Page 126 of Dead Vengeance

“Slow down, Liam.”

But I don’t. I can’t. It’s like the world’s rushing by at a million miles an hour, and I can’t keep up with any of it. “Then I need to get back here. I need to… Tezcatlipoca…” I search around for him, for any sign of him. Any sign that he was here—that he really did this. “I need his mirror.” The thought slams into me, and I shout for him, “I need your mirror, don’t I? Tezcatlipoca? Is that your name?”

I wait as a thick silence falls over us, dust swirling slowly in the sunbeam cutting through the window. But it never forms into anything. Not Tezcatlipoca. And this time, not Jem. “If I get it…” I call, on another frantic search of the room, and when Tezcatlipoca doesn’t appear, my eyes focus on Archer. I hate the way it sounds like I’m begging when I ask him, “If I get it, will he give Jem back?”

“Oh, Liam… I don’t…” He comes to me, and this time I let him take me, pull my head to his chest, soak his shirt through with the tears that keep coming. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this. I can’t answer your questions.”

It’s not what I wanted to hear. Or what I needed. But either way, I know deep down I have one chance at this. “I have to get that mirror.”

This time his grip is strong, immovable when he grabs my arms and looks into my eyes. “Let me do this with you.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know where to start. It’s so much…”

“I know. We’re going to figure this out. We’ll do all of it, one step at a time.” His voice is so calm. Warm. Grounding.

Of course it is. This is Archer. This is what he does. His whole business, his whole life, is built on exactly this. Dealing with harrowing messages from the dead.

For the first time in so long, I feel like I’m not alone. Like I have someone I can turn to. Someone I can hand just a bit of this weight to, without worrying he’ll crumble beneath it.

“We’re going downstairs,” he says, his voice like a balm. “We’re going to sit down, and we’re going to make a plan.”

“But I need to—”

“Liam, it’s been five years.” The words are hard to hear, but they’re true. Too true. It’s been so, so long. “Nothing’s going to change in the next few minutes, all right? We need to get our heads straight. This has been a lot.”

The understatement of the century.

But I know he’s right.

I let him take my hands and lead me out. Down the rickety stairs. Down the hall, where I watch every shadow carefully, hoping this time that I will see something supernatural. But I don’t, and we keep on. Down and down into the living room. Into Archer’s kitchen, where he flicks the kettle on, and where it feels so ridiculous to be here, in this cosy, casual space. To know there’s a gateway to a whole other world up there. A place that opens and closes on the whim of some god. Where it was trying to tell me something—showing me what those bastards did to my brother. And the way the cops swept the whole thing under the rug.

My hand moves automatically, reaching into my pocket, plucking out my phone. I type in the name I need. Detective Peter Marsden. My finger touches the link, and there he is—some awkward photograph of a man you’d never even notice on the street. The same man I saw upstairs in that vision. The same man I met when my mother dragged me into the station because they weren’t giving her any answers. The same man she cried in front of, held his hand, and begged him to please bring her baby home.

He watched her cry, pour her heart out, and he knew her child was dead. Gone. And he promised he’d help her. He looked her in the eye, and he promised her, and he knew.

I click on the number, press the phone to my ear and wait. And wait. So many rings while Archer’s movements stay busy, his eyes focused on what he’s doing. I can tell he’s thinking hard between grabbing mugs, measuring tea leaves, looking through his pantry, sighing before pulling out store-made biscuits. I bet he’d bake them fresh right now if I weren’t so upset.

And that makes me feel even worse, somehow.

A sharp voice shoots across the line. “Metropolitan Police.”

“I need to speak to Detective Peter Marsden. It’s about… about an open case.”

Sounding bored, as if death and horror are an everyday occurrence for her, and I guess they are, the operator says, “Who can I tell him is calling?”

“Liam Locke. About my brother. Jem Locke. He’s missing.”

“Please hold.”

Terrible music comes on, slow and plodding and electronic, and I feel like throwing my phone. Terrible music droning endlessly, and every single person who calls after something awful has happened stands there and listens to this. Wondering where people they care about have disappeared to. Wondering what’s happening on the other end of the line. Believing these people they’ve turned to for help are looking. Believing they care.

Eventually, she comes back. “I’m afraid he can’t take your call right now. But if you’d like to—”

“Why can’t he take my call?” She cuts off, and even I’m surprised by how harsh my voice sounds. “Why not? Is he there? What’s he doing that’s so important?”

“I’m afraid I can’t—”

“My brother’s missing,” I snap at her. “He’s been missing for five years. And Marsden’s supposed to be finding him. And I haven’t had a word from him, and he isn’t helping us at all, and I want to know why that is.”