Body Surfing

to speak, but Ileana struck again, this time driving the blade through the thick cartilage of the esophagus, through the hollow of the jawbone and up into the oralcavity. The pressure of the blade caused Soma’s tongue to stick out of his mouth obscenely, and all he could do was sputter cupfuls of blood and bile. His arms lifted weakly, then fell back. A last breath rattled from his throat, and he was still.
    She leaned in close. “That was for Alec.” Then, in a solemn voice, she said the words he had taught her:
     
    “Death is in my sight today, like the clearing of the sky.
    “Death is in my sight today, like sitting under an awning on a windy day.
    “Death is in my sight today, like the smell of myrrh and the perfume of lotuses.
    “Death is in my sight today, like the well-trodden path by which a man returns home.”
     
    The poem was culled from an Egyptian prayer, older than the pyramids. The hunters’ psalm, Alec called it. Lest they forget the true nature of what they did. Ileana recited the penultimate line:
    “Malachi and Antonio Soma. Though you are dead, your names live on.”
    There was one more line, but that would have to wait until her last hunt. Until the last of the Mogran had been killed.
    Beneath the armor of the chemicals augmenting and guiding her own body, Ileana felt a trace of pride. Her first hunt without Alec had ended in a clean kill. He would have been impressed. He would have also told her not to lose focus. She wasn’t done yet.
    She steeled herself for the last part. She pulled the plug, let the bloody water drain from the tub. Soma’s body was milky white beneath its pink tinge, like an Easter egg dipped in a cup of red dye. She severed penis and testes first, then, holding the torso upright by the hair and allowing the serrated edge of the stone blade to do the work, she removed the head from the neck. She worked slowly, never hacking or sawing. Slicing. Dissecting. This was surgery, not mutilation. Alec had referred to it as insurance. The demons could repair extraordinary damage, but no one had ever heard of them regrowingan organ, let alone a head. She would have preferred to burn the corpse, but there would be no good way of getting it out of the hotel unnoticed.
    As she stood to wash the blood from her hands, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. The cold eyes, the expressionless face. She hadn’t even broken a sweat. This was what her work had done to her, she thought. Was it worth it? She caught a glimpse of the carcass in the tub and had to wonder. Her mother had wanted her to be a nurse. Ileana supposed you could call this a kind of palliative care.
    She wrapped Soma’s head in one towel, his genitals in another, drew the curtain on the tub. He deserved that much privacy, even if the Mogran didn’t. Some blood had seeped into the links of Alec’s watch, she noticed, and she sifted through Soma’s toiletry bag until she found his toothbrush, squeezed a little Crest on the bristles and used it to scrub the watch clean. The carrageenan brought up the shine on the silver.
    Almost unconsciously, she checked her pulse as she worked. It was already down to fifty beats per minute. Forty. Thirty-eight. Even by Legionnaire standards, Alec had told her, she had a heart like an elephant.

8
    U p at the house, Jasper put on a pair of blue jeans and the only long-sleeved T-shirt he could find that didn’t actually stink. On its front was a picture of a man skiing off the side of a mountain. The logo read “Dead Man’s Sportswear: Fit for Your Own Funeral,” which made Jasper think about Q.’s stupid game from the night before—a game that, apparently, he was still playing. Had he really stolen his dad’s $250,000 Porsche? He must genuinely have a death wish.
    He paused at the top of the staircase, listening for any noise from the first floor, then tiptoed down the steps. He was about to slip outside when he heard the familiar clunk behind him in the darkened living room. Glass bottle, wooden table, the quiet sigh of addiction appeased one sip at a time.
    Jasper froze. His eyes rested on the dingy white wall, on which hung a school picture of himself in ninth grade beside a faded photograph of his mother holding an infant Jasper in her arms. Next to them was his dad’s diploma. Greenville High, not Dearborn—not that “fancy-pants academy” his “scholarship boy” attended. The little white rectangle was wrinkled and mottled with beer