Striker sat on his bed a drunk, naked mess. He’d spent a long time in the shower, scrubbing every inch of his body on the chance there was a fleck of blood on him that would be discovered. A large portion of that time was spent trying to scrub off that strange black mark on the back of his hand that came with the abrupt shift in the normality of his life.

  He didn’t expect things, strange as they were, to go this far. He knew, from Case’s fight with the two strange women who stalked him since New Year’s eve, that violence was a possibility. Now, however, he was present to the end of two lives. He worried that he doubted their humanity. Ada’s hand became a gnarled claw that splattered his face with the gore of what used to be a human hand. Elsie attacked him like an animal, with a knife buried in her skull.

  He heard three heavy thumps at his front door. He held his breath as he peered down the hall from his bedroom doorway. All of his lights were on. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t home.

  Nonetheless, he remained still and silent. Three more raps.

  He looked back at Zoey’s short bookcase in the corner, with the empty gun magazine upon it.

  He didn’t have a gun or bullets. Nor did he know why Zoey would have a—

  Three more.

  “Striker! Devin?” yelled the voice on the other side. It was feminine and muffled through the door. He couldn’t make out who it was, aside from ‘not Case’.

  He approached the front door with metered steps and peered through the peephole. It was the woman who intervened when Ada and Elsie nearly killed him. The one who phased through the wall of a warehouse. The one who killed both his stalkers in the dark.

  He dug for clothes through the mess that was his closet as she continued knocking, and finally opened the door when he was dressed. Her face was clean, unlike when she’d left him earlier that night, just after burying it in blood-soaked hands. She changed in the interim, with another simple jeans-and-tee-shirt outfit, nearly identical to what she had worn at the club on New Year’s Eve. She slipped in the door the moment he opened it wide enough.

  “You should lock your phone,” she said, tossing it to him along with his wallet. He fumbled both, and they landed on the floor. He swayed precariously as he bent over to pick up his phone. It was charged and clean. Even of some of the ground-in dirt he hadn’t bothered to attend to was gone. “Get rid of your shoes, too.”

  He turned his head toward her slowly, squinting as his blurred vision made it difficult to tell where she was standing. “What?”

  “You stepped in blood. It’s on your shoes.”

  “Shit,” he slurred as he stumbled back onto his couch. “Are you Case’s friend? How do you know my name?”

  “Are you dense? You left your phone, unlocked, and your address was in it under, ‘Me’. And your friends say your name in your texts. And your ID is in your wallet. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  He shrugged. “Well, it’s good, right? They can’t come after me if they’re dead.”

  “Eres denso, the cops, dumbass. They’re probably going to find the bodies soon. People at the party next door were getting curious when I left. And keep your voice down about that shit.”

  Striker was already familiar with SFPD. He was especially familiar with the interrogation rooms. His stomach unsettled as he thought of the cops showing up at his doorstep. He didn’t have to be a genius to know he was still their person of interest in regards to Zoey. The contents of his stomach threatened to rise, as he sweat over the various ways he could be connected to the scene.

  She sighed and traced a shape in the air with her finger. Behind it trailed a light that warped and stretched. Striker stared, dumbfounded. When she was finished, she snapped her fingers and the shape disappeared.

  Striker hiccoughed, the taste of bile in his throat began to overwhelm him.

  She held out her hand.

  “Are we going to the Kitchen?” he slurred, trying to rise in several false-starts, before she grabbed his hand impatiently.

  The shock was instant. The difference between hopelessly drunk and sober felt like he’d woken up from a dream. The closest sensation was New Year’s Eve, when he passed out rolling and woke up sober, barely five minutes later. The taste of whiskey and bile was still present in his throat, but the room and his stomach had settled into stillness.

  “What the fuck just happened?” he asked.

  “I’ve been trying to explain that, but you— Nevermind. You know what? Let me see your hand.”

  “Which one?”

  “You know which one.”

  He held out his left hand with the back upturned. She took off her gloves and held her left hand next to his. On top of both were what that looked like tattoos. Hers was intricately detailed. Mature.

  “This looks fresh,” she said, looking closer at his hand.

  “What does that mean?”

  She shrugged. “It gets more… I don’t know, fine? There’ll be more to it.”

  “That helps,” snarked Striker.

  She shot him a hard glance. “Yours looks like mine did about a week after I got it.”

  “What even is it?”

  She stared at her hand for a moment and shook her head. “Something powerful.” She paused, correcting herself, “Something that makes me powerful. More than I would be. I don’t know if there’s really a better way to explain it. At least from me. Can I sit?”

  Striker paused for a moment, realizing in his newfound sobriety that the strange woman in his living room had let herself in. “Uh… What’s your name?”

  “Cecilia,” she said, in a huff of frustration. A moment of silence passed between them. “You don’t trust me enough to sit on your couch?”

  “No— I mean, yeah— go ahead,” he said, sliding over to make space.

  She sat down and laid her head on the backrest with a sigh, same as he had when he got home.

  “Uhh,” he stammered, “Do you want water or anything?”

  “Yes, please,” she said as she sat up.

  Striker stood with a nod and rounded the corner to the kitchen. His vision wasn’t blurry from intoxication anymore, but fatigue still forced him to squint at the oven clock, reading nearly four-thirty. “You met my friend, Case, I think,” he started, as he pulled a glass from the cupboard above the sink and began to fill it, “I’m just gonna— have you been following me, too?”

  “No. I was following the ones that were after you.”

  “Ada and Elsie?”

  “Those aren’t their names.”

  “I know that,” he grumbled. “Why did you take me aside in the club?” He came back around the corner with water for her and himself, placing one on the table in front of her.

  She stared at the water on the table for a moment, speaking as she picked it up, “I thought you’d know about why they’re after you. I heard something about a book?”

  Striker gulped his water. “They probably thought I had an art book or something that was worth a lot. They were really into my art. Or, ‘Ada’ said that at least.”

  “Yeah, that was probably a lie, too.”

  Striker pursed his lips. The back of his hand caught his attention again. “I guess magic and whatever is… real, then?”

  “And whatever,” she repeated, then fell silent. “The ‘whatever’ almost killed you. They almost got me too— different ones, but I know they’re the same type of thing, now.”

  “Now? I thought you knew what they were? Or you had experience with them, or something?”

  “I do have experience with them,” she said, “There’s a piece of shit landlord that’s been buying up most of the Mission for the last few years. He uses those things to make people disappear when they don’t want to sell their houses. Or move.”

  “How do you know they’re monsters and not like, I don’t know, thugs or something? Like mob stuff?”

  “It’s like it,” she started, “…He wanted my parent’s house in the Mission and tried a whole bunch of stuff to get them to sign it over for…” she paused, “A good amount of money. But they didn’t want to go for it, so he tried dirty legal shit. My dad kept everything that had to do with the house and property, so they gave up after something like half a year.”

  “How do you know it had anything to do with the landlord?”

  “Can you stop interrupting?”

  Striker looked at the floor.

  “My dad wanted to do some renovations on the house— We had some break-ins and he wanted to get our gate fixed and some other security stuff. Two of the landlord’s monsters showed up, pretending to be handymen. They wanted my dad to sign a contract for the work, but he reads everything, all the way through. Something in the contract said that he’d give up the entire property if the costs weren’t paid on time, on some really weird schedule. I don’t know what it was, I just remember them arguing over it before,” She paused. “I heard my mom yelling and then scream, so I came out of my room. She was on the floor and I ran to her, but one of those things grabbed me. I kept kicking it and and it swung me into a doorway. Well,” she sighed, “my legs into a doorway. Both of my knees broke. I guess my mom saw it because she ran toward me and the other one grabbed her. Then its head just… exploded.

  My dad got his forty-five, and just… bam. The motherfucker laughed. It laughed with half its face splattered on my wall. It let go of my mom and jumped across the room at my dad and stopped. Completely frozen. Just, stuck there. It started trying to move— you know, like swim through the air or something, but it was just stuck in that one spot. It felt forever, but it probably wasn’t really that long. We were scared. But Rosalina told us it was okay. We didn’t notice her come in or anything, she was just… there all of sudden. She twisted her hands and the monsters flew into walls, the floor, each other.

  One of them got free and jumped at my mom. My dad shot it too, but that just made it mad. Rosalina got control of both them again and,” she looked at Striker, his face bewildered, “It was over. She fixed my legs and checked on us for a while after that. She noticed I had this thing on my hand that I was just trying to pretend didn’t exist. I thought it was why they came, for a while. That’s when she started teaching me.”

  Striker sat for a moment, and crossed his arms. “I still don’t get what that has to do with this situation? I don’t know who Rosalina is or—”

  “Whatever we do isn’t brujeria, but She was a bruja. A real bruja, and I am too. Everybody with this tattoo, or whatever you want to call it, is.”

  “Wait… I don’t think I can just be that, right? Like isn’t that—”

  She sighed, “I mean you’re a… I don’t know, what’s the word? War something?”

  “Warlock?” Striker filled in, laughing after the thought registered.

  “Why is it so funny? Do you even realize what’s going on around you? Those things don’t just come for you one time.”

  He sat up now, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. “They’re dead. I saw you kill them. You said the cops were going to find their bodies.”

  Cecilia tipped her glass upward and downed the water within, handing it to Striker. She spoke as he rounded the corner into the kitchen to refill it. “The monsters don’t work like that. They take over people. Like parasites. The ones that came for me and my family never stopped. They won, I guess,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My house was the last on the block that didn’t belong to Borchart. Rosalina was really invested in it too. She became like my sister and spent a lot of time there with me, teaching me stuff, helping keep the monsters away. They knew they were fucked if they walked in the door when Rosalina was there, so she never left.”

  “Why didn’t you just give up? I mean— no offense— but was it worth the danger just to stay?”

  “There’s been a lot of shady shit happening since the earthquake—”

  “—2006?”

  “—Yes, you keep interrupting. Stop.”

  Striker pursed his lips.

  “Since all the money’s been coming into the city, there’s been a lot more development from people we don’t really know anything about. Like, way too little. There was a community in my neighborhood. A strong Latino community that’s almost gone after less than ten years. Everybody was priced out or… you know. The cops didn’t do shit. They didn’t want to do shit, why would they? We couldn’t give up. Not until it was just me trying to protect the house.”

  “What about Rosalina?”

  Her expression shifted as her eyes dropped to the floor. “We were going to deal with them together. She was working on a way to stop them for good, but she needed my help. It was my first time choosing to put myself in danger, you know? I hesitated when I shouldn’t have.” She shook her head as if to scatter the thought. “But I’m stronger now. I’ve been learning everything I can to make things right. I know what they can do and how to protect my family.”

  Striker nodded, unsure of what to say. “So, are they human or what? You keep using words like monsters and parasites, are they like body snatchers or something?”

  She stared into his eyes, but said nothing.

  “Should I feel bad about what just happened? With Ada and Elsie?”

  “Those aren’t their names. You should feel bad for the women whose bodies they stole. You should be mad about that.”

  “Is that why you,” Striker paused, “Ummm… Aren’t they people, then? Did you just—”

  “Killing those things,” she paused. “Yeah. It’s hard. You don’t even kill the monster, just the person. But, they don’t stop otherwise. They don’t give up or back out.” She sniffed hard and wiped a tear from her eye as it began to fall. “I don’t know how to make them… better? I don’t know how to get rid of the monsters from the people.”

  A silence settled between them.

  She sighed, and wiped another tear from her other eye, swearing under her breath. “You should know how to use the power you have. Let’s say you help me with something, and I’ll try to teach you. Nothing dangerous. Just putting up some banners.”

  “That’s it? I just help you put up some banners and you teach me magic?”

  “I try,” she corrected, “It’s not that easy. It’s… Like riding a bike.”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “I can’t ride a bike, but you’ve seen what I can do.”

  Striker holed up in his apartment for the next couple of days. He stayed in his room and didn’t answer the door, even when he heard Case on the other side, either at the front or the sliding door to his balcony. He kept his blinds drawn and remained quiet.

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  Much of the time was spent with the journal, trying to make sense of those pages with shifting sigils and doodles. Trying to copy them by hand still produced consistently different results, and photos— clear as they were— were also distinctly different than what was on the page when he compared them.

  While what was on the strangest pages seemed to change, their order seemed to remain static. He bookmarked the page with the sigil that caused everything around him to move when he put his palm on it. That effect came at the expense of time and consciousness. He usually woke up several hours after flattening his palm against the page.

  He was careful not to touch the sigils on other pages, for fear of causing something more intense or dangerous without comprehension of how to stop it. As a result of a bookmark mishap, he palmed the page behind the ‘Pusher’, as he dubbed it. Its effect seemed to be forming things into shapes: the first and simplest that came to his mind, formed of whatever junk or random objects happened to be nearby. They fell apart when he took his hand off of the page. Touching it fatigued him quickly, but unlike with the Pusher, he retained consciousness.

  He left home for the Mission after Case left for work. He didn’t want to chance running into her in the hall. He’d have to explain to her why he ghosted her at the party and avoided her since. He didn’t want to let her know how hard the shit hit the fan. Not yet. It would probably sound like fantasy anyways. That, or a psychotic break.

  The community center was a two-story building, once an office, taken over by the city. People made their homes on the sidewalk outside, selling wares they’d acquired in the daytime, passing the hours securing their next meals, socializing among each other, or whatever their current situation allowed. Striker gave out a few dollars and the majority of his cigarettes by the time he reached the front door.

  Cecilia took a while to answer. They were alone in the building, and would be for the afternoon. The interior felt like one much deeper in a larger building with its lack of windows on the bottom floor and the deep tint on those near the ceiling. The second floor overlooked the first. The lights in the high ceiling were recessed, but most were off and the deep tinted windows stifled the sun. It gave the space a feeling of perpetual dusk. There were cloth rolls strewn about the ground floor, one of which Cecilia unrolled. It was an accolade banner for Mission High School, as were the rest.

  “We need to put these up there,” she said, pointing to the ceiling. “They said we could mount ‘em with hooks if we could figure out how to get up there.”

  Striker looked around the room but saw no ladders or anything that might help them reach the ceiling, that had to be at least twenty feet above them. “How do we do that?”

  She held up the back of her hand. “We share. Like we did in the warehouse.”

  Striker furrowed his brow, but resisted the urge to ask what she meant.

  “You’re sober, right?”

  Striker nodded. She traced a shape in the air. His hand itched as the light behind her finger left a trail. She snapped her finger like she did before, and the shape coalesced into a dense ball of light, floating over her outstretched palm. “Take it,” she said.

  He stared at it, inspecting it from all sides, jaw agape. “How do I even do that?”

  “Put your hand under mine.”

  Striker did as he was told. She let her hand fall to her side. The orb remained static. The itching sensation intensified. The orb remained in the air over Striker’s open palm, and he slowly brought it to his face. It was bright, but not like staring into a light bulb— there was no visual aberration, nor was it uncomfortable to stare at.

  It was inviting, almost calling out to him.

  The feeling in his hand, as he became used to it, was also familiar. He couldn’t place how.

  “Close your hands over it,” said Cecilia. “It’ll feel weird, just try to ignore it.”

  “Okay,” he murmured, bringing his right hand above his left to enclose the orb. There was a resistance in the middle, like his palms were magnets of the same polarity, repulsing each other. He had to change his posture to get leverage on it. He felt his hands pass an invisible threshold before clapping together.

  There was a flash of light, not unlike what he’d seen just before Cecilia stepped through the wall at the warehouse party. That time it was blinding, even if just briefly. Now, whether he was prepared, or it was just the excess light of the day, there was no such discomfort.

  “Good.” She nodded toward a banner on the floor. “Move that red one.”

  Striker took a step toward it.

  “Stop,” she said, “Do it from where you are.”

  He turned his head and scoffed, “Really?”

  “What are you here for?”

  He cycled through responses in his head, but shook his head incredulously. “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can,” she said. “I just gave you what you need.”

  “I don’t even know what just happened.”

  “Look at the back of your hand.”

  He brought his left hand up and realized his mark was glowing.

  “It’s there,” she said. “Relax. Look at the banner. Then, pull it.”

  Striker resisted rolling his eyes, but rolled his shoulders back and breathed in deeply. Then, out. He looked at the banner in the next breath, beckoning it toward him in his mind’s eye, imagining it sliding his direction as though carried by an unseen wind.

  It remained still on the floor. He looked at Cecilia, who in turn cocked an eyebrow and nodded back to the banner. He shrugged and turned his attention back to it as well, staring at it another minute before Cecilia chimed in again.

  “I think there’s one more thing,” she said. “You need to make it real.”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “You,” she paused for a moment, and continued in a metered cadence, as though remembering something word for word, “need to mark your intention with an action that has real meaning for you. It’s like you’re telling the universe, ‘I’m doing this, get ready’. Rosalina’s thing was flicking her nose,” she said, flicking her nose with her thumb, “I snap my fingers. Everybody’s different. The meaning to you is what matters.”

  “What does snapping your fingers mean to you?”

  She sighed and glanced off into space. A warm smile crossed her face, “My brother made music when he was at home. I was a kid, but he used to play it for me and I’d dance around. He’d make little songs just for me, with really fucked up timing because I always snapped off beat, but I was like— five, six? I didn’t notice, I just knew my brother made something for me. I love music and I snap a lot. Long story short, I guess.”

  “I kinda get it… I think.”

  Striker looked back at the banner and rose his hand as though he were holding a paint brush. He made a vigorous broad stroke in the air.

  Again, nothing.

  He exhaled, frustrated, as he tried to focus his intention.

  “I don’t know. I might have fucked up,” she said.

  “What?” The word left Striker’s mouth before he could think about what she meant.

  “You’re just,” she looked him over and shook her head, “I think this might be a waste of time.”

  “Wait, so what’s this thing on my hand good for then?”

  “I don’t know, you can show it girls or something.”

  “People can’t even see it— the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyways?”

  “You’re single, no?” She didn’t skip a beat before doubling down. “Why is that? You had a girlfriend didn’t you?”

  “Hey, fuck you,” he said, backing away. “What do you even know about that?”

  “Less than you do. What I know is you almost got your ass torn apart. They know you have something they want and they’re going to come back for you. And you won’t do shit about it. You can’t move a piece of cloth.”

  “So what, you’ve been eavesdropping on our conversations while you were following them?”

  She shrugged. “You’re loud when you’re drunk at parties. I’m not your babysitter, and I told you they’d be back. If you can’t move that little thing, I can’t help you. It’s not my job to keep you alive.”

  He looked back at the banner, trying to take a deep breath, but heaving in frustration as he thought of Zoey. He wanted to leave. He thought about it, hard, for just a moment. He looked back at Cecilia and the banner on the floor.

  “You might have fucked up,” he said.

  She took one step toward him. “So you’re not going to do anything. You’re just going to let it mean nothing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zoey? I know she’s gone. You’re just going to let them kill you, right? Because, you know you can’t run. I’m telling you that right now, because you might be dense enough to think you can. They’ll find you. They’re like animals and they know what you smell like. They’re like dogs, going—“

  “—Okay I get it—“

  “—No you don’t,” she said, stepping closer, “You’re an animal in a trap right now, you know that, right? They’re stronger and faster than you. You. Can. Not. Kill. Them.” Each word of the last statement was emphasized by a clap of her hands. She stepped closer, now just a foot or so away from Striker. “She’s probably watching you.”

  “The fuck does that mean?”

  “From wherever she is. Heaven or Hell. If she’s up there, she’s watching how much of a piece of shit you are because you can’t be bothered to avenge her. I guess she’d forgive you though. Or she’s not, and her hell is watching you do nothing.” She took another step forward. Striker took one back. “And she’s going to watch you die or beg for your life.”

  She took another step. So did he. “No,” he murmured.

  “Or both,” she continued, “And she’s gonna know that—“

  “—No—“

  “—You couldn’t be bothered with even doing the best you could.”

  She started to take another step.

  He jumped back, yelling, “Back the fuck off!”

  She opened her mouth and he turned back to her, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

  The banner flew from the ground, unfurling to become a wall between them for a brief moment. Just long enough for him to realize what happened. Over his shoulder, he watched it settle on the floor.

  Cecilia smiled. “Rosalina had to piss me off the first time, too.”

  Striker stood, looking between the banner and Cecilia, gritting his teeth.

  “That was fucked up, though. I’m sorry. I really don’t know anything about your girlfriend, but if you want to help her— if you can help her— you’re going to have to push yourself.”

  “I get it. What next?”

  “Try to do that again. Just pick it up, from the top. How’s your hand, by the way?”

  Striker glanced at the back of his left palm. His mark was dim, barely illuminated. “What do you think? I’m not sure what it should look like.”

  “It should be brighter. You can only hold power for so long before it goes away. Getting distracted cuts the time down, too. We can make another one. Hold on.” She began to trace the symbol in air as she had before.

  “Wait,” said Striker, “Can I try?”

  “Do you know what I’m doing?”

  “I know that shape.” He thought of that particular page, ‘The Pusher’.

  She shrugged and he put his right hand out in front of him.

  “It’s gotta be your other one,” she said.

  He switched hands and began to trace a line, expecting to see the trail of light that followed Cecilia’s fingers before. There was none and his mark remained dim. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “You really have to focus. Just on the one thing you’re doing.”

  Striker closed his eyes, thinking about that page. He still hadn’t managed to copy the sigil that took up most of it, but in his mind, he could picture it in static form. Even though he couldn’t paint, draw, or photograph it, it never changed in his mind’s eye, even if it did in any externalization. He began tracing the shape of the sigil. The light was dim at first as it trailed behind his foremost fingertip. The mark on the back of his hand began to glow brighter. By the time it was done, the shape hung in the air, glowing a steady orange.

  “Is this right?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It looks like a mess to me. Mine probably does to you, too.”

  Striker nodded.

  “Finish it,” she said, “just like the one I gave you.”

  Standing for a moment, he thought about what motion might truly mean anything to him. On a whim, he dismissively waved it away. A brilliant flash of light filled the space as it had before, and his mark steadily glowed.

  “That’s it,” she said, “That should last for a few minutes.”

  Striker managed to move the top of the banner with a thought alone this time, but it was slow and wavered as his focus drifted. His excitement made the task even more difficult. It took trial and error, but after dropping it several times, he managed to hold it steady for a few seconds. It took most of two hours for him to move it with some degree of precision. He had to redraw the sigil every fifteen minutes or so as he went. This was normal, according to Cecilia.

  When she was satisfied, she announced her plan: She would use magic to hoist banners into place, and Striker would hold them while she mounted the hooks. She glanced at the banner Striker had been trying to manipulate and it levitated upward, stopping just short of the ceiling. He tried holding it with a glance as she did it, but it fell. They tried again, and this time Striker held up his arms as though he were physically doing the thing he was enacting, by Cecilia’s suggestion. It helped his focus enough to hold it still.

  Cecilia grabbed some hooks from her toolbox and tossed them into the air. They drifted upward, to just above the banner. She tilted her head and they began to spin, fastening tightly to the ceiling. “Let go,” she said, taking control of the banner. She slid it onto the hooks.

  “It’s really hard to focus on all the screws and the banner at the same time,” she said. “Which, I guess, is another thing— You can’t focus on too much at one time. It’s just,” she seemed to look for a word or phrase, but shook her head, “Ready for the next one?”

  “I think I need a break.”

  That was normal as well, he was told. At least in the beginning. Using magic was like flexing a muscle, and it was one Striker had never used before, at least intentionally. He laid on the floor to rest between every banner they lifted. Striker took over the lifting halfway through. They were mounting the last banner when it suddenly fell. He tried to recover it, but noticed his mark had stopped glowing all at once, unlike the slow fade it exhibited throughout the day.

  “Forget it for now,” she said, under her breath.

  A tall, thin woman, with silvery hair walked in. She clapped her hands, “Oh my gosh, Cecilia! I didn’t think we could get those banners up there!”

  “Thanks, Ms. Luke. This is Devin, he’s been helping me. This is Ms. Luke, she was one of my teachers at Mission High,” she said.

  “Uh… You can call me Striker.”

  Ms. Luke smiled and shook his hand. “How did you get those up there?”

  Striker shot a glance at Cecilia.

  “Striker was a lot of help,” she said. “We’re having trouble with the last one though, can we hang it off the balcony? We had to give the ladder back.”

  Ms. Luke looked up at the banners and around the room. “That’s fine! It must have been a lot of work getting those up there. I’m surprised you were able to rent ladders that tall.”

  Cecilia giggled. “It was no problem. Really. We’re going to get zip ties.” She nodded for Striker follow and started toward the door.

  “Our power doesn’t work around most people who aren’t like us,” she began, once they were outside, “Not if they’re watching us. I tried to tell you when they came in but you weren’t listening. The only people I know who don’t mess things up by being around are my parents. At least for me.”

  They finished around seven o’clock and parted ways. Striker headed home. He took the twenty-two bus to Potrero to get some groceries and walked toward home from there. He passed a couple of people he didn’t pay that much mind to, until he heard their footsteps keeping pace with him. He cast a glance over his shoulder. They were wearing hoods, and their faces were obscured.

  One was tall, one short.

  He felt his stomach drop, remembering what Cecilia told him.

  They’ll replace their bodies and continue pursuing you. He was an animal in a trap. Or, at least, hunted by something with far more experience than him.

  He quickened his pace, but they remained just as close behind him. He reached the corner and turned, rather than continue forward. They continued on their own path. He went a few blocks out of his way to get home, on the off chance they followed him. Despite that, they intersected at another corner, three blocks away from his apartment. Striker moved faster, hoping they’d continue on their path, and that would be that. When he heard them start running toward him, he sprinted as well, dropping his groceries. He tumbled to the floor after a shove from behind.

  He writhed as they kicked him in the ribs, and stomped on his legs. One of them said something he didn’t catch as he felt a hand fish his pockets, removing his wallet and keys. The tall one took Striker’s shoes and threw one of them at his face, kicking him for good measure before they ran in opposite directions.

  Striker remained on the sidewalk for a few minutes, staring at the sky. He found his keys and shoes nearby, along with some of the groceries that were strewn on the ground. They were mostly wrecked, but he salvaged the plastic handle of whiskey and the frozen dinners he could carry as he limped home. He passed the old couple he would normally wave to, but his broken pride and throbbing ribs prevented him from acknowledging them. They stopped as he walked past. They were still there, in the same spot when Striker opened the front door to his apartment building. He collapsed on his bed when he reached to his room.

  Striker felt like shit when he woke up. He was bruised and standing was a task on its own. He stepped onto his balcony for a cigarette. He’d barely lit it when he heard Case’s balcony door slide open. He could feel her gaze smoldering on him.

  “I know you’re mad,” he said, turning around.

  Her expression was unamused. “You ghosted me the other night. I went to your exhibit and you ditched me after. That’s fucked up. You haven’t even answered your phone or the door— and I know you’ve been home.”

  “I’ve been trying to process a lot. I heard those girls died.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You’ve been avoiding me. If you met somebody, that’s fine, but you don’t to have bullshit or hide.”

  “I know,” said Striker. “I think I’m just… I haven’t been feeling normal, I guess.”

  “And? Why don’t you talk to me about it? I’m right next door— I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

  “I’m not ready to talk about what’s going on.”

  She stared at him for a moment, pursing her lips. “Is it something you don’t trust me with?”

  He shook his head.

  “Does it have something to do with Zoey?”

  “No. I’ll tell you what’s up with me when I can. I really am sorry, I should have like… let you know I’m okay or something.”

  She rolled her eyes and took a drag of her cigarette, before flicking it over the edge. “What happened with Ada and Elsie? You think they’re dead?”

  “Yeah. I think after the party.”

  “Shit,” she said, “I heard about a couple of Jane Does that got crushed in a ceiling collapse next door.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah, the whole warehouse shook and the party was over after that. I figure they were messing around inside when it came down. I wasn’t sure if you were in there or not until I got home and heard you moving like... all of your furniture.”

  Striker felt a lump in his throat. Did Cecilia do that to cover up what happened?

  “You should flick that cigarette,” she said.

  He looked at it, mostly ash, and tossed it over the edge. Across the street, he saw that old couple, a frequent fixture of the neighborhood, often arm in arm on their marathon walks around the block. They were not arm in arm today. He waved down at them, as he often did, but neither of them waved back.

  They just stopped, stared for a moment, and continued walking. Case lit another cigarette and leaned over her balcony. “They’re moving fast today,” she said, watching them continue down the block. At the corner, they turned left instead of right as they usually did. Striker watched until they disappeared from sight.

  “He walks with a cane,” he said.

  “I didn’t notice he wasn’t using it. I mean that’s nice, maybe the exercise is paying off? I think it’s really cute that they still spend time together like that.”

  “Yeah,” he said, lighting another cigarette.

  Why were they acting like that?

  “Can you not be a stranger, please?” asked Case. “I’m missing Zoey too, and you’re my other best friend. It’s been weird since New Year’s.”

  “Sorry. Shit’s been really weird, lately.”

  She shrugged. “It’s been weird for a while.” She paused and took a drag, looking up at the sparse clouds overhead. “Do you want to hang out for a bit before I go on shift?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat in Case’s apartment with a magic show on in the background. They talked and played a couple of card games, glancing at the TV when the crowd cheered at a spectacle. She sent him for some produce to make lunch. He didn’t walk more than a few steps without looking over his shoulder. He scrutinized every person he walked past, receiving baffled glances in response. He made it back without incident, and they ate lunch over the ‘classic’ soap operas Case was binging.

  When she left for work, he decided to delve back into the journal. After making sure his door was locked, he flipped through the pages with his eyes closed this time. He stopped when he felt familiarity. He opened his eyes and looked at the page in front of him. It seemed visually steady, much more so than usual.

  It was ‘the Pusher’. Somewhere in that sigil was power— or at least, it was some kind of proxy to power, he figured.

  He felt a sensation he couldn’t explain when he moved the banners the day before. That same feeling washed over him now, as he stared at the page. He placed his palm on it, focusing on remaining present in the moment. His senses were accosted; his vision blurred and his eyes watered. He smelled something strange— not foul, but something that confused him. His hand felt like something bubbled underneath his flesh as he held it to the page.

  A deep hum thrummed in his ears.

  He trembled.

  The coffee table in front of him began to slide backward, scraping against the floor.

  He closed the book, and it stopped.

  He paused.

  He opened the book again.