“Back there,” I say, pointing to where the art supplies are stored.
I grin at Pelly’s confused look.
“C’mon,” I say, “and give me a hand.”
After I get off the phone with Imogene, I stand there for a while, staring down at the five little piles of clothes on the cement floor. Should I gather them up now—that’s the compulsive neatness Mom’s drilled into me kicking in—or leave them here in case some fairies haven’t gotten their outfits yet?
I’m still trying to make up my mind when I hear footsteps. By the time it occurs to me that footsteps mean that someone’s coming, and therefore I should find a place to hide, Adrian steps into view.
I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware of holding.
“You,” I say.
I’m angry, not so much at his startling me like this, but because of how he got us into this whole mess in the first place. So he’s pretty much the last person I want to see at the moment, if you can call a ghost a person.
I stare daggers at him, except he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Maxine,” he says. “What are you doing here?” His gaze goes to the piles of kids’ clothing. “Are you the one who sent the fairies packing?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Maybe we didn’t like them. Just like we don’t like you.”
“You don’t like me? What do you mean? And who’s ‘we?’”
He’s looking around the room while he fires these questions at me, as though he expects someone to come popping out from behind one of the furnaces or tanks.
“Well, considering how you sicced these soul-eaters on us,” I say, “what did you expect?”
“Oh, that. But it wasn’t really my fault.”
I give him a look.
“Okay, so I’m partially responsible. But that’s only because Tommery didn’t explain what he was going to do. It’s not like I meant for any of this to happen.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that our lives are in danger.”
“What do you mean ‘our’? Are they after you, too?”
His alarm appears genuine.
“We re not sure,” I say. “But probably. Or they probably will be.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Is Imogene here?”
“I don’t really have time to talk,” I tell him.
I go to walk around him—because I’m really not up for the weird chill of another ghostly encounter—but he grabs my arm. I jump back, pulling myself free.
Then I realize what just happened.
“You’re real,” I say, rubbing my arm.
It’s not sore or anything. I’m just a little stunned from his actually being able to touch me.
“I mean, you’re really here,” I add.
“It’s Halloween.”
“So you just get to walk around on Halloween—I mean, with your body and everything?”
He nods. “Yeah, I know. It’s weird, isn’t it? I didn’t know it could really work.”
“You never noticed any other year?”
“It’s not an automatic thing. You have to be at the place you died exactly at moonrise, or it doesn’t happen. I didn’t know that.”
“Another one of those stupid rules,” I say.
“What rules?”
“Haven’t you noticed that everything to do with fairies and magic’s all bound up in rules? Like the way we got rid of the fairies by leaving clothes out for them and thanking them for a job well done.”
“What job did they ever do well besides getting me killed, putting you and Imogene in danger, and, oh yeah, pretty much tormenting anyone who happened to catch their interest?”
“It was just what you’re supposed to do to get rid of them.”
“Oh.”
He looks down at the clothes that I still haven’t decided what to do with yet, though I’m leaning more and more toward just leaving them here on the floor.
“So, it really worked?” I ask. “They’re all gone?”
He nods. “But that’s not going to stop the anamithim.”
“We’ve got another plan for that.”
“I want to help.” He’s peering into the shadows again. “Where is Imogene anyway?”
“I don’t think your helping is such a good idea,” I tell him. “Considering how you got us all into this.”
“I told you, that was an accident.”
“Well, we don’t need another accident.”
“Oh for—”
“And I’ll tell you something else. If anything happens to Imogene, I’m going to find a way to get you for it.”
This time the angry look I give him registers, and he takes a step back.
It’s funny: I can’t stand up for myself, but it turns out I can be totally fierce for Imogene.
“But I really want to help,” Adrian says. “That’s all I’ve been trying to figure out these past few days.”
I want to stay mad at him, but he looks so miserable that I can’t. Instead I tell him what we’ve found out so far, from Imogene’s research—“Oh, I heard about the bread bit,” he says—to Esmeralda’s odd warnings about the ballad “Tam Lin” and how Imogene figures we can use spotlights from the drama club to trap the creatures in their glare.
“That’s a better idea than I had,” Adrian says.
“What were you planning to do?”
“First I was trying to figure out a way to give them somebody else in her place.”
“Oh, nice.”
“Well, it was going to be a creep like Brent Calder.”
“Too late for that,” I say. “He’s already in the hospital.” So then I have to tell him about it.
“Wow,” he says. “She really is tough.”
I give a slow, unhappy nod. I mean, I’m glad that Imogene’s okay and everything, but it’s weird, especially the way she can just carry on afterward like it’s no big deal.
“So I assume you changed your mind about the sacrifice,” I say.
“Well, yeah. It wouldn’t be right. Even for someone like Brent.”
“So what then?”
“Well, I was going to offer myself up in her place. You know, nothing fancy. I’d just ...” He faces the darkest corner of the basement, spreads his arms wide, and declaims in a loud voice, “Okay, here I am and I’m telling you that you can’t take Imogene. You want someone, I’m right here, waiting for you.”
I’m trying to stop him as soon as he starts. I grab at his arm, but he shakes me off.
“What?” he says. “I’m just showing you ...”
“I just don’t think you should be ...” I’m saying at the same time.
Our voices trail off as we hear it—no, we feel it. Something stirring in the shadows of that dark, dark corner.
I so don’t want this to be what I know it is.
“Oh, crap.”Adrian says.
I echo that sentiment, but the words can’t seem to get past my lips. As the three figures step from the shadows, my mind’s too numbed to be able to do anything so complex as make my muscles work.
The first thing I think when they come out into the light is that they’re like angels. Or at least the way I always imagined angels to be: stern and tall and way too bright.
Except no way are they angels. Because angels have mercy, too, right? And these ... these creatures ... I’m sure they have none. They’re gaunt and hairless, wearing thin, loose robes that reach to the floor and cling to their shapes so their musculature is hyperdefined. Their gazes are flat, I mean completely expressionless, like we mean nothing to them. I know we mean nothing to them.
And they seem to be made of light.
But it’s not a light that shines out, so much as in, as if they swallow it into the slick sheen of their skin. It was gloomy enough down here in the basement before they showed up, but as soon as they stepped from the shadows, the overhead lights went dimmer. And right now I can feel myself going dimmer, as though just being in their pre
sence is taking something from me.
Shadows writhe around the bottoms of their legs, as though dozens of half-realized things are shifting shape down there, unable to completely take form, or unwilling to settle on just one. I see, here, a small triangular head with a mouthful of sharp teeth; there, a bony limb ending in claws or talons.They’re horrible, but not nearly as bad as the motionless figures towering over them.
It’s funny. Before the anamithim showed up, I knew this was all real—that the soul-eaters were for real—but deep inside, I never quite believed it. I’d sit there making plans with a blue-skinned Imogene and a fairy-tale Pelly, but I never truly believed that these creatures actually existed.
I believe it now. How can I not believe in these tall white figures with their legs disappearing into that fog of shifting, squirming shadows?
The foremost one beckons for us to approach, but no way am I getting any closer. I can’t move anyway, but if I could, I’d be running as fast and far from here as my legs could take me.
He—it?—says something in a language I don’t understand; the words make my skin crawl, like there are cockroaches flowing all up my legs and torso and scurrying into my ears.
And then my body betrays me, because it takes a step forward of its own accord.
I fight the loss of my body’s motor control, but I might as well be trying to bottle a spoken sentence.
My body takes another step.
I’m wailing in my head—this gibbering wordless panic that would put horror movie actors to shame if it could ever come tearing out of my mouth.
I know I’m going to walk right up to the anamithim.
I know I’m going to let them put their hands on me and I’m going to feel the touch of their horrible light-stealing flesh on mine.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Right then—if I was never sure before—I know that we all do have souls that burn and glow like a light inside of us.
We carry beautiful, warm fires that the darkness covets.
And they’re going to take ours from us.
They’re going to drain the light right out of us, and then there’ll be nothing left of us.
Nothing left at all.
At least Imogene’s not here, I think.
Maybe they’ll be satisfied with us. Maybe once they’ve taken us, they won’t have the same hunger for Imogene.
Except then I hear the sound of running footsteps from behind us. I can’t turn my head.
Go back, go back! I want to shout.
But nothing comes out of my mouth.
And then I hear Imogene say, “Get them open, Pelly.”
Now I had no idea if blue paint was going to do anything, but that’s what Pelly and I picked up in the art room. Four big plastic pails of liquid poster paint. I thought we could pour the paint around ourselves to make a protective circle, because we know blue works, and who really knows about this salt business? Or maybe we could just pour it over Maxine and Pelly, so that they’d be protected, too.
But when we finally reach Maxine, I have a better idea.
“Get them open, Pelly,” I say as I work the lid free from one of the pails I’m carrying. “Then follow my lead.”
Oh, they’re big and scary, all right, these anamithim, and don’t look anything like I expected. I was thinking the Ringwraiths from the Lord of the Rings movies—just these horrible shapes in tattered black cloaks. And maybe they’re super powerful and everything. But they’re messing with my friend.
I’ve spotted Adrian, too. It figures he’d be here. He probably led the anamithim to Maxine. But I figure we can deal with him later. He’s a ghost. What’s the worst he can do? Call some more bad guys down on us?
I check to make sure Pelly s ready. There are three of the tall-white-and-uglies and a whole mess of squirmy shadows moving around by their feet. The big one in front starts saying something in a language I don’t get. He seems surprised about something—maybe he was mouthing some spell?—but now I’m right in his face.
Up goes the pail, and blue paint goes flying all over the three of them.
“Pelly?” I say.
When I turn around, I see he’s frozen in place, so I run back and get another pail.
The uglies are all yelling something now, but I don’t pay any attention. I just pry off the lid of the second pail and start back toward them. The front guy sticks his arm out and points at me, still shouting something, when the second pailful of blue paint goes washing all over him and his buddies. The front ugly gets a mouthful and he stumbles back, choking.
The mess of wriggling shadows is gone now. And it seems brighter in the room. I couldn’t figure out why it was so dim compared to the rest of the basement.
The creature in front’s still trying hard to do some kind of magic thing to me. If the rage in his eyes was a physical threat, I’d be dead.
I throw the empty pail at him. I miss, but whack the guy standing behind him, who gets this startled, stunned look.
Well, what do you know?
I was thinking the paint would—oh, I don’t know— damage them in some way, but this is turning out way better than I could have planned. Because I can tell from the looks on their faces that we’re not supposed to be able to touch them. I guess it was part of their magic—the same enchantment that lets them travel through shadows and just take shape when they want to.
But they’re locked in their physical shapes right now. And the shadows won’t be taking them anywhere.
“Rules have changed, boys,” I say.
I take out my switchblade and thumb the button. The blade sniks out.
Time to finish this.
As I step forward, Pelly s suddenly by my side. I guess the amamithim s spell wore off, or they’re too busy right now to maintain it. Pelly flings the contents of his pail over the creatures, covering them with yet another coating of blue paint.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says to me. “I didn’t lose my courage. It was magic that stopped me.”
“I know,” I say.
It was those words that the leader was saying, which is also why Maxine wasn’t able to move. But those magic words didn’t work on me.
I glance at Pelly. “Keep an eye on ghost boy while I put an end to this.”
They’re tall and they’re repulsive, and not big on courage, either, it seems. I mean, any one of them is twice my size, and there’s three of them. But I guess they can’t touch the blue-skinned girl, and she’s got the knife.
I move toward them, and they back away from me until they’re right up against the wall. That tells me everything I need to know.
They can be hurt.
They can die.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe we were supposed to be scared of you sorry losers.”
I remember Frankie Lee’s coaching. Sharp edge of the blade up. Put your whole shoulder into the thrust. Plunge it into the stomach, then rip it up.
I step up to the closest of the anamithim.
“Imogene, don’t!”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Maxine, they were going to eat our souls?”
“I know. And I could actually feel it starting to happen.”
“So your problem is?”
“If you kill them, that makes us no better than they are.” I shake my head. “I’m not too concerned with which of us is morally superior. Do you think they cared?”
“No, but we should.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” I say. “I know all about how the bad things you do come back on you, believe me. But this is something that has to be done. So for the record, it’s my doing, not yours, not Pelly’s.”
“The Imogene I care about wouldn’t do it,” she says. “Maybe the Imogene you thought you knew never existed.”
“I don’t believe that. And neither do you.”
I’m not entirely sure she’s right. I dealt harshly with Brent. I never stopped to think about it. I just cut him and
then left him to bleed.
I know if I survive this, I’ll have to deal with the fallout.
With what I did to Brent, I’ll have to deal with the police and the legal system, and probably Brent trying to get his own back, because he’s just dumb enough to need to do that. But here ... here I have no idea except that I know Maxine’s right.
It’s my own words to Adrian about karma, coming back to haunt me.
I’ll have to carry the weight of what I’ve done, and the worst-case outcome of killing the anamithim will be that the Imogene I’ve been trying to be, the one that Maxine considers her friend, won’t exist anymore. If she ever did. Maybe this past year has just been some pathetic joke fate’s been playing on me, letting me pretend to be a good kid. To be normal.
“You know if we leave this now,” I say, “we’re just going to have to deal with it later.”
She shakes her head. “No, we’ll deal with it now.”
She steps up beside me and faces the leader of the creatures. “Are you ready to hear the terms of your survival?” she asks.
He turns his head and spits out some blue paint. When he looks back at her, he says something in that unintelligible language of his.
“Speak English,” Maxine says.
I’m impressed. There she is, with her back straight, her voice firm, standing up to him like she never did the bullies at school.
He glares at her, but says, “What are your terms?”
His voice is guttural and heavily accented, but we can understand the words now.
“If we let you go,” Maxine says, “you leave us alone. You leave us and our families and our friends and anybody we know or might come to know alone. In other words, it’ll be like you never were a part of our lives and you never will be.”
“And ... and in exchange?”
Oh, I can tell he had trouble getting that out.
“You get to live,” she tells him.
He stands up straighter, towering over us. Even with that blue paint splashed all over his sickly white skin and robe, he manages to look pretty damn scary.
“Do you have any idea with whom you are dealing?” he says.
The Blue Girl Page 25
