Secondhand Souls (Grim Reaper 2)

“I have to, Lily. But I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”

She made an exasperated growling noise.

“Are you okay?” Mike asked. “You sound like you’re choking. Are you crying.”

“No, I’m running.” She was crying. “I’m right above you on the walkway.” She was, kind of, above him, and she was on the walkway, she just wasn’t right above him on the walkway, by about a quarter of a mile.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Mike said. “But really, I’ll be fine. I don’t know, I feel like I’m done here.”

“You’re totally not done. You paint the bridge I’m looking at it. I can see a spot you missed right here. There’s rust.”

“This is what’s supposed to be, Lily. She needs me. They need me.”

She held the phone to her chest until the urge to scream that he was a fucking lunatic passed, then, very calmly she said, “Just come up, Mike. This is a bad idea. There’s fog. You can go back down if your mind is set on it, but for now, please just come up here. Hang out with me for a little bit. I’m waiting.”

“Are you using the ‘promise of sex’ thing on me, Lily?”

“No, that’s not what this is. That’s a different thing completely. This is—­”

“Well, that would be lovely, and under other circumstances, I’d jump at the opportunity.”

“Really?” He did not just say that. Did he really say that?

“I mean, I’m flattered, but Concepción is waiting for me, and she has my heart.”

“Mike, did you just call that ghost your boo?”

“Good-­bye, Lily. Thank you. I have to go, I have another call.”

Her phone beeped as he disconnected. She stopped walking and just looked at it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she screeched.

A father who was walking his two elementary school kids across the bridge took their heads and steered them away from the foulmouthed girl with too much eye makeup. He glared over his shoulder at her.

“Oh, lick my love-­luge, Dockers, I’m trying to save a fucking life here.”

She couldn’t see the screen of her phone through the blur of her tears. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and looked again: nine o’clock.

Hi, Jane,” Mike said into the phone. He stood on a beam under the roadway, facing the city, one arm wrapped around a crossbeam. He’d already slipped out of his safety harness, leaving the lines attached to the bridge. At his feet, the bag of sand. The chant Audrey had taught him was repeating in his mind, over, and over, and over, as constant as the ocean.

“Mike, it’s not a go,” said Jane. “We can’t even see you.”

Mike looked down on the strip of fog that was streaming not more than twenty feet below him. Incredibly dense, but wispy and soft-­looking on top. Looking out, the bay was clear all the way to Berkeley, the fog only coming in from the ocean side, the strip of vapor like the fog bank testing the temperature of the bay before coming through the Gate. He’d seen it before, he’d seen it all.

“It’s clear all around you, though, right?” Mike said.

“Yes, but not above us. It’s not safe.”

Concepción materialized before him, about ten feet away, smiling, her arms out.

Mike laughed. “Good-­bye, Jane. Take care of my body.” Eyes forward, knees a little bent, hands in a fist, he thought. He crouched, put his phone on the beam, then stood and faced Concepción, holding the bag of sand before him.

“Come to me,” she said. “Come to me, my sweet Nikolasha.”

The Sanskrit chant circling in his head, Mike dropped the bag of sand and stepped out into space.

The man in yellow could just hear them saying—­after the Morrigan killed the cop and took the soul vessels from the bookstore, completely wasting them—­he could just hear them saying, “They’re creatures of darkness, it’s not like they’re just going to waltz right in in broad daylight and take the souls.”