“Sure he does, girl; everyone sleeps. You just gotta find out when.”
“Nah, Boss. He really doesn’t sleep, ever. He says he don’t have to. Says the same thing about eating.” As she explained her earlier conversation with Belamy, the Boss’s face became more and more confused, and he looked to Haman more and more. In turn, Haman’s narrow features became more and more strained and pale. Skate began to feel uncomfortable, understanding that these two were silently coming to a conclusion to which she had no access. She pressed on and finished explaining what the old man had told her.
Boss Marshall’s face was drained of color, save for two bright pink patches on his round cheeks. He wasn’t looking at Skate anymore, but only at his lieutenant. “Haman.”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Do you know of any magic that can do what she’s describing?”
“Yes and no, Boss.” When Boss didn’t say anything else, Haman took that as a cue to expound. “Well, you see, I know of spells that can stave off hunger, and I’ve read of trinkets that can feed your body without your ever having to actually eat anything, but I don’t know of any magic that can eradicate the need to eat entirely. Similarly, I know of spells to help one stay awake, but extended use of such magic leaves one feeling drained and could eventually kill the recipient if used too much.” Haman licked his dry lips and removed his glasses, taking a soft cloth out of his breast pocket and rubbing the lenses. There was a tremor in his hand as he worried at the glass. “Skate,” he said without looking up from his polishing work, “you’ve never seen him sleep or eat?”
She shook her head. “No. Pretty sure he stayed in one spot for an entire night.” The memory of seeing him in exactly the same spot that he had been the previous night flashed through her mind, with a third of a huge book apparently read in one sitting. “I’m sure he didn’t sleep,” she said, with renewed confidence.
Haman’s polishing continued with increased jerkiness, but he said nothing.
“Haman?” Boss Marshall prompted.
Haman jumped as if stung, and looked around dazedly. “Yes. Well. As I said, I know of no spells that could make these things true, but there are…ways to get around the common needs in life.” He gingerly replaced the glasses on the end of his nose. He took a deep breath, and his composure reasserted itself. “If your mark is not alive, he would need none of these things.”
Skate shook her head, not understanding. “What do you mean, ‘not alive’? I just talked to him this morning, and he talked right back. He moves; he reads; he talks; he can do magic. I don’t know a lot, Haman, but I know dead people don’t do any of that stuff.”
“He didn’t say he was dead, Skate.” Boss Marshall had not gained his usual color back, but his deep grating voice was calmer, at least. “He said ‘not alive.’ There’s that in the world what’s neither living nor dead and never was, like stones and water. But there’s else that’s been one and not passed into the other. Eh, Haman?”
“Just so, Boss.” Haman placed his paper gingerly on the edge of Boss’s desk, and Skate could see that sweat had bled onto the page where he’d been holding it. “And based on what we’ve seen and heard, I think our Mr. Belamy may be one of these. There are huge varieties of these half-dead, and some need to eat still, though many don’t. They don’t sleep; they don’t breathe. They don’t pass on from old age.”
This last characteristic echoed in Skate’s ears. I’m a hundred and seven, he’d said, though he was able to do much more than a man so old could be expected to do.
“Could they survive a knife to the ribs?” she asked, already guessing the answer.
“Yes,” Haman said, gingerly pushing his glasses further up his thin nose, “I imagine most of them could.”
The three of them sat in silence. Haman held his chin in one of his hands, deep in thought. Boss Marshall drummed his fingers nervously on his desk. Skate sat looking at the floor. Maybe they’re wrong, she thought. Maybe he’s not a half-dead. Maybe he’s just healthy for his age and uses his magic to get past things he finds inconvenient. It was certainly possible; Haman said he knew of no such magic, but Haman didn’t know everything. He could be wrong. And Boss Marshall relied on Haman for all of his information about magic. Maybe they’re wrong.
Staring at her feet, Skate felt in her heart that they were not wrong. Barrison Belamy was a man who had died but was not dead. The kind old man who liked to spend his days reading was some sort of monster who would not die. He was an unnatural thing. It was the only explanation that made sense of his idiosyncrasies—oddities that not even magic explained properly.
“He doesn’t act like a monster,” was all she finally said, looking at her feet.
“The undying are many and varied,” Haman intoned, settling into a pedantic affectation that helped his composure. “Depending on what he is, he may be able to control his nature for short or even extended periods of time. A vampire—”
“Vampire?!” Skate exclaimed, jerking upright, her fingers gripping the hard seat of her chair. Twitch had told her stories of such monsters, and Skate had consoled herself by deciding they were just stories, imaginary things made up to scare children like her. Haman’s mention of them with regard to Belamy shattered that feeble comfort. “You think he’s a vampire?”
“He may be. Or a haunt. Or a ghost or a lich or a revenant or a ghoul or any of a dozen other horrors sent by the demons to torment the living. My best bet right now would be a vampire or ghost, since he never seems to leave his home. He may be a particularly reclusive and inactive lich, I suppose. It’s all conjecture until you learn more.”
“I gotta go back?” Skate imagined trying to sleep in the bed given to her by her host, imagined sharp fangs glistening in moonlight, Belamy’s face feral and long as his mouth opened entirely too wide. She shuddered.
“Oh yes, Skate,” Boss Marshall said, leaning forward and dropping into a comforting tone, “you must. You owe the Ink, remember? You were supposed to rob that place days ago to meet your quota for the week. That debt is deferred only so long as it takes you to successfully steal something of great value from the fellow. You’ll be out if you fail to pay, and you know what that means—to say nothing of what will happen should you outright refuse.” His rough voice was little more than a growl, his wobbly smile nowhere to be found. “I’ve protected you, Skate. You know that. I’ve made sure you were always among the best among us. But that protection only works if I’m still in charge. I’ve GOT to make money. The Big Boss, he…well, he’s got reasons to be upset with me right now, Skate. If I start reporting a dip in income—which is exactly what I’ll have while you’re not bringing anything in—I’m gonna have to explain that to him.”
The Boss leaned back, his wide eyes moist with tears. “I’m sorry, but you have to.” His soft smile did not reach his eyes this time. “I hope you don’t fail. I don’t want you hurt. But the Ink needs its funds, and anyone not doing their part gets blotted out. We’d take away the mark on you, and you’d be on your own in this city. You’ll go back to the old man. You have to.” He wiped his eyes. “No matter what.”