by Gwenda Bond
Death’s here —
We’re here —
You need to hear —
As usual, details aren’t provided.
“I should be helping the techs,” Miranda says. “They’ll be down several staff. And Polly… it’s still the show.”
I gape at her. “No way. That’s nuts. You can’t help them with this.”
“I know. It’s just… the theater, it’s always been an escape.” She shakes her head. “Figures Dee’s wrecked that too.”
“You did quit, at least.”
“I still can’t believe I did that.”
“I can,” I tell her, nudging her with my arm.
We lapse back into silent worry. I consider calling Dad, but I can’t figure out how that will help. So I sit and watch and try try try to locate an exit strategy we can use later. Dee’s soul is a wrong thing, unnatural, and we’ll regret forever the moment when he gets what he wants, what he’s waited for all this time.
Immortality.
He must not succeed —
You must stop this —
Must stop —
Must —
I press the voices away — either I’m getting better at blocking them out, or being near Dee makes it easier. I’m not sure how I feel about either possibility. I also don’t see how these chattering spirits are supposed to help me; Gram’s gift must have acted differently. I’m about to fail my ancestor, who apparently gave us this capacity for a reason. But how am I supposed to think with so many voices talking at me? What strength do spirits have to give?
The early evening steals in like a cat burglar and with it comes Polly. She emerges from the house in a long cloak that matches her hair. Her fingers are red, bloody raw, and she sucks on one absently, as if she feels the hurt from far away.
“Dinner inside,” she says. “Miranda, I need you to come with me.”
“You’re Eleanor, right?” I ask. “My ancestor?”
The gray-haired young woman nods. “You’re one of Ginny’s descendants. Such a surprise that she survived.”
“She hated everything you stand for,” I say. “She passed that on down the line.”
“We have been misunderstood all along. I’m not surprised to hear it from my daughter’s spawn. Come inside. Soup for you. And Miranda gets a bath.”
Miranda climbs to her feet and turns to me. “Have your soup. I’ll do the bath because I smell.” Eleanor-Polly smiles again, and Miranda adds, “But if you try to stick me in some wedding gown or something, it will not happen. Got it?”
My smile is real but gone as soon as Miranda is. What if they do try to put her in a wedding gown?
Sidekick stays with me, looking hopeful.
“All right, boy. Last meal, it is.”
In the kitchen, a few fat candles sit on wax paper, burned down to their wicks. They’re black, just like the ones outside. “Subtle,” I mutter.
I discover an enormous kettle of normal-smelling beef-and-vegetable soup on the stove, and a stack of bowls beside it that must have been collected from several kitchens. I scoop soup into one, noticing how loud every noise seems in the lack of bustle. I eat a bite and realize I’m starving, but pause, just to make sure I don’t keel over. I don’t, so I put the bowl on the floor for Sidekick to slurp in gulps. My own bowl goes almost as fast.
I expect Polly and Miranda will be the first to reemerge. Instead, Dee joins me.
If Dee was a skin cream commercial before, now he’s an ad for youth itself. Vitality. Strength. Even the body he wears seems in better shape.
He’s also wearing yet another suit. This one has thin gray pinstripes. Some devoted follower, or maybe his lackey Whitson, must’ve shopped until they dropped to make sure he coordinates with his coven’s capes. Dee’s own gray cloak remains folded across his arm.
“So, what’s your big dastardly plan?” I set down my bowl on the counter with a clatter. It can’t hurt to ask.
Dee looks at me, eyes as black and blank as if he’s a painting that walks. In that moment, I’m sure I’m right about the forces he’s accessing. They are unknowable, beyond my understanding. Maybe they’re using Dee. Maybe he isn’t fully in control either.
Those eyes make the whispering voices around us go quiet. They make it hard for me to breathe.
Or maybe that’s the invisible fist squeezing my lungs.
I can’t breathe. My lungs burn. My mouth is open, but no air comes in. I can’t force myself to suck in a breath.
I start to panic. So do the spirits.
Strong —
Breathe —
You can’t let this —
No —
“Shall we go?” Dee’s lips form the words, and the flatness vanishes from his eyes. A boundless dark energy replaces the two-dimensional death glare.
I know who I’ll see before I turn, gasping, lungs released.
Miranda stands in the middle of the common room with her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is loose and almost dry. She wears a fresh outfit — a vintage western shirt, a pair of jeans, and dusty sneakers. This is the girl I want to go anywhere with, anywhere except wherever Dee is taking us.
Beside her, Polly and a couple of women I don’t recognize sport heavy cloaks. Polly — or rather, Eleanor — says, “Master, I apologize for the state of her. She wouldn’t consent —”
Dee holds up a hand. “Mary —” He pauses. “That is to say, Miss Blackwood is a vision. It will be my honor to escort her to the birth of New London.”
Polly’s mouth closes, and she nods.
“I’ll walk with Grant.” Miranda crosses the room to me.
“That will be fine.” Dee responds with a don’t-care elegance; he can afford it with everything else going his way.
I cannot fathom how the man is so divorced from reality that he not only thinks Miranda is into dead guys, but that she’ll ever be attracted to someone who looks like her dad. Merry olde England wasn’t that backward. Was it?
My thinking must show on my face, because the squeeze of my lungs is worse this time. I cough, hacking, struggling to breathe.
Miranda grips my arm, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
The pressure vanishes at Miranda’s question, and I suck in air. Dee is waiting to see how I’ll respond. I choke out an answer, “What isn’t?”
Dee’s black eyes leave me.
Still, I’m not breathing easy.
Chapter 35
MIRANDA
The trek to the theater begins at sunset. Dee, Polly, Roswell, and Sara are in the lead, followed by Grant and me. The rest of the returned form a dark cloud behind us. These familiar figures wearing the unfamiliar gray cloaks are guaranteed to freak out any friends and loved ones attending the Dare County Night to end all Dare County Nights.
We don’t walk along the main road but rather take the back way. I’ve always considered this path somewhat enchanted, because only people in the show use it. It hugs the coast, the waters of the sound in full view, and runs all the way to Waterside Theater’s backstage. Sure, it’s infested with snakes — though tellingly we don’t see any tonight.
The actors and technicians left a few hours earlier. Dee wants them to put on the show, though I still don’t understand why. Can’t he just clap his hands and make thunder and lightning and drop birds from the sky and then take his stupid gun and force me to betray everything I am?
I don’t know about the other stuff, but the last one is coming. The moment when I’m transformed into the traitor he branded me as. I touch my cheek, an absent gesture that’s becoming habit. My last-ditch effort at sabotaging the gun strikes me as little more than a bad joke with this entire parade of body-snatching alchemists around us.
“What did they want you to wear?” Grant asks.
These are the first words he’s spoken since we left Polly’s, since th
at weird choking incident.
“Gray isn’t my color,” is all I say. Back at the apartment, Polly and Kirsten presented me with a tray of makeup from somewhere, along with a too-long sack-like baby doll dress made in the same gray of the cloaks. Polly attempted to at least force a cloak onto my shoulders, but I locked the bathroom door and put on my own clothes.
The wind tosses my hair around my face. I’m not even going to look over at the sound, in case it’s a dead fish fiesta from here to eternity. Dee seems far too strong, leading his favored companions toward the theater. Or Eleanor is favored, anyway — Sara is as much a pawn in this as me, and Roswell just has a bad case of hero worship.
I want to tell Grant how much his sticking with me means. I want to tell him lots of things. But I don’t. He doesn’t say anything more either. I hope he hasn’t forgotten that he promised not to let me betray my principles, this town, this world. I don’t want to be the bad guy.
I pause and pat Sidekick’s head where he trots along beside me. I was afraid to leave him behind. If I never made it back, I didn’t want him trapped with them.
Our silent party finally reaches the theater and heads backstage, winding along the stone path between tall trees and the small buildings that house everything from costumes and props to lighting gels and tools. A stagehand leaving the costume shop calls out to Polly. “Poll, where have you been all day?”
Polly ignores him, fixated on her master.
Dee doesn’t pause until we’re to the amphitheater. He stops in front of the stage and waits for the mass of his followers to file out from behind him. The event has packed the house. Every seat is taken, aside from a large vacant section down front blocked off by strands of police tape. The audience, already in their seats, watches, murmuring questions. I even glimpse Blue Doe at the back of the house with her cameraman. She beams in our direction as they film the big event.
Once his cohort is complete, Dee crosses to the first row of empty seats. He sweeps on his cloak with a flourish. He calls out, loud and clear, as if his words are being broadcast through a wireless microphone: “Welcome tonight’s guests of honor. Your beloved have returned to you!”
Confused applause quickly gathers force as the returned claim their seats. Most of the people here will likely see their annual income triple thanks to the interest caused by the disappearance and reappearance, the all-new lost-and-found colony. The show’s next season will probably be the biggest ever. This night is about dragging out the attention on the new mystery, adding to the local legend. Next year’s dollar signs are in everyone’s eyes. Except they don’t know we’ll be living in “New London” with our creepy mayor, aka the devil of Roanoke Island.
When I finally look at him, I realize Dee is waiting for me. He leans forward, giving me a small bow. “You will do me the honor of sitting at my side,” he says.
It’s not phrased as a question. The snake burns, and my lips open. “Yes, delighted.” I hear the words come out of my mouth, not of my own accord. He made me say it.
I guess that freedom promise is officially off the table.
“I’ll stay with you,” Grant says.
“Yes, and our Sara will be right beside you,” Dee says, scanning for Grant’s mom, “in case you need motherly guidance.”
Dee finds his wayward recruit at the same time I do. She’s engaged in a heated conversation with Chief Rawling, who’s there in uniform. Sara meets Dee’s gaze and walks back to us without another word to her husband.
The chief shoots a worried look in Grant’s and my direction. I match it as Dee’s cloak whips in the air. He urges us into our seats. Front row center, of course.
Blue Doe appears as soon as we’re seated. She teeters on high heels directly in front of Dee. Her eyes narrow on me as if she can’t quite place me. I crane my neck in the opposite direction to avoid her scrutiny.
“Sir, ah, sir, can I have a moment of your time?” Blue Doe asks. When there’s no response, she raises her voice. “Anyone care to do a quick interview? Come on, now. Don’t be shy. America wants to hear your stories.… What is that dog doing here?”
Without looking at her, I reach down and tug Sidekick more securely in front of my feet.
“What do the capes symbolize?” Blue Doe asks, exasperated. “At least give me that much.”
“Ceremony. The connection between souls who have been among the lost,” Dee answers, nailing the reporter with a look that would shut me up.
Apparently Blue Doe and I have that much in common. She clicks away on her high heels. I can’t even enjoy her retreat, because Dee places his hand over mine. The hunk of flesh is cold as ice cubes. The summer night’s humidity is sticky, and I half expect mist to form where his hand makes contact with my warm skin.
The lights swell, then dim. The crew is getting ready for curtain.
“We’re really watching the show,” I say, disbelieving.
“I know this version of history means much to you,” Dee says. “And what better way to bring reality to our new home? We will show it to them.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means — not that I think he’ll answer — but His Royal Majesty strides out on stage. I don’t miss the dirty look he shoots at Polly and me in the front row.
Fabulous. Now he really hates me.
“Welcome, friends, neighbors, and strangers,” he begins. “It’s such a relief to have everyone home safe. We here at Waterside Theater wanted to mark the return of everyone’s loved ones in a special way, with this special island tradition. Enjoy.”
I hear every word, but process little of it. What does Dee mean, We will show it to them?
The director exits stage right to another round of applause — this one merely polite — and the show starts. I try to lift my hand from Dee’s under the guise of covering a yawn, but he exerts a steady pressure that keeps it under his own. Noticing the struggle, Grant props his forearm on the armrest, so his shoulder rubs against mine.
Death on one side, life on the other.
The first group of actors marches onto the stage, decked out in the most elaborate Elizabethan costumes The Lost Colony has to offer. They bustle with pomp, and despite the reality of what’s happening, I settle into my seat, dipping my head back to take in the sky above. Familiar clear pinpoints of light stare down. The stars are watching tonight’s performance too, and I want to warn them.
New scenes, little rehearsal. This night may well go down in flames.
The play begins with Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh in London, both in agreement that he should colonize the new world. The settlers come on next. They voyage and arrive, argue and suffer. The musical numbers hit in perfect time, the chorus not a note out of tune. No one forgets a line or steps on a cue. Mean little Caroline is a rosy-cheeked angel.
It’s one of the best performances I can remember.
And none of them know what lies ahead.
I chance a look next to me, resigned not to hold it against Grant if he’s smirking or bored. But by all appearances, he’s into the production too. I’m oddly glad. I’m more tied to the theater than any other part of the island. I’ve always belonged here more than anywhere else. This has always been my best escape.
The show is also long, too long for Dee’s patience to hold, apparently. Just as the second act closes — after the actors exit the stage, but before the lights go down and intermission starts — he releases my hand.
Watching the play has been a reprieve, but that ends when Dee rises to his feet. The rest of the returned stand on his cue. The mark on my face burns again, as I get to my feet, not of my own volition.
Sorry, stars in the sky, we have to interrupt this program.
Grant gets up, and says, “Miranda… Mom…” But Sara is already walking away with the others.
The returned file out of their rows in neat lines, as choreographed as if they�
�ve been rehearsing for a few hundred years. They climb the stairs on either side of the stage. Some linger on the steps, facing the audience, while others take over the back half of the stage itself. All of them leave space for someone else to pass by. I realize it’s a makeshift promenade.
The crowd buzzes in confusion, not sure how to react. But they stay in their seats.
I fight as hard as I can, willing my limbs to be under my own control, but it’s no use. My elbow juts out at a wide, proper angle to allow Dee to slip his through it. My feet walk me forward, my pace matching his perfectly.
The cloaked figures curve in a generous half-moon as Dee parades me past, a cupping shell that mirrors the top of the monas hieroglyphica symbol. We climb the steps onto the stage.
When we reach the top of the short flight of stairs, I look into the crowd. Locating Grant is as easy as finding the flash of movement. Agent Malone and Agent Walker are also at the show and busy hauling Grant up the aisle in slow degrees. His father attempts to intervene while Grant argues, but neither of their protests seem to be meeting with success.
The crowd barely notes that disturbance, even with the busiest busybodies in town in attendance. They’re too busy watching the stage — there are a few confused murmurs but far more wide smiles that assume this is all part of the show. The disappearances themselves were probably part of it, they must be thinking. What a grand idea.
No one is going to intervene. No one is going to save me.
My head turns back to what’s ahead of me, and my feet continue to move forward. Cloaked arms extend. They make a gray path across the stage for my father’s body and me.
The audience murmurs kick up a notch then. People won’t think this is part of the show.
“That’s the Blackwoods!” someone says. The man is in the middle section, starting to rise from his seat, gesturing toward the stage. Is that Mike from Stop and Gas? As the seller of the cheapest six-pack in town, he would be the other person besides Chief Rawling to finally recognize Dad.
