Spectral Evidence

—bringing up the second of a matched pair, trigger already thumbed, blade halfway from its socket. Tucking it beneath her jaw, point tapping at her jugular, and saying, as she did—

“Never claimed to be, but I do know this much: Sam Raimi got it wrong. You guys don’t like wearing nothin’ dead.”

And: That’s your plan? Goss wanted to yell, right in the face of her martyr-stupid, fuck all y’all snarl. Except that that was when the thing inside ‘Lij (Yphemaal, its name is Yphemaal) turned him, bodily—two great twitches, a child “walking” a doll. Its purple eyes fell on Camberwell in mid-move, and narrowed; Goss heard something rush up and out in every direction, rustle-ruffling as it went: some massive and indistinct pair of wings, mostly elsewhere, only a few pinions intruding to lash the blade from Camberwell’s throat before the cut could complete itself, leaving a shallow red trail in its wake...

(Another “hunting” trophy, Goss guessed, eventually. Not that she’d probably notice.)

“No,” ‘Lij-Yphemaal told the room at large, all its hovering sibling-selves, in a voice colder than orbit-bound satellite-skin. “Enough.”

“We are Seven,” Eshphoriel Maskim replied, with Goss’s flayed mouth. “The huntress has the right of it: remove one vessel, break the quorum, before we reassemble. If she wants to sacrifice herself, who are we to interfere?”

“Who were we to, ever, every time we have? But there is another way.”

The sigils flowed each to each, Goss recalled having noticed at this freakshow’s outset, albeit only subconsciously—one basic design exponentially added upon, a fresh new (literal) twist summoning Two out of one, Three out of Two, Four out of Three, etcetera. Which left Immoel and Yphemaal separated by both a pair of places and a triad of contortionate squiggle-slashes; far more work to imitate

than ‘Lij could possibly do under pressure with his semi-blunt knife, his wholly inadequate human hands and brain...

But Yphemaal wasn’t ‘Lij. Hell, this very second, ‘Lij wasn’t even ‘Lij.

The Mender-angel was at least merciful enough to let him scream as it remade its sigil into Immoel’s with three quick cuts, then slipped forth, blowing away up through the well’s centre-spoke like a backwards lightning rod. Two niches on, Katz lit back to earth with a cartilaginous creak, while Lao let go just in time to avoid tearing her own corneas; Hynde’s head whipped up, face gone trauma-slack but finally recognizable, abruptly vacated. And Immoel Maskim spurted forth from Camberwell in a gross black cloud from mouth, nose, the corner of the eyes, its passage dimming her yellow-green eye back to brown, then buzzed angrily back and forth between two equally useless prospective vessels until seeming to give up in disgust.

Seemed even angels couldn’t be in two places at once. Who knew?

Not inside time and space, no. And unfortunately—

That’s where we live, Goss realized.

Yes.

Goss saw the bulk of the Immoel-stuff blend into the well room’s wall, sucked away like blotted ink. Then fell to his knees, as though prompted, only to see the well collapse in upon its own shaft, ruined forever—its final cosmic strut removed, solved away like some video game’s culminative challenge.

Beneath, the ground shook like jelly. Above, a thunderclap whoosh sucked all the dust away, darkness boiling up, peeling itself away like an onion ‘til only the sun remained, pale and high and bright. And straight through the hole in the “roof” dropped all that was left of Journee-turned-Zemyel—face-down, from a twenty-plus-foot height, horrible thunk of impact driving her features right back into her skull, leaving nothing behind but a smashed-flat, raw meat mask.

Goss watched those wing-lungs of hers deflate, thinking: she couldn’t’ve survived. And felt Eshphoriel, still lingering clawed to his brain’s pathways even in the face of utter defeat, interiorly agree that: it does seem unlikely. But then, my sister loves to leave no toy unbroken, if only to spit in your—and our—Maker’s absent eye.

Uh huh, Goss thought back, suddenly far too tired for fear, or even sorrow. So maybe it’s time to get the fuck out too, huh, while the going’s good? “Minish” yourself, like the old chant goes...

Perhaps, yes. For now.

He looked to Camberwell, who stood there shaking slightly, caught off-guard for once—amazed to be alive, it was fairly obvious, part-cut throat and all. Asking ‘Lij, as she dabbed at the blood: “What did you do, dude?”

To which ‘Lij only shook his head, equally freaked. “I...yeah, dunno, really. I don’t—even think that was me.”

“No, ‘course not: Yphemaal, right? Who sews crooked seams straight...” She shook her head, cracked her neck back and forth. “Only one of ‘em still building stuff, these days, instead of tearing down or undermining, so maybe it’s the only one of ‘em who really doesn’t want to go back, ‘cause it knows what’ll happen next.”

“Maaaaybe,” ‘Lij said, dubious—then grabbed his wound, like something’d just reminded him it was there. “Oh, shit, that hurts!”

“You’ll be fine, ya big baby—magic shit heals fast, like you wouldn’t believe. Makes for a great conversation piece, too.”

“Okay, sure. Hey...I saved your life.”

Camberwell snorted. “Yeah, well—I would’ve saved yours, you hadn’t beat me to it. Which makes us even.”

‘Lij opened his mouth at that, perhaps to object, but was interrupted by Hynde, his voice creaky with disuse. Demanding of Goss directly—

“Hey, Arthur, what...the hell happened here? Last thing I remember was doing pick-ups outside, and then—” His eyes fell on Journee, widening. “—then I, oh Christ, is that—who is that?”

Goss sighed, equally hoarse. “Long story.”