by Greg Keyes
“Interesting necklace,” she said.
“I suppose,” Delia said. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“Which—I take it—you don’t.”
“Well, not so much,” Delia agreed, but found she could not follow that with anything stronger or more specific.
“May I see it?” the young woman asked.
Delia was certain she would have said no, but before she could say anything, the girl had taken it and lifted it over her head.
“Oh thank God,” Delia gushed. “Thank you. You have no idea—”
But then the girl dropped the necklace right back on. “What’s your name?” the girl asked.
“Delia Fincher,” she said, her hopes evaporating like morning dew.
“Mine is Dusk,” she said. “And from now on, you do what I say.”
“Yes,” Delia said miserably. “I suppose I must.”
“The first thing I want is for you to tell me everything you know about Kostye Dvesene and his daughter. You are not in any way to endanger me or raise any sort of alarm. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Delia said. “This could take a while. Why don’t you come in?”
So they went in. Delia talked for a while. Occasionally Dusk asked a question. Finally, she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Dusk sat pensively for a few moments.
“Here is what we’re going to do,” she finally said. “Next time he’s asleep, you’re going to go in and take all of the pictures off of the wall. You can leave up the other things, the writing. And from here on, you will refer to me as Aster or Aster Kostyena, do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Delia, “I do. But I don’t think this is a good idea, young lady. He is a rather—unstable man. You should reconsider.”
“Thanks for the advice,” “Aster” replied. “Now, don’t bring it up again.”
The darkness around Errol eased from black to grey. He was sitting up, but he wasn’t sure where. He remembered going at the boys with his fists and after that a good bit of pain followed by a whole lot of nothing. Now night birds and crickets sang and he smelled honeysuckle.
The wind blew and something creaked, and he realized he was sitting on a swing—not just any swing, but one of the two on the set his dad built for him in the backyard. But the last time he had seen it the seats had been broken, and he hadn’t cared much about swinging, anyway.
He could see the house, and the road going by.
The wind blew again, and the swing next to him moved, squeaking again.
He looked along the road again and saw her coming. Her head was down, so her hair covered her eyes. He felt the fear rise up from his belly.
He had hoped he could meet her better than this, unafraid. Proud. Knowing that this time he had died doing something.
But, oh God was he scared.
It took everything in him to stay in the seat, to not run like he had before, because he knew it was useless.
He wished he knew if he’d helped, if Aster and Veronica and Billy made it. He reckoned it had to be good enough that he had tried.
She was closer now. He started to shake.
The swing next to him creaked, and creaked again.
Errol looked over at it.
His dad sat in it, looking like he had before he got sick. He reached over and cupped Errol’s head.
“Dad?”
His father nodded yes, but he didn’t speak. He just turned Errol’s head away from the woman and pulled him close. Errol studied the wide, familiar face—the thick broad nose and quick, dark eyes. Errol could tell he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t.
“I miss you Dad,” he said. “I miss you so much.”
His father pulled him to his shoulder and wrapped his arms around him, and for the first time in a long time he felt safe, even though he knew he wasn’t.
The woman was close, now. He could feel her like a chilly wind.
“I’m not scared anymore, Dad,” he said. “Well, just a little maybe. I love you.”
The light was coming from behind his dad now. His father held him closer, trying to shield him, but it was no use. He began to fade. He looked sad, and distressed.
“I’m okay, Dad,” Errol said. “It’s not your fault.”
Then his father was gone, and the woman in white was only a yard away.
Her head rose slowly. Errol straightened his back defiantly. He lifted his head.
“Come on, then,” he said.
He saw her chin. He saw her nose.
He saw Aster and Veronica staring down at him. Above, long fluorescent tubes cast a pallid light.
“It’s a miracle,” Aster said. “Hallelujah.”
“You lied to me, Errol,” Veronica said, patting his cheek. “You told me you used all of the water of health on me. I’m very cross.”
“What?” he croaked. He turned his head.
His head. He was in a hospital bed, in his own body. His throat hurt like fire, and he had an awful taste in his mouth.
“You used it on me?” he croaked. “What about your dad?”
“You needed it more,” Aster said. “I—” She turned her head quickly, as if to hide something. Was she crying?
“Excuse me, okay?” she said. “I’m going to tell the nurses about your miraculous recovery.”
He waited until she was out of the room before asking the obvious.
“What about Billy?”
“He brought us home,” Veronica said. “Or at least to the edge, where we came in. The Marches. And then he just turned around and walked away. Didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Poor Aster.”
“Yes,” Veronica said. “To be honest, she said some things that made me think he might not have left if she’d used the water of health on him. So you should be doubly grateful to her.”
“I didn’t ask her to do this,” he protested.
“Would you rather be dead? You were about to be when we got here. They said it might be just a few hours.”
He digested that for a minute.
“I do want to live,” he said. “I’m glad to be alive.” He reached for her hand. “I tried to find you,” he said.
“I know,” she answered, knitting her fingers into his. “Of course you did.” She smiled. “Notice anything different?”
She was different, he realized. Her skin was pinker than he had ever seen it. She almost seemed to be shining. And her hand was warm.
“You’re alive?” he gasped.
“Well,” she said. “About half the time. When the sun is up. But that’s not half bad, is it? Or maybe it’s exactly half bad.”
He studied her with wonder. But then he remembered.
“You said you didn’t want to come back here,” he said.
“Well,” she said. “I’m not so wild about the idea, but I’ve kind of developed a thing for you, Errol Greyson.”
“Have you?” he said. “Really? The kind of thing where you want to strangle me at the bottom of a swimming pool?”
“I wasn’t thinking about strangling you,” she said. “But I am now.”
“Well, back up a little,” he said. “What were you thinking about?”
“Something more like this,” she said, and she bent over and parted her lips. The kiss was warm and sweet and altogether amazing.
“And that is exactly how I should like to kiss you,” she said. “Now that I am alive.”
“I’d like another please,” he said.
But then the doctors and nurses arrived, and things were kind of a mess for a while.
Aster managed to convince Veronica to leave the hospital with her. It wasn’t easy, but at some point someone was going to want to know who the strange girl was, and that could lead to a whole lot of trouble.
From the outside her house looked like it had when she left it. Not so her father’s room.
Aster was sitting against the wall, quietly sobbing, when Veronica came in. She was munching on a peanut butter sand
wich.
“Oh, this is soooooo good,” she said. “I had completely forgotten how wonderful tasting is.”
She saw Aster was crying, stopped, and looked around.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“He’s gone,” Aster told her. “My father is gone.”
“I thought he was trapped in here.”
“That was the theory,” Aster said. “But clearly . . .” she gestured at the room.
“All of it,” she said. “For nothing.”
“Nothing?” Veronica objected. “Errol is well again. And I’m alive, more-or-less. And we beat some bad guys. I’m sorry about your dad, but this isn’t over. We’ll help you find him, if that’s what you want.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Aster said. “You’ve done your part.”
“Me, you, Errol—we make a good team,” Veronica said. “If you want to boot me out, that’s one thing. But if you’re going back in, I can still help. I’m sure Errol feels the same way. I can’t believe you would just give up now.”
“It’s not a matter of giving up,” Aster said. “It’s that I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Veronica said. “This all stinks of Dusk. I can practically smell her. Did you notice the horse poop in your yard?” She knelt down and tapped the star on Aster’s forehead.
“I suggest you start with that. With her.”
Of course, Aster thought. She was stupid not to have seen it sooner.
“She must have come here and pretended to be me,” she said. “It wouldn’t be that hard, at least not at first. She took the pictures down—ah, zhedye!” She jumped up and raced to her bedroom. It was in shambles. She looked under the mattress where she kept her diary.
It was not, of course, there.
“That bitch!” she shouted.
“Now you’re talking,” Veronica said. “That’s the Aster I like to see.”
“Yes,” Aster said, feeling her anger rise. “I am Aster Kostyena. And she will regret this.”
“That’s right!” Veronica said. “We’ll find her, get your dad back—”
“And chop her bloody head of with her own sword,” Aster finished.
“That too,” Veronica said.
Aster looked up at Veronica, who was offering her a hand. She took it and stood.
“Put the sandwich down,” she said. “How long has it been since you had a hamburger?”
Veronica’s eyes went round as quarters. “Hamburgers? I completely forgot about those.”
“Come on, then,” Aster said. “I’m buying.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Cory Allyn for overseeing this manuscript becoming a book; to Jeremy Lassen for editing and Joseph Foster for the nitty-gritty of copy editing. The wonderful cover art is by Micah Epstein, the cover design by Claudia Noble, and production by Joshua Barnaby. Thanks also to my first readers, Lanelle Webb Keyes and Tim Keyes.
GREG
KEYES was born April 11, 1963 in Meridian, Mississippi. When his father took a job on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona, Greg was exposed at an early age to the cultures and stories of the Native Southwest, which would continue to inform him for years to come. He earned a bachelor’s degree in anthropology at Mississippi State University and a Master’s degree at the University of Georgia. While pursuing his PhD at UGA, he wrote several novels, one of which—The Waterborn—was published, along with its sequel The Blackgod. He followed this with The Age of Unreason books, the epic fantasy series Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone, and novels from several franchises, including Star Wars, Babylon Five, The Elder Scrolls, and Planet of the Apes. He now lives and works in Savannah, Georgia with his wife Nell, son John Edward Arch, and daughter Dorothy Nellah Joyce.
