“My thoughts exactly.”
“Do you know what this means?” Siobhan jumped into my lap, smothering me with kisses. “You’re a freaking goddess. My best friend is a goddess!”
People deal with death in different ways. Ma goes dark, I keep everything inside, and Siobhan, she goes full Jack Russell terrier. We were like Neapolitan-flavored PTSD.
“Siobhan, calm your crap,” I said. “This is serious. Malleus is a murderous hag who kills innocent people, and she still has my sister.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Siobhan jumped to her feet. “It’s just . . . just . . . My brain is about to explode, but if you can handle it, Willie, then I can, too. Let’s go kick some zombie bitch ass!”
I laughed for the first time in forever. “How could I ever say no to that?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
WHEN we got off the T at the JFK/UMass station, the clock on the wall read 10:54.
“How long have we got?” Siobhan asked me.
“Till midnight, the witching hour.”
“We can make it. Don’t give up.”
“I won’t.” Hell would freeze and thaw twice over before that happened. “Promise.”
A block from the station we turned toward an orange and green neon sign flashing DINER. We waited for a car to pass, then jogged across the rain-peppered streets to the parking lot. There were just a few cars parked in the spaces. The cars were empty except for a Chevy with three guys in it. They looked like losers, so we took a wide circle and gave them plenty of room.
The driver spotted us and whistled. “Hey baby, wanna get lucky?”
“Since three kinds of STDs is your definition of lucky,” Siobhan yelled, “I’ll pass.”
The losers whooped and applauded.
“Talk dirty to me, baby!” the driver yelled.
Siobhan put up a middle finger. “Here’s some sign language for you!”
“We don’t have time for this crap,” I said and dragged her inside.
The diner was warm and drier. Streaks of condensation ran down the windows, and the noise from the kitchen drowned out the big-screen TVs on the walls. A reporter was broadcasting from the sidewalk in front of my triple-decker. A bad composite sketch of Harken flashed up. The SVU in cooperation with the Boston Police Department was expanding its manhunt. That was the good news. Harken had escaped, but had he found my sticky note and would he show?
I pointed to the TV. “That’s him.”
“He’s way cuter when he’s not knocked out,” Siobhan whispered. “Talk about fairy dust! He could sample my cinnamon roll anytime.”
“Siobhan! Don’t be gross.”
“Willie, that kid is anything but gross.”
We slid into a booth. I ordered coffee, and Siobhan asked for a double chocolate milk shake with jimmies.
“What’s the plan?” Siobhan asked and unpeeled her straw.
“Plan?”
“For getting Devon back.”
“It’s still not fully formed in my brain.”
“Meaning you don’t have one.”
“I have one.” I just couldn’t tell her that she wasn’t part of it. She was my only friend untouched by Malleus. I planned to keep it that way.
“Call me Obvious Girl, but how about, y’know, using your magic? Just go back in time and snatch Devon before she gets kidnapped.”
“It’s not technically magic, so it doesn’t work that way. I don’t travel in time. Just stop it and rewind it a little.”
“Rewind how much?”
“A little. Harken says it’ll kill me if I go back too far.” No, not kill me, make me Unmade. Like Malleus.
“Do you believe him? He’s like the grand poobah of time-turning powers?”
The waitress put the milk shake and coffee on the table. She didn’t bother to ask if we wanted anything else.
“Nature calls,” Siobhan said after she took a taste of the shake. “Don’t run out on me, okay? I’m not done with the third degree yet, convict.”
Convict? It felt so strange to be called that again. AP English seemed like a whole lifetime ago. My memories of this morning were shopworn recollections. If only life was as simple as wiping lunch tables. I would take that life back in less time than it takes for a hummingbird’s heart to beat.
The familiar restaurant sights and sounds warmed me up: the clatter of plates in the dish bins, the sound of the cash register on the counter, the smell of fried onion rings—Dad’s favorites. I felt the warm heat on my face. I heard the bright clink of flatware, bright whispers of conversation, the resonating shine of chrome-lined counters and stools.
“More coffee?” the waitress asked when she came over.
“More coffee.”
The coffee came hot. I decided against the cubes of sugar and the metal pitcher of cream. I would take it black and brightly steaming. I poured coffee into the small saucer to cool it, like Dad did, then sipped from the saucer until it was cool
“Interesting way to drink coffee,” Harken said.
He passed the TV screen plastered with his handsome face and took the seat opposite me, looking a little worse for wear. His eyes were ragged, and even though he tried to smirk, it looked like a sad smile. Not being perfect didn’t make me think less of him. It made him go up two notches in my eyes.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said.
“I’m glad to see you,” I said. Part of me believed he would show up, but a small part thought he had deserted us.
“That drawing doesn’t remotely resemble me.” He glanced back at the TV. “My chin is much stronger, and they overlooked my wry grin.”
He did look hotter than the drawing, and I was surprised how relieved I was to see that wry grin. There was something different about it, though. Not so wry maybe, but still a grin.
“Thank you,” Harken said and moved his hand so that our fingertips were barely touching. “For the help with the police.”
“How do you know it was me?”
“When one is cuffed in the back of a police car but suddenly finds himself on the street, he puts two and two together. Unfortunately, I was unable to track Malleus.”
“No worries.”
“Don’t be coy,” he said and looked at me sideways. “What are you hiding?”
I took a slug of coffee to settle my nerves. “Nice sweater.”
“This old thing? Just something I picked up along the way.” He snatched my cup of coffee and took a deep swallow, and the old grin was back. “Sorry I’m late. It took a bit of maneuvering to slip past the police, and this diner is not an easy place to find.”
“That’s why I chose it. My dad used to bring me here every Sunday.”
“Old times’ sake and all that.”
“My dad said that the old Irish Mafia hangs out here.” I nodded at a couple of middle-aged guys in a corner booth. They were eating fries with gravy and talking in low voices. “Everybody minds their own business.”
“How are you feeling?” he said out of the blue.
“Fine,” I said. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“There’s something I—”
“Speaking of minding your own business.” Siobhan slid into the booth next to me. She extended a hand to Harken. “I’m terrible at it. I’m Siobhan Ferro, Willow Jane’s best friend. She’s told me all about you.”
“You don’t say?” He turned to me. “Precisely how much does she mean by all?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“This,” he said, “is an unexpected wrinkle.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Siobhan made a zipping motion across her lips. “I know how to keep a secret.”
“That’s all well and good, but—”
Siobhan put her arm through mine. “We’re a package deal.”
“You’re a package deal,” I said.
“High five!” Siobhan said. “You finally got how to do the joke!”
“The clock is ticking,” Harken said.
“Dude,” she said
and wrinkled up her formidable eyebrows. “Chill. It’s not the end of the world.”
“I assure you,” he said in a low voice, “it is.”
“So anyway,” I said. “I’ve found something interesting.” I showed my cell phone photo. “This was written on the bathroom wall.”
“It’s spelled backwards,” Siobhan said.
“Not when you’re looking in a mirror.”
“When the witching hour begins to bell,” Harken read slowly. “Knock three time at the gates of hell. It’s a poem.”
“Duh,” Siobhan said. “She knows it’s a poem, Captain Obvious.”
“Not helping,” I said.
“A poem,” Harken said, “referring to the Hellesgate Hotel. Are you familiar with it?”
“Every kid in Boston’s heard of Hell’s Gate,” Siobhan said. “Stories about ghosts, flying furniture, a dead woman hung from a rope over some chick’s bed. Dead girl in an elevator shaft.”
“They aren’t just stories,” he said. “That’s where we’ll make the trade. Her egg for your sister’s life.”
“Willie’s egg, you mean,” Siobhan said.
“Don’t call me Willie.”
“It’s Malleus’s egg.” Harken leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Her soul was trapped when I stabbed it with the needle. She’d like it back. The soul, I mean.”
“You’re forgetting one minor little problem,” I said. “The egg’s still locked up in Louie’s safe. I hope.”
“As I said before,” he said, “locks are made to be broken.”
“Awesome!” Siobhan drummed her fingertips together. “I’ve always dreamed of doing a B and E!”
“Shh!” I said. “It’s not just a B and E.”
“Two,” Harken said, “you are not going.”
“The hell?” Siobhan said. “Willow Jane promised me some fun.”
“Fun, yes,” I said, regretting that I had asked Siobhan along. I had wanted my friend with me, but now, as I looked into Harken’s eyes, I knew what he was thinking. Siobhan would walk through walls for me, and that didn’t mean I should let her. “But not danger.”
“I laugh in the face of danger.” Siobhan cackled. “Ha! Ha! Ha! See? Laughing. Wait. Holy frickdoodles!”
“What?” I said.
“The egg,” she said. “It contains that kid-snatching bitch’s soul, right? What happens to her when you give it back?”
Harken raised his eyebrows in a question, and I started to ask the same thing, but he cut me off.
“Siobhan Ferro, I have your name.” He took her hand, staring deep into her eyes and touching his neck. “There’s something you must do for Willow Jane.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
“WHOA! It’s so wicked freaking late!” Siobhan stood up abruptly. “I need to check on Willow Jane’s ma!”
“Certainly,” Harken said. “Give our regards to Mrs. Conning.”
“I will,” she said and pulled on her raincoat. “See you, bubs!”
I followed her to the door, then watched her run across the parking lot into the cold, wet night. The creeps didn’t seem to see her. Good thing for them.
“She better be safe,” I warned Harken when I got back to the booth. “What the hell did you do to her?”
“Vexed her,” he said. “Put an idea into her head, that’s all. No harm will come to her. She won’t even remember it.”
She won’t even remember it, I thought. Were there things I couldn’t remember? “I know why you did it,” I told him.
“Do you?” Harken dropped money on the table. “We need to hurry ourselves. Malleus isn’t known for her patience—uh!” He grunted and pitched forward, a hand pressed to his ribs. “It seems as if,” he said and showed me a bloody palm, “I’ve been wounded.”
“And you’ve just been sitting there? Christ!” I took his hand and pulled him down the back hallway, past the storage closets and the kitchen, to the ladies’ room. “This way!”
“The ladies’ room?” he said.
“Cleaner than the men’s.”
Inside the restroom I parked him on the toilet seat and locked the door. “Let’s see it.”
He rested his head on the wall of the wooden stall and lifted his wet shirt.
My eyes followed a smear of blood to his armpit, where blood was seeping from a puncture wound. “Whoa! You’re bleeding like crazy!”
“I am?” he said and I could hear the smirk. “I’m always the last to know.”
“You total asshole!” I grabbed a maxi pad from the dispenser. “You were sitting at the table, bleeding the whole time. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because—” He winced and leaned against the stall. “—I’ve caused enough trouble.”
I pressed the pad against the gash. “So who stabbed you?”
“The friendly Boston police,” he said, “when I escaped. And it’s a gunshot, not a stab.”
“A freaking gunshot?” I pulled the paper back and took a closer look at the wound. It looked very deep, and the skin was an angry dark purple. In first-aid class they said puncture wounds were doubly dangerous because infection could start deep in the wound. “You’ve been searching for Malleus with a hole in your side?”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Bullshit. There’s a bullet in you!”
“My body can handle it.”
“Like hell it will,” I said. “We need a doctor,”
“No doctors. They call the police,” he said. “And there are things about me that medical science can’t explain.”
“Like what?” I scoffed.
“For instance.” Harken splayed out his hand. His fingertips were smooth, and the skin was completely devoid of prints.
That wasn’t creepy at all. “If you won’t go to the doctor, then I’ll have to do. Lucky for you, I’m not completely useless. There’s a first-aid kit in the supply room. I’ll be right back.”
“You know this how?”
“Same way I know about the Irish Mafia in the corner. Don’t go anywhere.”
I ducked across the hallway to the supply room. The kit was on the wall above an eyewash station, both of which were coated in dust. So much for following OSHA guidelines for employee safety.
“I’m back,” I said and opened the kit.
He grunted and gritted his teeth as I gently pulled off his shirt. His skin was a mess of caked blood and dried sweat. The shirt stank of both, an acrid odor like rotted cabbage. Harken might not be human, but he sure smelled like a teenage guy. It was the first time that I’d seen him without clothes obviously, and I was amazed to find that his chest, back, and arms were covered with tattoos. Not the average Allston tattoo parlor tats, either. They were arcane symbols and shapes like hieroglyphics.
“That’s a lot of needlework,” I said. “Who did your ink?”
He grimaced. “It is not ink.”
“Looks like ink.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” he said. “If Puritans ruled Massachusetts, they’d call it a devil’s mark and see me burned at the stake.”
“Is it a devil’s mark?”
He laughed and winced, sucking in air. “There’s no devil, Willow Jane, except the one that lives within the human heart.”
“Nietzsche said, He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you. My AP English teacher has it on his quote wall.”
“That’s an odd thing to say,” he said.
“Nietzsche was an odd guy.”
“Can’t promise that I’ve never been the monster.”
“It’s not the monster that should worry you, my teacher says. Lift your arm.” I tore open a thick gauze pad with my teeth and soaked it with antiseptic. I placed his hand on the pad so he could apply pressure. “You need stitches.”
“Can you sew me up?”
“Daughter of a seamstress?” For a few seconds, my eyes lingered on his fac
e. “More pressure. The bleeding’s got to stop.”
He grunted but kept pressing. “This hurts.”
“Don’t be a baby.” I pushed on his hands to help. “I left a wick of gauze so it could drain.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I will be yet again in your debt.”
“Again? I wasn’t aware that you owed me anything.”
“Owing is not what I meant.” He sighed and smiled. “I misspoke?”
“Whatever.” I covered the gauze with a sheet of transparent dressing. “We’ll need to change the bandage soon. You’re still bleeding.”
Harken started to put his shirt back on. “I am honored to be patched up by an Uncanny.”
“By Maggie Mae Conning’s daughter, not by an Uncanny.”
Harken gingerly tugged his shirt back on. “Before we go, I have a confession to make.”
“Later.” I showed him the time and pulled open the door. “The clock is ticking.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
MINUTES later a cab dropped us in front of Louie’s Pawnshop. I led Harken around back to a porch lit by a single bare bulb. The rear door was steel and thick, and the handle was sturdy, which I found out when I gave it a hard twist.
“Locked,” I said.
“Imagine that,” Harken said. “A lock that is locked. What miracles will they think of next?”
I stepped aside. “You’re up, Houdini.”
“Cover your eyes.” Harken smashed the light above us. “Sorry for the glass.”
“I thought the plan was to pick the lock, then crack the safe.”
“It was,” he said, “until I saw that door. Give me some light.”
“Didn’t you just break the light?” I said but shone my phone’s flashlight on the handle. “It’s late. We need to hurry.”
“I am.” Harken pulled out a leather case. He opened it and removed a blank key and a diamond file.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Found it.”
“Where?”
“Lying about.” He inserted the blank into the lock and bore down with great force. He removed the blank and went at it with the file, notching out bits of metal. “I’m lucky like that.”
Uncanny Page 21
