Even
if he’d had the money, Mercer wouldn’t have taken the kid
across. He didn’t do
kids, not this young—all of eleven years upon the earth. It was a
matter of
principle.
“I
said I can get it. You deaf? I can get your rotten money!”
Mercer
swatted away the runt’s grubby fists. A minor irritation for now.
“Beat
it, kid. Go home to your mama.” He strode to the end of the
alleyway. He never should
have taken this shortcut back to the Plaza Hotel. Always these Leeches
to
contend with here.
“My
Ma? She’s already crossed over. A week ago. The Plague beat
her.”
Mercer
could feel the kid’s eyes on his back. Without meaning to, he
slowed his pace.
“I
can’t live without her.” The kid stood rooted to the
pavement, the tattered remains
of an old wool coat dangling from his shoulders. “We’ve got
some money back at
home. Please Mister, can’t you help me?”
Sure
he could. They were alone, just the two of them; nobody would see. It
could be
over in less than a minute. Get this kid across the border, chalk it up
to his
goodwill toward fleshbags in general, both big and small. Then
he’d return to
his room, toss back a tumbler of the most expensive liquor on the
continent—the
only stuff able to get him through the night in any semblance of sleep.
But
he didn’t make a habit of lending a helping hand without a few
hundreds pressed
into the palm. Good works were only for the priests and their kind, and
he had
a pricey whiskey habit to feed.
“Who
told you I could?” Mercer turned without glancing back.
“You’re
a coyote, yeah?” The kid’s half-shod feet stumbled forward
eagerly but came to
a skidding halt at Mercer’s upraised hand. “A
soul-smuggler?”
Mercer
clenched his jaw. His spirit burned, itching to vacate the premises.
Nobody was
supposed to know who he was—not by appearance, anyway.
Reputation, that was
different: the best way to ensure repeat business. But he didn’t
expect to walk
down a nameless alley and have some little Leech know everything about
him.
“You
know my name?”
“No.”
The kid shrugged. “He didn’t tell me that, just where I
could find you. Told me
what you can do.”
Mercer
nodded. “Who was this?”
“Father
Thomas.”
Mercer’s
spirit seethed. He clenched his fists to maintain a firm hold on his
body. “How
do you know Father Thomas?” One of Saint Peter’s minions,
and Mercer’s fourth-floor
neighbor at the Plaza.
The
kid shuffled forward another step. “He gave my ma last rites.
Took her straight
to Heaven.”
Mercer
sneered at that. “And now you want to join her.”
“Yeah.”
This
kid wanted to die, but he knew better than to go for it himself. He
knew ol’
Peter wouldn’t let him through those pretty Pearly Gates if he
did.
But
he had to go; he knew too much. And maybe Father Thomas would join him
later, the
meddler.
Mercer
beckoned. The kid approached, overcoming his trepidation, advancing
with almost
eager expectation now.
Without
a word, Mercer’s gloved hand seized the boy by the throat and
lifted him up
against the alley wall, pinning him there. He didn’t go easily.
Eyes popping in
surprise, he beat his grimy fists against Mercer’s grip and
thrashed out with
both legs. But all the fuss lasted only an instant.
“This
is what you wanted,” Mercer hissed, his spirit now at peace as he
watched the
kid’s brilliant essence drift outward from the confines of his
scrawny body and
coalesce to hover above, unsure where to go from there.
Mercer
released the fleshbag and it dropped to the pavement like a rubber sack
full of
blood and bones.
“You’re
on your own, kid. I don’t do charity work.” He turned away,
and he almost made
it out of the alley. But before he could step into the sunlight,
something made
him glance back at the kid’s disoriented spirit twitching in all
directions
like a rabid dog chasing its tail.
Mercer
remembered all too well what that had been like—his own first
disembodied
moments in the abysmal Ethereality, lost in the total absence of space
and
time. For him, there had been no heaven or hell to take his eternal
soul; he
was unwanted by both, unwelcome. That suited him just fine.
But
for this boy, it was different. He had somebody waiting for him: his
mother. Maybe
he didn’t need a smuggler to carry him across and show him the
way.
“Call
out her name, kid. She’ll guide you home.”
Mercer
turned away and stepped out into full sunlight, squinting at the
scornful
brilliance of it, leaving behind the dark alley and the boy’s
lifeless body to
stare after with a wide look of astonishment forever frozen on his
begrimed
urchin’s face.
Above,
his spirit no longer trembled in the space between.
END