Body Surfing

throat.
    “Foras was right,” Ileana said, bending over him and retrieving the stone knife from the floor of the Rover. “You talk too much.”
    “Ungh.”
    Malachi’s body shivered, but Ileana knew the twitching was purely autonomic. She pulled the demon’s head back by the hair, exposing the pale throat. Dumas had been shaving with cold water for the past two weeks, and a rash showed through the thick shadow of stubble. She let the knife trace the stubble as though all she were going to do was razor it off.
    “The blade is Aztecan,” she said, almost gently. “Six hundred years old. And the curare in poor Francois’s palm has been used by South American hunters for thousands of years. But the pressure-activated mechanism in the watch is strictly twenty-first century.” She turned the demon’s head toward her, looked deep into the terrified eyes. “There’s enough alloferine in your system to paralyze a whale. More than even you can neutralize, at least right away.”
    Ileana looked deep into Dumas’s eyes, found Malachi lurking there at the bottom. The few people who had learned to see a Mogran inside its host always described it the same way: a light shining in the eyes like phosphorescent fish swimming around a bowl. Malachi’s light was darting about frantically, as though he were trying to jump out of the water. “You see,” she cooed, “we do know some things about you.”
    Dumas’s hand twitched. It could have been another muscle spasm or it could have been the demon, already regaining control. Ileana didn’t wait to find out. With one motion, she cut a hole the size of an apple out of Dumas’s throat. A torrent of blood spewed onto the seat.
    The Mogran’s eyes grew bright, and his body began to convulse. There was no mistake this time. No escape.
    A moment later the light was extinguished, and only Dumas’s lifeless orbs stared up at hers. Ileana dragged the body from the car. She removed head and genitals, then, as an added precaution, siphoned a couple of liters of gasoline out of the tank and poured it over the corpse. The same lighter that had lit Dumas’s cigarette less than two hours ago now sparked his funeral pyre. As the smell of roasting flesh filled her nostrils, she recited the psalm, trying not to think about the fact that she’d said it a mere half hour ago, over the body of the wrong man. An innocent man. A bystander.
    “Malachi and Francois Dumas. Though you are dead—” Her voice broke, and she took a moment to steady herself. “Though you are dead, your names live on.”
    The scent of burning flesh tickled her nostrils as she waded into the waters of the Nile. The place where the Mogran had put Dumas’s hand tingled as well, as if he had shocked her. She put her own hand there. Let her finger trace the mutilated flesh.
    Alec had watched as she made the cut herself.
    “You are a hunter,” he said.
    “I am a hunter. I will never be prey again.”
    The flesh beneath her hand was bumpy yet waxen, like the droppings of a burned-out candle. She couldn’t feel her own fingertips but she could feel the ghostly prickle of the Mogran’s touch. She scratched, but the itch refused to go away.

12
    I … died …in…the…crash.”
    Jasper had followed Danny up the bank to the stone staircase that led to his house. The short walk had settled him somewhat: in half a dozen steps he’d taken firmer control of Jarhead’s body, fixed his posture, smoothed his gait. For her part, Danny moved like a cat on the prowl, each footfall landing silently in the loamy grass, her ass riding up and down as though she might pounce on a hapless vole or mole at any moment. Jasper couldn’t keep his eyes off it. Who knew death was such an aphrodisiac?
    Oak and ash trees rustled above them; the water that had shown him his new face lapped quietly against the bank.
    “I died,” Jasper repeated, “and now I’m in Jarhead West.” He looked over at Danny. “This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Hell is other people.’”
    Danny’s giggle was anything but girlish. “Hell is a word made up by priests and monks. Did you know it shares a root with cell, the place a prisoner lives—or a monk, for that matter.”
    “In hell,” Jasper shook his head. “Danielle Thatcher is a linguistics instructor.” He wondered how he knew Danny’s full name, then realized it was Jarhead who knew it.
    “Danielle Thatcher, like your friend Mason West, has steppedaway a moment. Or