be described as an even mixture of anger and contempt. She stared down at him without pity, as if he’d just tried to convince her that the Caldera had just been a hoax, and her black eyes studied him carefully.

“I’ve spent the last week standing on the street dressed like a tom. I’m putting my life at risk meeting you like this. If you don’t pull your shit together, I’m going to kill you myself.”

She reached down the front of her dress and pulled something small out of her cleavage. Caleb raised an eyebrow, trying not to stare. Sighing, she tossed it on the table between them. It was a micro-USB.

Caleb tossed his shot with equal enthusiasm.

“That’s the personal and business schedules of the people you’re here for. It should be good for the next couple of weeks at least. Now you know where they’re going to be and when.” She ran a weary hand through her teased hair, staring down at the magnanimous gift lying on the table between them.

Caleb was frozen, unsure of what to say. With this, he could formulate a real plan. Maybe even accomplish what he’d come to Japan to do. It didn’t need to be said that this information probably hadn’t been easy for their mutual friend to come by, and something warm seemed to rise in Caleb’s chest like a small fire.

Then again, it might have been the whiskey.

The woman stood, smoothing her skirt down.

“I was told not to lecture you, but fuck it. You need it. Consider the fact that you have friends in high places –very high places. It’s not just your own future you’re putting at risk on this idiotic crusade. For whatever stupid reason, our friend is putting a lot at risk for you. It’s a mystery to me, but you somehow made quite an impression. Personally, I have no idea what they see in you, but for fuck’s sake, don’t take it for granted.”

Obviously humbled by her words, Caleb’s eyes still hadn’t left the table. His expression was a void of emotion.

“It’s time for me to get the hell out of this country. Before I go, our friend wanted me to give you one last message,” she said.

Caleb looked up at her, waiting for the message. To his surprise, she didn’t say anything: Instead, she bent over and quickly pushed her lips against his, pulling back before he could respond.

“Ugh. Seriously, what the hell’s so special about you?” she said, looking disgusted as she turned and headed toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. “My advice isn’t cheap, but I guess I’m feeling generous: Whatever you’re here to do, get it over with quickly.”

With that she was gone; just another stranger on the street. Caleb didn’t know how long he sat there at the table, one hand gripping the USB, the other gripping the Desert Eagle, with a hundred thoughts racing through his mind. Finally, he stood, resolute in his decision.

Interlude (Part 1)

Hopefully by now you’ve read The Warning. The sequel, Fates and Curses, is scheduled for an early-July release. In the meantime, I’m excited to introduce Interlude, a four-part mini-series set between the pages of the The Warning and Fates and Curses. I’ll be publishing each part monthly leading up to the release of Fates and Curses. This novella-length story will focus on the various shenanigans of my favorite character, Caleb Callahan. Enjoy!

Interlude (Part 1)

Omri’s face was pale, his mouth a drawn line as he wordlessly pushed the small piece of plastic across the table.

Caleb read the warning on Omri’s face like the pages of a cheap magazine, studying him harder than was necessary. The gunslinger took the information with careful hesitation, the slightly-pained look on the face of one of the most powerful men in the world not lost on him and certainly not unaffecting.

But if some spoken word of caution was caught in Omri’s throat, he cleared it with a slight, practiced cough. The time for caution had come and gone. The war had come to him already like a knife at his throat, and he still bore the scars to prove it.

“There’s some things there. . . we weren’t aware of,” he stated instead, trailing off as         Caleb shoved the USB into his mobile, his dark brown eyes boring holes in the screen as he waited for the information to load.

“Like what?” he asked. It had taken even the president of Xavier Corp. almost two weeks to get this information, and Caleb’s patience was cut like oxygen at 30,000 feet at this point. He couldn’t catch his breath and he needed to know the truth. About everything. He’d spent almost half his life chasing a ghost, and he wasn’t done yet. It was technically the only way he knew how to live anymore.

Again, Omri hesitated, but the truth was imperative to them both at this point.

“You saw the autopsy report . . .” he said trepidatiously, unsure of how to articulate exactly what he wanted to say. It was a novel feeling for him, and even Caleb seemed a bit put-off to find Omri Xavier at a loss for words.

“Yeah. . .?”

And then the file mercifully loaded. Despite his lack of formal education, Caleb was a quick reader, and Omri watched his eyes scan the tiny screen. He studied the bounty hunter’s face, watching it turn from a blank slate to a mask of slight confusion – proof that realization had indeed dawned on him. Next would come denial.

“But this . . .makes no sense.”

Omri took a seat across from him, running a weary hand through his hair.

“It. . . It makes perfect sense. Because you weren’t the first. Maybe she thought she was protecting you from something.”

“You mean… …” His hand rose almost subconsciously to brush his shoulder. Beneath the fabric of his shirt was a scar that was only a few weeks old, but might have been a few years for all anyone could really tell.

Omri nodded, his eyes lingering on the spot where Basil had planted a bullet to save Caleb’s life, and a moment of silence passed between them. At last Caleb spoke:

“You’re right, it makes perfect sense,” he said in a muted, grieved voice, his head slowly sinking into his palms as realization dawned on him with the weight of a bag of bricks. “She wouldn’t tell me, you know. She wouldn’t tell me what changed his mind. She just said we could trust him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Omri, fighting back something more complicated than a misguided apology.

“He wanted to live.”

The words fell like stones.

“You’re alive thanks to him,” said Omri, but this obviously wasn’t what Caleb wanted to hear.

He slammed both his fists down on the table, rattling it down to the legs. Omri jumped slightly, but quickly regained his composure.

“What a worthless sacrifice.”

Now it was Omri’s turn to get angry. He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists as if to steel his nerves, a crimson flush spreading across his cheeks and down his throat across the scars there.

“It wasn’t worthless to me,” he spat. “Do you know what’s going to happen if word of this gets out? Do you know what’s going to happen to Alice? When the world realizes there’s a person alive who can cure cancer with their mind?” Omri paused to compose himself. He smoothed his immaculate jacket out of nervous habit more than necessity, forcing himself to calm, pushing the anger down. “I… I . . .Right now, we’re the only ones who know. You, me, and Basil. We’re the only ones. . .I just . . .”  Again, he seemed to be having trouble articulating his thoughts to the gunslinger. “It wasn’t worthless to me,” were the words he settled on, his voice breaking.

Caleb made no reply as Omri’s words hung between them like embers. Part of him wanted to keep arguing, but he knew Omri was already at his breaking point.

Somehow Omri always said more with the words he didn’t say than the ones he did, and Caleb could read the fear in his voice, in the way his fingers danced between the buttons on his cuffs. Omri was one of the most powerful men in the world, and he was terrified. He was also correct in his prediction.

Caleb sighed. What was done was done. Ghosts were ghosts, and even if Caleb wasn’t ready to give this one up yet, he’d knew he’d have to eventually.

But not today. Unlike the living, the dead were far removed from their troubles. Caleb still had unfinished business. Alice, a fourteen-year-old kid, thought he needed to be protected from the truth: But Omri had obviously felt differently. He seemed to think that between the two of them, Caleb was the stronger – the one who could protect himself.

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