Yes. Lucian would have been out on that field with the other boys, a few bright points of sweat collecting in his shaggy black hair (shaggy then), the muscles in his legs and thighs tensing like golden puzzle pieces when he kicked the ball. And the simple pleasure afterward, hot and uncomplicated; the kind of happiness that made you run around the room on coiled springs because you were utterly consumed. The small and elegant ecstasies of fresh Cheerios floating in a bowl of milk, Triaminic cough syrup with its brandywine flavor, orange shag carpeting, your best friend's pool. His eyes would have crinkled up when he smiled. If I were a boy, I would have run out to him with cherry Popsicles, and he would have laughed and put his arm around me, easily, just like that. If I were a boy, I would have been just as complicated.

I realized that the dark fire around his body looked like a chemical reagent burning. Luminol on video is one of the most beautiful things I've ever witnessed, sparkling with the blue of a flame's core, like God moving over the face of the waters.

"Please." My voice broke. "God, please, don't let me be like her. Not like Eve. Don't let me be-"

"Where is she?"

I blinked. "What?"

The fire around him seemed to die, but an aura remained. The moth perched on his fingertips became a scrap of carbon paper. Or a flake of calcined material; the thinnest tissue layer of bone, like Donne's "gold to airy thinness beat." Metaphors were crashing around in my head. Why couldn't I think like a scientist? What was wrong with me? What was wrong with him? "Where do you think she is?" he asked. "Your Eve."

Derrick had to study ASL years ago as part of his linguistics training for the Telepath Division-he had to know how to communicate with disabled witnesses, especially in highpressure situations when emotions were clouding their thoughts. I knew that the sign for "dead" was a flipping of the hands, a soft reversal. You start with your hands open, fingers pointing ahead and arms held side by side, and then the right and left hands reverse their positions in a wave-like motion, a smooth slithering from one signifier to another. Dead left.

In the mirror world of the dead, every action is completely reversed. Or maybe it's like the spirit realm in Gilgamesh, with everyone drinking tea from cracked cups, eating stale bread and wandering left, right, left on dark, unvarnished promenades of black oak.

Derrick also taught me "asshole": spinning your index finger around your clenched fist with the nub of your thumb just barely visible, imitating the organ it describes. It really gets your point across.

Lucian's question hung on the air. Eve. Where was Eve?

A wave going from left to right, positive to negative. Like a true photon, she was both waveform and particle, a solid point and a clear white spectrum. She went out-somewhere. And sometimes I imagined her exploding in tiny twinklings of different-colored Christmas lights, like the rainbow blur you'd see if you lay beneath the Christmas tree and squinted hard. The garlands tickling my ears. I imagined her flying apart in streamers, or flaring up in cold eyelets of fire, sun on stained glass, the brilliant surface of my treasured LiteBrite. Oh, those black cardboard frames with their dozens of holes, like sine graphs! They always reminded me of the chocolate side of the Oreo cookie; I wanted to cram them all into my mouth and chew on raw physics. Sweet as a strange quark melting in my mouth.

"All I know," I told him, "is that we went to the same place. I feel dead, too."

Lucian didn't move, but he seemed to be closer now. Somehow everywhere-a necromantic trick of distance. His fingers with their smooth nails (not bitten down, like mine) were almost touching my back. His right leg almost intersected mine. Our ankles formed a strange narration. I thought of Planck's Principle: the law which states that, as distances grow infinitesimally closer and closer, eventually the whole nature of space and time changes at the subatomic level. Our bodies already shared leptons, muons, and other quarks and quantum particles. Certainly, at a molecular level, we were already lovers. So why was I so scared?

"If the universe stopped expanding for even a second," Lucian said without moving his mouth, "the sky would be pure light from blossoming stars. That's what I feel like sometimes. With you. Stabbed by light. I can't bear it."

People didn't talk this way. You didn't hear this in bars. But we weren't people. We were both something different, strange, and slantwise.

I tried to imagine a conventionality: a not-fucked-up moment with Lucian. Necromancer Knows Best. Lucian making a spinach salad for dinner. Those long, slim fingers covered in brimstone, grease, and innocent blood as he chopped up bacon and hardboiled eggs. Little half-moons of yolk would peel from the egg as he guided the knife. Maybe his other hand would be resting on the bottle of dressing. What would he like? Something with ginger, garlic, and cardamom. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was cook for him: sharp yellow curries, laksa swimming in coconut milk, alu gobi with spicy cauliflower and crisp golden papadam resting on the edge of the bowl. I wanted to pour mandarin orange slices into his hands, get drunk with him, rub slow, soft circles on his back while he threw up after drinking too much Santa Clara red.

"Do you-like red wine?" I asked him. It was the stupidest question imaginable. I had become a chalk outline of myself-an empty test tube.

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"What about fireworks?" I pressed on. "I remember watching fireworks with Derrick on Canada Day. You know, The Lord of the Rings begins with fireworks. He's always telling me that. We're both loser types. I don't care. But people forget about that-Tolkien and the fireworks. Whenever someone says it's not a thrilling read, I remind them of the fireworks.

That night, they were burning papyrus spread against the black sky. One looked like a strand of RNA. I thought: If God was going to destroy the world with holy fire, this is what it would look like. Gleaming slippers and cones of white-hot color, vortices of amethyst and bloodstone, and one like a cosmic rain. Maybe that's what microwave background radiation looks like. Lucian, I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, haven't you figured that out yet?"

"Burning papyrus," he said simply. "You've got a funny face."

"What?"

He kissed me. His tongue caved in my mouth. A hot cinnamon shell. I made a noise and leaned into him. His other hand was on my waist. Tentative-almost chaste. I guided it down.

His stomach was sucking in and out, almost palsied. I pressed my fingers against his chest, twining them in the soft, black hair, so mysterious and comforting at the same time, like a kitten's warm back as she slept within the crook of your knee. He wrapped both of his arms around me, and we moved backward. I felt the steel edge of the hospital gurney-or was it Tasha's autopsy table? He lifted me onto the slick, antiseptic surface, and I shivered violently in the matrix between blushing skin and dead, ferric chill.

Can you screw death? Or is it exclusively a top?

I wanted everything about him that was normal, but normal was a fantasy. What would we be like together? At night, after work, once we'd both had a few beers and weren't thinking about the world anymore-How was the crime lab, sweetie? How was the death-dealing, love?-would he consent to my body in gray sweats and an old UBC T-shirt? Could I lay my head against his stomach, fold into him? Would he stroke my hair absently, call me "baby," rub his bare feet against mine in slow, reassuring circles? Or would I comfort him instead, wrapping thin arms around him, rocking him a little, chin propped against his dark hair as I pretended to watch TV with the sound off? I imagined the static settling on our bodies. Snow falling softly on our bloody deeds and hiding them in mile-long drifts.

"Tess."

Lucian was kissing my neck-dragging his tongue along the sensitive skin, burrowing his heat into my clavicle. I opened my eyes, and could see, just barely, the outline of a girl standing behind him.

"Eve?"

"No." She smiled. Her pink dress was charred and hung in rags, fouled and black from soot.

She was bleeding from a thousand cuts. "I'm gone. My name is gone. My life is gone. So that's what you can call me now."

I tried to scream, but Lucian's hand was against my mouth. His palm smelled like wood shavings and adiopocere. Grave wax. I choked and gagged.

"Gone!"

I was tangled up in my down comforter, one foot dangling over the couch, shaking uncontrollably. I didn't remember falling asleep. Derrick must have thrown the quilt over me. We'd been talking, and- "Honey?" Derrick emerged from the kitchen, staring oddly at me. "You can bet I felt that before I heard you cry out. What's wrong? Nightmares?"

I stared at him, and my eyes filled with tears.

"Fucking Christ," I whispered. "She's gone."

He knelt down beside me. "Who's gone? Mia? Tess, we haven't given up on her yet. There's still lots to do-"

"No, not her. Eve."

He blinked. "Who's Eve?"

I started to cry. Fuck, I hated crying. I hated how spastic and childish it made me feel, like I had no control over my own body. Derrick was probably the only person in the world-besides my mother-who I could actually cry in front of.

He didn't say anything. He just wrapped his arms around me. They were skinny arms, but they worked, all the same. I cried stupidly into his chest, holding on to him like I was about to explode into pieces, and he was the only thing keeping me in this world. Sometimes I actually felt that way.

When it was over, he settled me back down on the couch, got me a glass of water, tucked the quilt in around me, and then sat down on the floor.

"Let's hear it," he said simply.

Between gulps, chokes, and ragged indrawn breaths, I told him. Not about Lucian-that was too fucked up, even in dream world. Just about Eve.

"She was my best friend. At thirteen, she was my only friend. One day, I decided to show her a trick-a magic trick-just a bit of ghostlight, but that was enough to freak her out. She ran away, and I ran after her."

Derrick nodded. I was sure that he'd probably done something similar-maybe offered to read a friend's mind or something-with similar results.

"I knocked on her door, but she wouldn't let me in. So I waited for-I don't know, it felt like hours. Then I smelled smoke. I banged on the door again, and this time, I could hear her screaming." I swallowed. "So I used my power to break it down." A mirthless chuckle. "Don't know how the firemen explained that one. I summoned a fire shield, and then I crawled through her house. But I couldn't find her. So I went upstairs. To her room. Upstairs-"

Derrick didn't nod-he didn't even move. He just looked at me, and I could tell that we were deeply in sync. He wasn't reading my mind so much as traveling like a needle across the surface of my thoughts, following them as he listened to me. I could tell from his expression that he saw what I saw, felt it.

"She was in her room. Behind the bed-her arms-they call it the 'pugilistic pose,' when the arms and legs curl up. Like a doll. Like she was just sleeping."

"And you saw everything," he said.

"I couldn't save her, Derrick. And I can't save Mia either. These powers, these things that are after her-they're bigger than all of us, and they've got a million times more resources than we do. How are we supposed to fight them?"

"The same way we always do." He grinned sheepishly. "Luck and irony."

"But what's the point?" I stared at him. "What's the point of all this fucking magic, of all this power, if it doesn't work in the end? Things are supposed to turn out okay! We're supposed to win every once in a while! But it never seems to happen. And I just-don't know what the point is anymore. Of anything. If it can't save her-if I can't save her. What am I supposed to do?"

We stared at each other in silence for a while. I sipped on my water.

"And Mia-she reminds you of this girl?"

I closed my eyes. "They could be sisters."

"Right," was all he said.

Right.

I don't remember what we talked about after that.

25.

I sat in my kitchen with a loaded gun, feeling the cold weight of it in my hand. Selena had finally given me back the Browning Pro .40, and I wasn't going anywhere without it. I'd spent the last hour or so obsessively ejecting the magazine, just to reassure myself that it was actually loaded. You'd be surprised how many people sleep with a gun underneath their pillow, but forget to load it the night before. This one was loaded with Hydra-Shok bullets, hollow point with a tip full of silver nitrate.

I was scared.

We'd traded places, and Derrick was now the one sleeping on my couch. He'd insisted on staying the night, although I wasn't sure how he might actually protect me. Like me, he felt helpless, and he was just trying to assert some kind of routine. I watched him move slightly underneath the spare blanket, then sigh once before returning to deep sleep. Derrick never snored. He slept so deeply and so quietly that I often found myself listening closely, just to be sure that he was still breathing. I was the exact opposite. I snored like a banshee, tossed and turned, slept fitfully, and woke up about a million times a night. Sleeping was one of my least favorite activities. And I never remembered my dreams. Usually. Until this week.

Most days, I still felt like a confused teenager. Like Mia.

That was where all of this had started.

Mia was the one who'd made me start questioning everything. She was the one who made me ask myself: What the hell am I doing? The desire to protect her was so powerful, so surprisingly maternal and unexpected, that it made me doubt everything about my life until now. Maybe I really did want to help people. Maybe I really was a good person, and not such a self-indulgent screwup.

Currently, Mia was sitting in a heavily guarded suite at the Wal Centre, probably watching a plasma screen television and wishing that she was home. Or anywhere else. If only she was here, I could protect her.

I got up and walked to the bedroom, taking the gun with me. The idea of a mage with a gun seemed bizarre to a lot of people. Mages were supposed to be loving pacifists who wore robes and respected the earth. See, those are witches. Magic isn't about charms, illusions, or summoning spirits. It's about materia, shearing forces, gravity, life and death, darkness and light. It's hard work, and you usually die young. Or live wrong-like some alien, twisted oak, consumed by the power that you desire. The magic fucks you and leaves you broke, like a stripped car burning in some parking lot somewhere, circled by curious dogs and night dwellers. Or you just explode.

Up until now, I thought I'd made peace with that fact. But I wasn't really prepared to die. All I could think about was how lonely I felt sometimes, how I hadn't slept with a guy in almost six months, how Derrick and I ate clodhopper ice cream and watched Trading Spaces every Friday night, how my mom laughed sweetly whenever I told her that I enjoyed living alone, how crazy-in-love I'd been with my first boyfriend, when I was only nineteen, back when I still had the capacity to feel perfectly happy.

I shut the door and sat down on the bed. I was bone tired, ready to collapse, but I couldn't sleep. I was terrified of that dark interval between night and morning. I didn't want to lose control, not even for a second. If necessary, I'd stay in this position all night, holding the gun like a teddy bear.

"You look tense."

I resisted the urge to scream. I was up like a shot, my feet spaced apart, my right arm holding the gun extended. The safety was already off, and it was comforting to know that a silver bullet was chambered and ready to fly. Still, I felt naked and defenseless, like a little girl holding a wooden sword. I had only one shot. What if I missed? What if the action jammed, or the firing pin didn't work, or the primer didn't light up, or- "What are you doing here?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm.

Lucian smiled. He was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He looked disconcertingly like Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire.

"Answer me," I said, "or I swear to God I'll put a bullet in your brain. Then you can try to bring yourself back to life."

Why was this man stumbling through my dreams, through the most shaded, intimate parts of my consciousness, with his heavy boots and blue jeans and bullshit teenage smirk? What gave him the right?

Lucian raised his hands in a mock-friendly gesture. "Come on, Tess. Think about it. If I'd come here to harm you-do you honestly think you'd be pointing that gun at me right now?"

I exhaled. "No. Probably not."

"Right. So I'm not here to hurt you."

"You're here to talk."

He nodded.

"You almost killed me in the parking lot."

"You were never in any danger," he said cryptically. His tone was still light.

"Well, let's chat, then." I kept the gun level. "I'm comfortable where I am. If you want a Dr Pepper, there's some in the fridge."

"I'm a lot more conversant when I'm not being threatened by a loaded firearm," he said. "Would you mind putting it down?"

"Yes."

Lucian sighed. "Fine. We'll do it your way. Like I said, I only came here to talk-I wanted to check up on you. I was worried."

I used my left hand to draw my athame. It was reassuringly warm against my palm. Between the two weapons, I might be able to fend him off-or at least leave a mark before he ripped my throat out.

"You snuck into my apartment at 2 a.m. to tell me that you're worried about me? Try again. Why are you here?"

"Actually, it's more like midafternoon to me. I'm a night owl."

"I don't care about your screwed-up biological clock, Lucian! You'd better give me an answer, or else this is going to get really ugly." It was an effort to keep my hands from shaking, but I'd always been a champion bluffer. "I may not be able to take you out, but I can sure as hell cause you a lot of pain before I die. And even necromancers understand pain-right?"

He shook his head. "You're misreading me, Tess. I only came here to talk. But I'll go if you want."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, the 'I'll go' routine is supposed to work on me? What is this, The Hills? Come on. Just tell me what's going on."

"You know, you can be very difficult to talk to sometimes. "

"Yeah. I have emotional problems, too."

Lucian sighed. "I came because-I heard about what happened to the girl. Mia. The one you're trying to protect."

"Oh, you heard that, did you? Like your friends weren't the ones who infected her. Like Sabine didn't hold her down."

"Tess, I swear-I've never even met her. Maybe Sabine knows her, but she guards her secrets, and I can't exactly force them out of her." His expression was surprisingly rueful. "In case you haven't noticed, she could eat me like a hashbrown patty. The only reason she tolerates me is because of our agreement."