Choices
Prem’s nausea proved to be a convenient scapegoat for the lingering taste of bile and anger at the back of her throat she experienced during the ride. She felt removed from herself, just like her first days with Vati: an empty shell, no longer in control of her own fate, or even her own body. She could sense the demon’s irritation with her, rumbling inside of her head like a lion purring—docile for the moment, but capable of devouring her whenever he chose. When the bus finally came to a stop, Prem wanted to get off of it as quick as she could: her stomach was twisted up in knots, and both her temples and the back of her neck were coated with sweat. No one spoke to her for the entire ride, so she saw no reason to be to one to break the silence now.
The bus’ back door opened and the ramp descended. Prem could see bright, golden points of light from long rows of gas-powered lamps down both sides of the street. The sound of far-away train whistles pierced the darkness, low and mournful in the night. She stood under her own power and kept her head high, her eyes alert and focused straight ahead.
The headquarters of the Parliamentary Police sat in the heart of the Gilded Quarter as part of Parliament House itself, but that place was meant for special prisoners or enemies of the state. Regular criminals went to one of two large processing facilities, depending on which side of the river that they were arrested. Once Prem recognized their destination—the larger detention center on the edge of the Industrial District—she wondered if she should feel insulted. Surely Sachin, the Pureblood Killer, deserved special accommodations; she had to be more valuable a prize than any old cutpurse or drunken thug.
The gaol sat inside an old military fortress built by one of Prem’s ancestors, but it would be the first time she ever set foot inside it. She now faced the prospect of her own incarceration with resignation, along with a lingering sense of dread and a stomach-ache so strong she could felt her spine cracking—her motion sickness had made for a miserable ride, one she barely managed without throwing up. The building itself was built in the style of most royal buildings of the previous century: it had a thick, mortared foundation and high angled walls framing narrow windows that stretched up for three or four stories, topped by a black slate pagoda-style roof and towers. The exterior walls were washed out under the bright glow of the gas lights. The rest of the buildings that lined both sides of the street were made of dark brick or concrete, with not a strip or scrap of wood construction anywhere. Prem always thought concrete to be an ugly, soulless material, and she found nothing of beauty in it whatsoever.
Steam billowed up from the manholes and storm drains, covering the street in a dark haze. Anyone with a bit of skill could slip into those clouds and vanish from sight, never to be seen again if they so desired. Right then, Prem did wish for that, but she kept her breathing steady and followed her escorts. As the night progressed, she felt her sense of awkwardness and uncertainty fading. It was good to be out in public again. Prem felt alive, back in her old form and enjoying her return to the world she’d tried so hard to leave behind. Ending up arrested was a possibility she’d dreaded for years, but now was no time to start panicking.
The men led Prem through a pair of doors standing below a large banner decorated with the Noble Dragon. More lanterns glowed inside, their flames turned up, flooding the room with light. The entry hall had high vaulted ceilings, with bas-reliefs on the walls of gray and dark blue stone, carvings of armed warriors fighting against ferocious beasts. The floors had a checkerboard pattern of black and white tiles, and Prem enjoyed the smug, immature satisfaction of leaving smeared, muddy footprints as she walked, chains jingling with every step.
Nobody gave her more than the most cursory glance while they led her down a wide corridor off of the main hall—the arrival of one more criminal, even one admitted at such a late hour, hardly seemed worth noticing. It reminded Prem of anonymity’s real value—something that, as Sachin, she’d enjoyed for years before turning back into the Mari Prem.
The interior of the fortress was gutted, its grand halls and vestibules torn out to make space for rows and rows of tall, narrow cages and iron bars. Prem was placed in one such cell that contained only a wooden bench and a tin bucket—she was shoved inside before the door was shut and locked behind her.
“Turn around,” one of the men said. He had a long nose and a scar along his jawbone. They were the first words she’d heard since leaving the Bay.
Prem considered disobeying and smirked at the man before she could stop herself. Given the scowl on his face, he didn’t much care for her change of mood. Prem was surprised at how calm she felt, but she did as directed. From behind, a pair of hands pulled her hard against the bars—the impact sent a shock of pain through her shoulders and down her back, and she grunted in protest while the other man began to unlock her ankle cuffs.
On the ride over, Prem had time to consider what she would do at that moment. One temptation was to tell them her name, but she had no way to prove her real identity. Instead, Prem turned and looked back over her shoulder. “I want my boots back, Constable.”
The one holding her shoulders gave a smirk and a dry chuckle. “And I’d fancy a long shagging with the new Rani. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?” Prem didn’t know if even Priya had a type, but she guessed that he was as far from it as possible.
Prem paused for a moment, then put a bit of neediness in her tone. “Don’t they teach you bluecoats to show a little compassion to your charges? Besides, it’s cold tonight.” She was still damp with rain and sticky with mud, so that made it easier to look more pathetic for him. “I’ll be a good girl. You won’t hear another peep out of me, I promise.”
The cuffs were pulled away as Prem turned around. “Good,” he said, “because you won’t like it if I have to come back to check on you. Now, get comfortable. Someone will probably be along to get your fingerprints eventually. Don’t go anywhere.” The gruff policeman waited for his companion to start walking back down the hallway before he winked at Prem and blew her a kiss before departing.
Prem watched him leave, then looked around at her new environs: the bench was long enough for her to lie down on it if she wished, since the stone floor was unpleasantly cold underfoot. The bars were old with flaking paint, but they were also thick as her forefinger, stretching all the way from floor to ceiling. The other cells’ occupants were either asleep or too absorbed in their own business to give her more than a glance. There might be little honor among thieves, but even less camaraderie, it seemed.
Prem took a seat on the bench, crossed her legs and considered her options, even though she knew they weren’t particularly good. She didn’t know why Yash had called the Police, or even when she’d had the time, but any thug or street beggar knew how to raise an alarm, if necessary. Yash had lived in the Bay for as long as Prem had known her—if anyone could get word out quickly, it was her. Prem had several theories as to why Yash might’ve turned her in, but they were only wild speculation at best, and they’d stay that way until Prem had the opportunity to question the witch personally. She didn’t want to hold a grudge, but not knowing was going to bother her, gnawing at her like a canker.
The sense of relief she felt at knowing Mariander was out of danger surprised Prem. She couldn’t explain her concern for his welfare, but it felt like more than just simple worrying. The returning memory of her sisters discussing the man’s good looks was cringe-inducing, and Yash’s teasing had left Prem hot enough that she’d nearly melted into her now-absconded boots. Vati was so possessive that Prem never bothered with serious relationships with men, sexual or otherwise—she had only room for one male in her life, and earlier dalliances with other partners angered the demon to the point of blind fury. Her dreams became very dark in those days, wretched and violent, as Vati saw fit to discipline her in ways she still shuddered to think about, years later. After those lapses in judgment, Prem contented herself with Yash’s company, not bothering with any thoughts of romance. She was just a servant, a slave, the chosen instrument of the Kushin’s murderous will.
With no good explanation for Prem’s need to save Mariander’s life, she was satisfied knowing that Yash was the right person to take him to, that she knew the proper incantation to save the man’s life. Thoughts of Mariander reminded her of Yash’s warning: Vati was going to be very, very irate with her. The demon had lost some of his power over Prem in her waking hours, but there were always her dreams to contend with.
Prem’s mind was wandering. When she realized that, she also realized just how tired she was. Over the years she learned to stagger her sleeping patterns, operating on just an hour or two a night, or a few hours over several days—however long she could manage to put off facing the demon. But Prem couldn’t evade rest, or Vati, forever: she had to get a full measure of sleep eventually.
Prem laid herself down on the bench, ignoring the chill in her clothes and the hard wood under her back. She could hear erratic snoring from the other prisoners. Folding her hands across her stomach, Prem focused on her own breathing, listening to it, measuring it, controlling it: in and out, in and out, in and out…
Prem was running. Her surroundings were both familiar and not at the same time. At first, they resembled some narrow, meandering alley somewhere deep in the Black Bay, surrounded by leaning shanties and rickety wooden buildings, before changing to towering concrete and brick skyscrapers from the Industrial District, then changing to marble and carved stonework squeezed between tall, Gilded palaces. Back and forth it went, the walls and path ahead of her changing shape and form but always remaining long, tall and menacing, never recognizable to Prem for any longer than she had time to catch her breath.
The walls seemed ready to fall and crush her, like cresting waves on the sand. She didn’t dare to slow down and get her bearings—something was behind her, a threat so terrible and terrifying that the need to escape it was too strong to resist. Just thinking about looking back made Prem’s throat swell and tears blur her vision. She had no weapon, nothing to defend herself with, nothing but the clothes she’d fallen asleep in. Even her boots were still missing.
“Vati?” She called out for the demon, either daring or pleading with him to respond. But there was no answer.
Prem finally dared to defy her own fear, casting a quick look back over one shoulder. There was a whistling in the air, the flash of something bright and blinding that passed over Prem’s shoulder, so close she felt the wake of it on her face. She twisted away as a knife sprouted from the wooden wall beside her, quivering from the force of its flight. A stinging pain swept across her cheek, the familiar burn of splitting skin coming with the muted smell of blood that stung her nose.
Stumbling, almost falling, Prem pushed off of the wall and kept running, unable to slow down to grab the weapon. She probed the skin below her eye, ignored the flaring heat, saw blood on her fingertips. In the dark she caught the glimpse of a shape—a figure clad in gray, eyes burning like hot coals. He had more knives, one in each hand, and a murderous purpose and intent to use them in ways Prem could already imagine, none of them pleasant.
The path ahead was blocked: an overturned cart with crates piled atop, a barrier she didn’t have time to climb over. Prem took a preparatory bounce on the ball of one foot, flipping forward onto both hands, then came down on both feet and jumped, tucking her legs up into a flip that carried her just over the top of the obstacle. The sound of metal splintering broken wood was painfully loud as several boxes shattered into splinters, but the ground came rushing up at her and Prem had no time for such distractions. She tucked into a roll and came up on both feet, already running, looking frantically for a way out.
“Vati?!” A second time she called, more desperate, angry at being so obviously manipulated. There was nothing to fear from one opponent, armed or not. Prem had proven that countless times before, surviving every challenge without fail. But every time she made ready to stop, to turn and fight, some force or urgency kept her running forward, looking for an escape.
You could die, she heard the demon say.
“I won’t die!” Another obstacle blocked her path, a stone wall so thick and high she couldn’t even see the top. Now Prem had to turn and face her pursuer. Digging her toes into the packed earth, she raised both hands in a fighting stance, head low to protect her neck, arms pulled in close.
But now there wasn’t just one pursuer but many, all masked and hooded, all with eyes burning bright with hate and violent intent. Prem couldn’t count them all, couldn’t fathom where they all came from. They were all trying to outrun each other, rushing for Prem to cut her down and end her dreaming for good.
You’re going to die, the demon said again.
“Not helping!” Prem shot back.
Those leading the pack threw their knives, filling the air with steel and death. Prem dropped her stance and dodged, twisting and jumping backwards in a spinning tuck, listening to the pinging sounds of steel ricocheting off of the hard ground, or sinking into the wooden wall beside her, each quivering like an arrow shot from a bow.
She saw a single, solitary door standing ajar in the nearby corner with only a sliver of shadow showing that it was open. Prem grabbed one of the knives off the ground and hit the door with her shoulder, dodging away from more of the flying missiles as she tumbled into the dark and sped off again, running into shadows so thick that she couldn’t even see the hands she held out ahead of her.
“Vati?” she called, gasping for breath, hissing in the dark. The demon didn’t answer.
As Prem’s eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, her surroundings took shape: the floor was polished tile, with carved columns lining the long hallway ahead of her. Prem ducked behind one, clutching her knife against her chest, breathing long and hard through her open mouth which she covered with one hand to muffle the sound. The glow of the open doorway behind her was faint in the distance by that time. She couldn’t make out how many of the masked attackers were chasing her, but when she heard the sound of running feet Prem made herself stand as straight as possible, her back pressed against the curved stone column, and held her breath.
Several shapes ran past her, heading down to the end of the hallway, turning into the left corridor. Prem dared to wait for a moment, ducked her head out to see if anyone else was coming up behind her, then she hurried to take the right corridor instead and ducked into a small alcove. She smelled incense in the air, cloying and sweet, sticking to the roof of her mouth.
More of her surroundings became distinct—she saw ornate paintings on the wall, their colors turned muted and gray in the low light. A long carpet stretched ahead of her like a path she was meant to follow, so follow it she did. She came to a spiral staircase and crept up on quick, quiet feet, never knowing if anyone was still following her or who she might meet up ahead. One staircase led to another hallway, and another stair, and another hall beyond it. On she went, following the path laid out ahead of her, fighting a nagging feeling of familiarity at the very edge of her memory. She wondered just what game the demon was playing with her this time—Vati was usually much more blunt and direct with his lessons.
One doorway was open on her left, the room’s interior dark and foreboding. Prem stopped and peered inside, waiting for the flash of glowing eyes or twinkling of knives in the dark, but no attacker materialized. Instead, she saw rows of small beds lining the walls, occupied by small figures all sleeping peacefully, unaware of Prem’s presence or even her existence.
A shock of something hit Prem low in her gut like a fist, shoving and twisting in her belly when she realized that she recognized the room. She almost gasped aloud before covering her mouth, eyes darting from one face to another: some smiled in their sleep, or twisted their noses up, mouths open with the sounds of soft snoring. The walls were smooth stone painted with pale colors and dancing figures. She saw moonlight coming in through tall, narrow windows at the end of the room, decorated with slender iron bars to prevent anyone inside from escaping.
Prem slipped in through the open door. She bent down next to the nearest bed, giving a hard shake to the child sleeping there—a boy with short hair, dressed in a plain white nightgown. The child murmured in his sleep but refused to awaken no matter how Prem hard shook him.
More footsteps outside. Prem stood again and pressed her back to the wall behind the door, her knife low and ready at her side. The door opened wider and an unfamiliar face peeked inside, a man holding a lantern aloft to peer into the quiet dormitory; Prem held her breath, standing perfectly still. When nothing stirred or made a sound, save for the occasional high-pitched snort, the man grunted and stepped back into the hallway. “No one in here,” he said, then the footsteps—multiple sets of them—hurried down the hallway in the direction she’d come.
Prem cast her eyes across the room. Dread gripped her heart while her stomach sank into the soles of her feet when she saw a pair of empty beds waiting, just where she knew they would be. Once upon a time, she’d slept in such a bed. Not so long ago, she’d slept next to the girl with burgundy curls, a girl named Chanda. Then, one night, Prem awoke, found her friend’s bed empty and the door to their dormitory ajar.
A night just like this one.
Prem closed her eyes, took a breath, fist tightening around the knife hilt before she slipped through the open door and pulled it shut on silent hinges. There was no mistaking where she was now: it’d been years since Prem stepped foot inside the home of the Hogenkal, one of the most vicious of Bhai Mandwa’s gangs. She’d been drafted into their numbers like so many other children on the streets, made to steal, to kill, to do whatever it took to keep their masters happy.
Time was unkind to the Hogenkal and they eventually disbanded, driven into extinction by their bloody turf war with the Idrayanis. The city papers reported on the conflict, the murders of both criminals and innocents alike, some of the very same reports Prem saw plastered on the walls of Gomati’s room. Now, Prem was walking their halls again like no time had passed at all.
Prem felt cold and calm as she ascended another staircase waiting at the end of the latest hallway. More moonlight came in from windows that had no need for bars or locks. She saw the dark shape of the Black Bay outside, pinpoints of light from buildings and ramshackle huts spread out along the streets below, like dew spots on a spider’s web.
The door waiting at the topmost set of stairs almost seemed to glow. It was burnished wood inlaid with polished bronze; there was a bright outline from firelight burning on the other side. Prem stepped up to the door and pushed—it was heavy, but swung open on oiled hinges without making a sound. The room’s interior was stark and bright in contrast to the shadowy depths below, leaving Prem blinking spots out of her eyes. There was a wooden floor and plush carpets lining the floors, with walls decorated in mosaic tile work, concentric circles and intricate, interwoven vines with dark red flowers. A great fire pit heaped with burning wood lit up every corner of the room with golden light. In the center of the room stood a large bed on a central dais, draped in gold silk dangling from matching, slender chains; through the thin veil, shining with the firelight, Prem saw a rotund man crouched on his knees, his back to the door. He was cooing, giggling to himself, bent over something that Prem couldn’t see, but she knew exactly who he was, what he was doing, and who he was doing it to.
Nivas Hogenkal was the gang’s leader. He had thinning gray hair and a round, flabby belly—Prem remembered being fascinated with how it jiggled when he laughed. As she crept in on bare feet, she watched his fleshy body jiggle and move. His limp hair hung down from one temple like the pelt of a dead animal. His back was coated with a thin sheen of sweat, beads of moisture that twinkled like oily stars in the firelight.
“So soft, my pretty thing,” the man said, licking his lips with a lustful slurp. “So good, little one, so, so good… Mmm.”
Prem didn’t say anything. She could’ve counted hundreds or thousands of times she thought back to that night, of all the things Prem would’ve said to him. Now she ran forward, leaping with a wild shriek to plunge her knife into his back, blade flat and to the side to avoid clipping bone, yet twisting as she split his flesh open to maximize the damage. She clamped her empty hand down on his neck as she stabbed again, and again, and again. Blood sprayed up high with the force of each swing. It soon coated everything; Prem could smell the blood, taste it in her mouth like a rakshasi devouring a victim’s flesh, gorging on the crimson saltiness of it.
Nivas eventually stopped screaming and finally stopped moving. Prem left the knife sticking out of his back like a skewer sticking out of a wild boar and rolled his body to one side, careless of the bloody mess left behind. “Please, oh please, oh please,” she whispered, her body shaking from fear and adrenaline.
Coiled up in the rustled blankets was a girl’s body, pale and naked, forever soiled by Nivas’ unspeakable appetite. Prem looked down at herself, a child just ten years old, young eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling overhead. The girl wasn’t breathing, smothered to death by her tormentor’s great weight.
But that wasn’t right—Prem was the one who killed him.
Prem blinked, and the body changed. She saw a maggot-eaten corpse, black hair strewn across the blankets, half-eaten face turned away in shame and sorrow. The smell of stagnant river water and rotting flesh filled her nostrils and she gagged, turning away, wanting to retch.
She blinked again. Now the body was clad in gray, with a matching mask across her face. Those burning eyes were cold now, and Prem’s bloody knife was buried in the person’s chest, staining those gray clothes black with blood.
“No!” Prem yanked the knife out and threw it away, where it clattered against the tile floor. She grabbed the mask and hood, pulling them away, baring the figure’s face. First she saw short, gray curls framing a man’s features—it was Gomati, looking old and decrepit, wizened and cruel, staring up at her with unfocused, lifeless eyes. Then the curls changed, lengthening, changing color to a familiar burgundy hue. Chanda’s eyes were round with fear and agony, frozen in death; her young, beautiful mouth was open, pale lips spotted with blood.
Prem pushed away from the body, tumbling head-first to the floor where she lay curled into a ball, shaking all over, helpless and unable to stop. Prem felt helpless; she hated feeling helpless.
Nothing about the dream was right. Nivas was alone in bed the night he died. The things he’d done to Chanda had enraged Prem, and she went to him, tempted him into letting his guard down before killing him herself; she paid him back in blood and agony just as he deserved, butchering him like the pig he was.
“Vati.” She called the Kushin, her voice shaking, just a wet mumble on trembling lips. When there was no answer, she called again: “Vati. Where are you?” Again, silence. Incensed, Prem pushed up to her knees, raising her head and screaming until her throat burned and her entire body shook from the force of it: “Where are you?!”
“Here.” Nivas Hogenkal’s body shifted and rolled back over. Prem watched him sit up on the bed’s edge, scratching the folds under his heavy chin, heedless of the bloody mess of his back and the gaping hole in his chest. His fat, ugly face twisted into a smirk. “There’s no need to scream, Sachin.”
Prem stuck him, balling up her fist and smashing it into his cheek as hard as she could. The impact of it made her hand go numb and her arm buzzed from wrist to shoulder, but watching the fat man go rolling off the bed was wonderfully satisfying. “Don’t you ever use that shape again,“ she said, teeth clenched, “or we’ll see how well you like me trying to dream after I blow my goddamn head off. Understand?”
Nivas’ body vanished, instantly, without so much as a flourish or a puff of smoke. We don’t respond well to threats, Sachin, said Vati, his voice like an angry serpent hissing in her head.
“Then don’t give me another excuse,“ Prem said, shaking her hand and arm to ease the ache. She looked at the bedroom door, knowing that soon a company of armed gangsters would come bursting through the door to find their dead boss. “What was the point of all this? None of it is right.”
Explain, Vati said. It wasn’t that he needed her to explain anything—Vati just liked giving orders.
“Well, it is, but…” Prem tripped over her own tongue, sputtered, quieted herself while rubbing her throbbing fingers, working out the sting. “Gomati wasn’t there. And Chanda wasn’t in Nivas’ room the night he died.”
The night you killed him.
“Sure. Whatever. She had nothing to do with this, so leave her out of it.”
Like Nivas’ body before it, Chanda vanished. Prem took her own seat on the edge of the bed and its bloody nest of blankets, staring at her hand, flexing the sore fingers. She’d struck Vati before, certainly, but never without consequences.
What did we say to you before, Sachin? We don’t protect, we kill. Killing is a matter of survival, and you required a reminder of that fact. Ergo, ‘the point of this’… is that. Vati spoke with a crushing, unshakeable sense of inevitability, intent on proving that he was smarter than her and he’d make sure that she knew it. Prem always hated his cocksureness, even if he was usually right.
“Survival doesn’t mean always having to slaughter anyone that gets in my way. There are other ways to get what I want. I learned that myself. I beat you when it counted.’’ The demon didn’t answer. Prem’s heart beat faster as she put more force in her words. “You couldn’t stop me from going home again. You can’t control me like you used to—I’m not your puppet any longer. I decide when to fight, and when to run away. I decide who lives and who dies.”
We take life away, Sachin. We never sacrifice ourselves trying to save it.
Prem grit her teeth. “It’s my choice! I’m whatever you made me, but it’s my decision of when to kill. Don’t try to force my hand or trick me with this cheap, emotional bullshit.’’ She was angry—at him for toying with her memories and her emotions, and at herself for being so easily manipulated in the first place. Prem was weaker than he was, but she wouldn’t lie down and wait for the demon to pat her head and praise her subservience.
Then hear this, Sachin: whatever is behind this driving need to prove your independence from us, risking our life will never bring that pitiful child you found back from the grave, nor will it save the friend you lost years ago. You cannot change what you are. Never forget it.
“Fine.” Prem huffed, still bristling, wishing she could slug him again, if only for the satisfaction of it. “I’m ready to wake up now—get me out of here.”