by Libba Bray
Evie would never believe in safe distances again.
“You’re crying,” Jericho said.
“Am I?” Evie said faintly. “What a chump.”
She put a hand to the empty spot at her neck and wept.
PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE ANYTHING
In the small, dank interrogation room, Will rested his head on his arms. The clock showed five in the afternoon. The door opened and Malloy shifted his bulk into a chair opposite Uncle Will. “We picked up your niece and your assistant at the old Knowles house.”
“Is she…?”
“She’s fine. The house burned to the ground, but she’s fine.” Malloy paused for a minute too long. “Swears she struggled with the killer—the spirit of Naughty John Hobbes come back to life.”
Will stared at his clasped hands and said nothing.
“It’s the damndest thing, but that pendant you dug up? Well, seems when the boys went to take it out of evidence, it was nothing but a pile of ashes. Oddest thing they’d ever seen. Guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Will remained silent.
“Heard from the local boys up in Brethren. There was a fire up there last night, too—started around the time the comet came through, the same time as the Knowles’ End fire. Hadn’t been dry up in those woods—in fact, they’d had a whole day of rain. Wasn’t arson, either. No, it seems the old camp in the woods—and just the old camp—burned completely to the ground in a flash. There’s nothing left. Not a stone or a stick.” Malloy leaned forward. The bags under his eyes were puffier than usual. “Will, what’s going on here?”
Will looked up at last. “What do you want me to say?”
Malloy seemed to consider this for a long while, finally letting out an extended soliloquy of a sigh. “Nothing,” he said at last. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, Fitz. I’d like to collect my pension in ten years, so I’m going to tell you what happened. As far as the city’s concerned, the Pentacle Killer was shot and killed and burned in the fire, no identity known. He was killed by one of our men in blue. Officer Lyga is due for promotion. He’s a good man. Now he’s a hero. Heroes are good. Heroes make people sleep better at night. That’s the story. You understand?”
“You think people will believe it?”
“People will believe anything if it means they can go on with their lives and not have to think too hard about it.” Malloy rose and opened the door. “You’re free to go.”
At the door, he put a hand on Will’s arm. His tone was urgent. “Will, what’s happening?”
“Get some rest, Terrence.”
“Don’t make an enemy of me, Will,” Malloy called after him.
Will walked the labyrinthine halls of the police station. He passed a windowed room with half-drawn blinds where two men in dark suits sat waiting to speak with the chief. Both men sat calmly, quietly, as if they had no reason to hurry. As if they were accustomed to getting their way, and this meeting would prove no different.
Will paled and hurried past, pushing through the doors of the station into the gray-wool haze of morning. He tossed two cents at a newspaperman and read the day’s late headline about the death of the Pentacle Killer, which featured a posed photograph of Officer Lyga standing beside the American flag above the caption HERO OFFICER KEEPS CITY SAFE. They had worked fast. There was no mention of Will or the museum. Will left the newspaper on a nearby bench and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets to hide their shaking.
Memphis waited until Octavia was fast asleep, then shut the door to the bedroom where Isaiah slept and crept to his side. He stared at his hands. It had been three years since Memphis had tried to cure his mother and felt the press of spirits amid a great fluttering of wings. Maybe he’d lost the healing gift forever. But he was tired of being too scared to find out.
Memphis kneeled beside the bed. He thought about praying, but what would he pray for? Was he asking for God’s help, or his forgiveness? He wasn’t sure he believed in either, so he said nothing as he placed his hands on his brother’s body and thought about the healing. As Memphis kneeled beside his brother, he felt nothing. No trace of warmth. No smell of flowers before he was transported into the world of spirits and strange sights.
“I’m not giving up, dammit,” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you hear me? I will not give up!”
Memphis took a deep breath. It started as a twitch in his fingers. Then the old familiar warmth trickled through his veins like a tap suddenly turned on. And before he had time to think, he was sucked into that shadow realm between worlds. Around him, he felt the press of spirits, their hands placed gently on his shoulders, his arms, a great chain of healing. He heard his mother’s voice, soft and low.
“Memphis.”
She wore a cloak as iridescent as a moonlit lake. She wasn’t sick and gaunt like the last time he’d seen her; she was lovely, if a little somber. It was his mother in this place, and he wanted to run to her.
“Our time is brief, my son.”
“Mama? Is it you?”
“I must tell you these things while I can. You will be called to make great choices and great sacrifices,” she said a bit sadly. “All will be needed, but only you can decide which is the right path to take. A storm is coming, and you must be ready.”
“What about Isaiah?”
His mother didn’t answer. “There is something I never told you. Something I should have told you…”
The soft comfort of spirits dissolved. They were standing at the crossroads of his dream. In the distance were the farmhouse and the gnarled tree. The sky roiled with dark clouds mottled with lightning. Memphis’s mother looked up at the sky with fear. The wind blew fiercely, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“You can’t bring anything back, Memphis. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Promise me!”
The dust was nearly upon her.
“Mama, run!”
“Promise me!” she cried as the dust wall swallowed her up.
Memphis stumbled forward on the road, trying to outrun the choking dust. Through the field to his right, he saw the wheat bending into blackened ruin as a thin man in a somber coat and a tall hat cut through. The crow darted across Memphis’s path.
The trance was broken. Memphis fell back onto the floor with a hard thud. He was wet with sweat and shaking. He’d been to the healing place. He’d seen his mother in that world.
“Memphis. What you doing on the floor?”
Isaiah was awake and looking at him with sleepy eyes, as if it were any old morning.
“Isaiah?” Memphis choked out. “Isaiah?”
“That’s my name. You sure acting funny,” Isaiah said, stretching. “I’m thirsty.”
His brother was healed. He was healed, and Memphis had done it. His palms still tingled from the touch. He hadn’t lost the gift; it was back. Memphis gathered Isaiah up into his arms, crying.
“Whatsa matter?
“Nothing. Nothing, little man. Everything’s just fine now.”
“I’m still thirsty.”
“I’ll get you something to drink. Stay right here. Don’t go nowhere.”
“Anywhere,” Isaiah corrected sleepily.
“That, too.”
Memphis ran to the kitchen and stuck a glass under the tap, willing it to fill faster. “Thank you,” he said, though he didn’t know who he was saying it to, or why. He turned off the water and hurried back to Isaiah’s side.
Outside the kitchen window, lightning crackled high in the clouds. The crow looked on in silence.
THE COMING STORM
Evie, Theta, and Mabel walked out into the clear, crisp afternoon. It was a bright, cloudless day; the air felt newly born, and Evie had a hankering for a new hat. It had been four days since she’d faced down John Hobbes, the Beast, in that small room. Four days since she’d trapped his soul in her most sacred relic and let it go in order to save them all. Even now, her hand went to her bare neck under her scarf, wishing for the weight of it. She
’d not had a single dream since, but she tried not to think about it. She tried not to think about any of it. She and Uncle Will had barely spoken of that night. He seemed even more remote than before, cloistered away with his books and newspaper clippings till he was almost a ghost himself. Later, she would ask him about the Diviners. She would ask him how she would know if there were others like her, and how she could make her power stronger, more within her control. There was so much Evie wanted to know. But that could all wait. For now, she, Mabel, and Theta were on the trolley, headed to a hat shop Theta knew about, where Evie intended to buy a new cloche with a ribbon tied into an elaborate bow to signal that she was single and quite available. This was their city. This was their time. She’d promised Mabel they’d make the most of it, and she intended to fulfill that promise at last.
The trolley idled at a light and just before it moved again Sam hopped on the outside, holding fast to the bars at Evie’s shoulder.
“Hiya, ladies,” he said.
“Sam! Let go!” Evie scolded.
Sam peered behind him at the rapidly moving street. “Seems like a bad idea.”
“I’m still amazed they let you out of the Tombs.”
“Chalk it up to my charm, sister. I did manage to make off with some handcuffs, though.” His smile suggested something naughty and Evie rolled her eyes.
“Just wanted to let you know I’ll be gone for a few days,” he told her.
“I’ll wear a black veil and cry all night.”
Theta and Mabel giggled and looked away.
“You’ll miss me. I know you will, sister.” He gave her one of those wolfish grins.
“Hey!” the conductor called. “Get down from there!”
“Sam, you’re going to get in trouble!”
Sam grinned. “Aw, baby, I thought you loved trouble.”
“Will you get down before you kill yourself?”
“Broken up about my well-being?”
“Get. Down.”
Sam leaped from the trolley, nearly upending a woman pushing a pram. “Sorry, ma’am.” He brushed his hands clean and shouted after them, “One day, Evie O’Neill, you’re gonna fall head over heels for me!”
“Don’t hold your breath!” Evie shouted back.
Sam mimed an arrow through the heart and fell down. Evie laughed in spite of herself. “Idiot.”
Theta’s eyebrow inched up. “That boy’s got it bad for you, Evil.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Don’t kid yourself. It has nothing to do with me. That boy only wants what he can’t have.”
Theta looked out at the bright lights of Broadway, winking into existence against the dusk. “Don’t we all?”
By the time Evie reached the museum, it was dark and the day’s last visitors had gone. Humming a tune she’d heard on the radio, she dropped her scarf, coat, and pocketbook on a chair and made her way to the library. The doors were slightly ajar, and an unfamiliar woman’s voice came through the crack.
“The storm’s coming, Will. Whether you’re ready or not, it’s coming.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Will said. He sounded tense.
“Do you really think this was an isolated occurrence? You read the papers like I do. You’ve seen the signs.”
The conversation grew hushed and Evie edged closer to try to hear.
“I told you then that it would come to no good.”
“I tried, Margaret. You know that.”
They must have moved; the sound became muffled and Evie could make out only bits and pieces: “Safe haven.” “Diviners.” “Going to be needed.”
Evie leaned closer, straining to hear.
“What about your niece? You know what she is. You have to get her ready. Prepare her.”
Evie’s heartbeat quickened.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You have to tell her, or I will.”
Unable to bear it, Evie burst into the room. “Tell me what?”
“Evie!” Will dropped his cigarettes. “This is a private conversation.”
“I heard you talking about me.” Evie turned to the tall, imposing woman standing at Will’s desk. It was the same woman who’d come calling nearly two weeks ago, the one who’d left her card. The one Will pretended not to know. “What isn’t he telling me?”
“Miss Walker was just leaving.” Will glanced in warning at the woman, who shook her head slowly—in resignation or disapproval, Evie couldn’t be sure.
“I expect I was.” The woman secured her hat. “I’ll see myself out, thank you. Storm’s coming, Will, whether you’re ready or not,” she said to him again and marched out of the library in her regal way.
Evie waited until she heard the quick snap of the woman’s heels on the marble tile outside, then she turned on Will. “Who is that woman?”
“None of your concern.”
Will lit one of his cigarettes and Evie snatched it from his fingers, furiously stubbing it out in an ashtray.
“But she was talking about me! I want to know why,” Evie demanded. “And you said you didn’t know her before!”
For a moment, Will hesitated at the desk, looking utterly lost. Then that scholarly cool washed over him and he was the unimpeachable Will Fitzgerald again. He pretended to adjust the objects on his desk into some phony semblance of order. “Evie, I’ve been thinking. It might be best if you were to go back to Ohio.”
Evie reeled as if she’d been punched. “What? But Unc, you promised me—”
“That you could stay for a while. Evie, I’m an old bachelor, set in my ways. I’m not equipped to look after a girl—”
“I’m seventeen!” she yelled.
“Still.”
“You couldn’t have solved this case without me.”
“I know that. And I’m trying to forgive myself for getting you involved.” Will sank into a chair. He wasn’t used to sitting still, and he seemed at a loss as to what to do with his hands, resting them at last on the arms of the chair as if he were Lincoln posing for the memorial.
“But… why?” Evie said. She stood pathetically before him like a schoolgirl begging the headmaster for another chance. She hated herself for it.
“Because…” Will began. “Because it isn’t safe here.”
Evie could feel that she was on the verge of angry tears. Her voice quavered. “Why won’t you tell me what’s happening?”
“You have to trust me on this, Evie: The less you know, the better. It’s for your own good.”
“I’m tired of everyone deciding what’s for my own good!”
“There are certain people in this world, Evie. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
Tears beaded along Evie’s mascaraed lashes. “You promised I could stay.”
“And I honored that promise. The case is finished. It’s time to go home,” Will said as gently as he could.
She had helped solve the case. She’d braved the headaches and the bloody battle with John Hobbes and the ghostly congregation of Brethren in that filthy hole. She’d given up the one thing that mattered most to her—the half-dollar talisman and the chance to know what had happened to James—in order to see it through. And this was her reward? It wasn’t fair. Not by a long shot.
“I’ll hate you forever,” she whispered, losing the battle against the tears.
“I know,” Will said softly.
Jericho stuck his head in. He spoke with urgency. “Will. You should see this.”
The press had gathered on the front steps of the museum, their notepads at the ready. They looked mean and bored and ready for a story with blood in it. The Pentacle Killer had been good for business; it must have been hard to let that slip away. At the front was T. S. Woodhouse himself.
“I’ll handle this.” Will walked out and the reporters snapped to attention. “Gentlemen. Ladies. To what do I owe this honor? If you’re dying for a peek at the museum, we’ll open again at ten thirty tomorrow.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald! Hey, Fitz—over here!�
�� The reporters tried to outshout one another.
“Have you recovered from your arrest?”
“Yeah, Professor—why’d they take you to the clubhouse? You bump somebody off?”
“What can you tell us about the Pentacle Killer?”
“Any truth to the rumor that there was some element of the supernatural involved? Some old hocus-pocus?” T. S. Woodhouse asked.
Will held out his hands in appeasement. He attempted a smile that came off as a grimace. “I leave the supernatural to the museum.”
“Was the killer really a ghost?” T. S. Woodhouse persisted. “That’s the rumor floating around, Professor.”
“The police have given a statement. You’ve got your story, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve nothing more to add to it, I’m afraid. I wish you a good evening.”
Woodhouse turned to Evie. “Miss O’Neill? Got a statement for us?”
“Evie. Let’s go inside. It’s cold,” Will said.
Evie stood on the steps, small and pale in the dim lights. She’d left her coat inside and the chilly October wind cut through her dress. Will wanted her to go inside. Then he would send her back to Ohio, where her parents would also tell her to go inside, in effect. She was tired of being told how it was by this generation, who’d botched things so badly. They’d sold their children a pack of lies: God and country. Love your parents. All is fair. And then they’d sent those boys, her brother, off to fight a great monster of a war that maimed and killed and destroyed whatever was inside them. Still they lied, expecting her to mouth the words and play along. Well, she wouldn’t. She knew now that the world was a long way from fair. She knew the monsters were real.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” she said. Her eyes shone with a hard light.
“Evie, don’t,” Uncle Will warned, but already the press had turned and taken note of her. A man in a black fedora snapped a photograph, and Evie blinked from the white-hot glare of it.
