Song for the Dead (Ada Palomino 2)

So much pain.

So much darkness.

With only one tiny light burning in the center of it.

And in that kernel of light, I think I see me.

So small, so fragile, flickering.

It’s the only thing that’s good here.

The only thing that carries hope.

And it’s so close to being swallowed by the black.

Max is so close to losing everything to it, this churning, desperate void from which there is no escape.

“STOP!”

Suddenly Max’s scream roars through my ears and, before I know what’s happening, the black is sucked away and I’m back in the room and Max is throwing me down on the bed.

I land on my back, tears streaming down my face, my soul having taken on all of his pain, and he’s on top of me, his giant weight pushing me down, my hands held above my head by the wrists.

I’m pinned down, staring up at him through blurry vision and he’s lowering his face so close to mine and he’s so angry, so angry.

“Stay the fuck out of my head!” he screams at me, and I close my eyes, still crying, still trying to tell him I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know what happened, I didn’t know I could do that, but the words don’t come.

And I’m afraid.

I’m so afraid.

But I’m not afraid of him.

I’m afraid for him.

Of what he might do to himself.

Then he suddenly lets go of me, gets off the bed and heads to the door, slamming it behind him as he leaves the room.

I take a moment, gasping for breath, then roll over on my side, the sobs rolling through me, my body shaking.

What the fuck just happened?

He’s left me ruined.

He’s ruined.

He’s made up of nothing, Ada.

I can barely see, barely move, like the blackness that was inside him is now inside me too, dragging me down, making it feel like I’m moving underwater.

Is this what it feels like to be him?

Behind that easy smile, his good nature, his laissez-faire attitude, is this what he’s been dealing with since he came back from Hell, is this what he’s been hiding?

Shit. When I overheard Dex over the phone telling me he’s dangerous, maybe he wasn’t being a paranoid overprotective big brother. Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

What if Max is a danger to himself?

And contrary to what that demon told me, I won’t be getting out of his way.

I force myself up and then grab my jacket, phone, and the room key, heading out of the room. I head to the elevator and start texting Max, telling him I’m sorry, that he needs to come back. I don’t want him to get too far from me. I know he said he was able to go shopping in Portland and all that without me, but we literally haven’t been physically apart in days.

I storm through the lobby, the texts not going through to Max, then out onto the street. He better not have taken the car anywhere.

“Excuse me,” I say to the valet. “The Super B, did the hulky redhead take it anywhere?”

The valet shakes his head and points down the street. “He walked off down there.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, and he gives me a quick smile, the kind that says he thinks we’re in the middle of a lovers spat. God, I wish it were that simple.

I start off down the hill, walking faster and faster until I pass Polk Street and then hit the 101 slicing through the city. I look left and right, darkness having descended on SF, then decide to go up the street.

I feel like I’m walking forever. The 101 is way too busy—restaurants, bars, hotels, too many people. I’ll never find Max here.

I take a right, heading back up the hill, then as I’m walking past an alley, I get a burst of energy inside me, ebbing and flowing.

This could be him.

He might be near.

I head down the alley, wondering if there’s a cool speakeasy back here, maybe Max is getting himself a drink and I’ll find him and it will be okay.

But the alley is empty.

Dark, save for a flickering streetlight.

And quiet.

So quiet you wouldn’t think the 101 was a block away.

Something’s wrong.

That energy inside me now is flaring, and darkness seems to grow at both ends of the alley, trapping me in the middle, my skin pebbled all over my body.

No. Max isn’t here.

The air at the end of the alley starts to warp and shimmer and burn and a doorway forms, the edges tinged with flames.

Shit.

Three men walk out of the portal.

Two of them look like punks—studded leather jackets, gel-spiked hair, shit-kicker boots and skinny jeans. They snarl at me, their eyes black, skin grey.

But the third one? The third one shuffles through, wearing an oversized yellow sweatshirt and cargo pants. He’s short, he’s a teen, with chin-length shaggy blonde hair that has had a lot of thought put in it. He’s that stoner demon that Max summoned in the backyard. He did warn me he’d be back.