Page 67 of Violent Possession
An unwelcome image flashes in my mind: Alexei’s slim silver cigarette case, the smell of the expensive tobacco he smokes.
What the hell, I think, but I still point to any dark pack of shit.
“That one.”
The sleepy attendant moves to get my order. I look at more desperate messages from Marcus. An idiot telling me ways to die and torture methods used by the Malakovs. I leave him talking to himself.
I look at the convex security mirror on the ceiling. It reflects the front door and the back of the sedan waiting for me. It’s silent. At this time of night, it seems like only I am in the neighborhood and a few heads in nearby establishments.
But something’s wrong.
By the back door, there’s a silhouette. Tall, thin.
I look for it outside the mirror.
The hair is too light under the fluorescent light, white. Confident posture, one hand in his pocket, leaning against a shelf.
No.
I rub my eyes.
It’s my head projecting shit that doesn’t exist. The stress, the drinking, the lack of sleep.
The figure doesn’t disappear. It turns slowly, it feels my gaze. The face is in shadow, but I see it. The fine features.The clear eyes. There is no surprise in his gaze. There is only…recognition.
He turns. Disappears through the back of the store.
Wait.
I force the scream back in.
It’s a hallucination. I’m just seeing ghosts.
“That’ll be five-fifty,” the attendant says.
I throw a random bill on the counter.
“Sir?”
I grab the cigarettes. I shove them into my pocket any which way. I leave the attendant calling after me with change for a too-high bill.
I’m going crazy.
I walk to the back door in a hurry.Don’t vanish,a part of me wishes.Don’t vanish again.I try to be fast enough to catch the damn ghost hallucination.
I pull the door open forcefully. It’s an alley. I look around. A dumpster. Trash bags, stomped-out cigarettes, a flickering light.
I take a step. The flimsy door closes slowly behind me. I feel the gaze.Hisicy gaze. The feeling that has haunted me for all these years, the feeling that, no matter how hard I try, won’t leave my fucking head.
“Myrddin.”
The voice.
I turn towards it.That fucking voice.
And there he is. The ghost. Theangel, leaning against the wall.Dissectingme with his eyes, calmly, withprovidence.
I touch the pendant of my necklace.Saint Michael. A passage.On that day Michael, the great commander, will prevail, always standing by your people.The memory of that same voice reciting biblical verses. That same voice blessing a gift—a Saint Michael necklace—to the heretic who never even believed in a god.
