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He looked at Sullivan, frowning.
"No, not her. The Nix. You said she crosses back all the time. And does what?"
He shrugged. "We don't know."
"Well, shouldn't you? 'Cause she sure as hell ain't sunning herself in the Bahamas, enjoying a well-earned vacation. She's doing something."
"It doesn't matter. She can't kill anyone--"
"Yeah, yeah. Heard that part. Listen, you want to twiddle your thumbs, waiting for her to reappear, you do that. You said she was in my ghost-world dimension, right?"
He nodded. "Having died in a witch's form, she's considered a supernatural shade, so--"
"Good. Then I'll go look for her. If I need you, I'll call."
His mouth set in a hard line. Before he could pry those lips open to argue, I left to find a partner more to my liking.
Cleveland / 1938
AGNES MILLER WAS A ZEALOT. SHE WAS ALSO MAD. THE latter, the Nix reflected, often seemed a prerequisite for the former. Or perhaps it was simply an unavoidable result of the former.
Waxing philosophical. Not something the Nix was accustomed to. She blamed it on good eating. When the belly is full, and there's no need to worry about where your next meal is coming from, the mind can turn to the indulgence of philosophizing.
"I need you," Agnes said.
The Nix roused herself from her thoughts and peered out through Agnes's eyes. They stood behind a crumbling wall, looking down at a man sleeping at its foot, a ragged blanket pulled up under his chin.
"Good choice," the Nix said.
Agnes didn't acknowledge her. In Agnes's eyes, the Nix was a tool, not a partner--the only flaw in an otherwise perfect relationship. As flaws went, though, it was a large one, and becoming more frustrating--
"I'm ready," Agnes said.
She stood over the sleeping vagrant, cleaver raised like a guillotine. Not a bad way to go, really. The Nix knew that firsthand, which is why she'd tried to cajole Agnes from the start to change her method, but--
"I'm ready," Agnes repeated.
"Yes, yes."
The Nix concentrated on pouring her demonic strength into Agnes's arms. That was all the woman required from her. When it came to resolve, she was already overflowing with it.
The blade swung down, and the vagrant's head rolled to the side, eyes still closed. Hadn't even woken up. What was the fun in that? But that was one reason Agnes insisted on beheading--it was quick and merciful.
Agnes set about working on the body.
"This time they will pay attention," Agnes whispered aloud.
"As I've said before, if you want them to pay attention, you have to kill more than petty criminals and vagrants, Agnes. Now, if you took a nice girl from a wealthy family...maybe the daughter of the mayor or the head of--"
"That is not the point," Agnes snarled. "The point is this..."
Her hand swept across the festering wound that was the landscape surrounding the Cuyahoga River. Blast furnaces and mills squatted like ogres, belching black smoke. The stink of sulfur was so strong the Nix knew she'd be smelling it on Agnes for days, long after she'd returned to her little house and scrubbed the filth of Kingsbury Run from her skin.
"It's a disgrace," Agnes said, as she gestured toward the rusted shacks of Hobotown. "A national disgrace. They come here from everywhere, lured by the promise of work. They leave their homes, their families, because they want a job, to work hard, make a living, and contribute to society. And how does society treat them? Tells them there are no jobs. Grinds their self-worth into the dust. And then, when they're too humiliated by failure to return home, it gives them this--this hell to live in."
The Nix started to respond, but Agnes was on a roll, her audience forgotten.
"They leave them here, in conditions not fit for dogs, in the very shadow of that." She pointed to a skyscraper that rose above the squalor, sparkling in the moonlight. "The Terminal Tower. One of the tallest buildings in the world. Such an accomplishment." Her lip curled. "A monument indeed--to the greed of America, lording it over these poor souls, forever taunting them with what they will never have."
