by Libba Bray
“Jeepers!” Theta yelped, breaking the connection.
Evie’s earlier heat was replaced by a sudden cold. She came out of her trance to see an alarmed Theta waving smoke away from Sam’s hat. “Oh, Jiminy Christmas!”
“It’s out, Theta! It’s fine!” The smell of smoke lingered. That could have been my hands, Evie thought.
“Good thing I wasn’t holding on to you,” Theta said, trying to make a joke out of it.
“It would’ve been a waste of a good manicure,” Evie offered. Already, a headache was creeping its way up the back of her neck, threatening to settle behind her eyes, and her stomach churned. That was the price to pay for a deep read.
Theta steadied her. “Easy, champ.” She went to the kitchen and fetched Evie a glass of water and two aspirin. After a few sips, Evie’s stomach began to settle, though her head still throbbed.
“So? Anything?” Theta asked. Her adopted cat, Archibald, meowed and hopped up onto the bed. Theta stroked his marmalade-colored fur.
“One of the Shadow Men was thinking about Jake Marlowe’s estate,” Evie said, rubbing her temples. “Now, why would he be doing that?”
“You think those fellas took Sam to Hopeful Harbor?”
“I don’t know. But it’s the only real clue I’ve gotten. Do you remember when we visited? Jericho told us he saw two men carrying away a missing Diviner, Anna Provenza. He was going to try to find out more.”
“Have you, uh, heard from Jericho at all?” Theta prodded.
“No,” Evie said. “Not since… what happened.” Add that one to the losses.
“I never figured him to be that kind of fella. I guess you just never know.”
The front door opened. A jaunty humming came from the other room and Theta called out, “In here, Henry!” which did nothing to help Evie’s headache.
Henry DuBois IV danced in like John Barrymore. He was still wearing what was clearly last night’s outfit. In the morning light, he was pale and freckly, his sandy hair sticking up at odd angles along the crown when he removed his ever-present boater hat. Henry was such a contrast to Theta’s smoldering looks—soulful dark eyes, enormous high cheekbones, shoeshine-black hair cut into a Shingle bob—that it struck Evie as comical that anyone had ever believed the story that the two of them were brother and sister. But, as Theta had often said, people could be pretty gullible.
“Don’t tell me: You’re starting a coven.” Henry yawned, crawling into bed next to the two girls. “Awfully early for witching hour. And what’s that smell? Are you burning toast?”
“It’s nothing. Have you even been to bed yet?” Theta asked. She sniffed him. “You smell like a moonshiner’s bathtub.”
Henry blew a puff of breath into his palm and sniffed it. “Well, you see, there was a second party after the first party, and…” He looked down at his bare neck. “Oh, applesauce. I lost my ascot. Well, it wasn’t actually my ascot. Anyway, David and I managed about two hours.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Odd dreams.”
“Me, too,” Evie said. “Can you remember yours?”
Henry shook his head. “You both have on awfully serious faces for”—he squinted at the clock—“nine twenty-three in the morning. You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen nine twenty-three in the morning. Now that I have, I can say with certainty that it looks… early.”
“Why are you back so early?” Evie asked.
“David’s mother was coming for breakfast, so I thought I’d best make myself scarce.”
Theta frowned. “I still haven’t heard from Memphis. He didn’t call last night, and no call this morning. He’s always up early. All this Shadow Men talk has got me spooked now.” Theta hugged her knees to her chest. “Evil thinks she mighta found where those creepy Shadow Men took Sam.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t the Whoop-Dee-Do Club,” Henry said. He kissed the top of Archie’s fuzzy head and the cat purred in response.
“I believe they took him to Jake Marlowe’s estate,” Evie said. “Hen, hand me my stockings, will you?”
Dutifully, Henry lifted the silk stockings from the footboard and offered them to Evie as if she were the Queen of England. Evie swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She rolled one stocking up to her knee and secured it with a garter.
“Where’re you going with all that pep in your step?” Henry asked.
“Hopeful Harbor, of course,” Evie answered.
Theta threw Henry a look. “She pulling my leg?”
Henry rolled his head toward Evie, who was fixing the other stocking into place, then back to face Theta. “It does not appear so.”
Theta scooted to the edge, next to Evie. “Evil. Listen to me: You can’t just storm into Jake Marlowe’s fancy house. They’ll throw you out like a bum.”
“I’ll use my charm,” Evie insisted.
“You’re not that charming,” Theta said.
“I’ll have you know that I am.”
“I’ve always maintained that you were charming,” Henry said, stretching his lanky body across Theta’s bed. “Ohhhh. That’s it. I’m never getting up again. You’ll have to learn to live this way.”
“You picked a public fight with Jake Marlowe that got broadcast over the radio!” Theta reminded Evie.
“Mmm. That’s true. You were… less than charming that evening,” Henry said, eyes closed.
“But one hundred percent right!” Evie shot back.
“Jake Marlowe hates you, Evil. He hates Diviners, but he especially hates you.”
“Thanks, Theta.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Henry whistled. “The fur doth fly before ten o’clock in the morning, Mercutio.”
“I’m just saying, now that there’s rumors floating around that Diviners mighta had something to do with the bomb and his fiancée’s murder, you can forget about getting into Jake Marlowe’s mansion.”
“Those rumors are pure bunk!” Evie groused.
“Doesn’t matter what’s true. It matters what people think is true. Besides”—Theta glanced sideways at Evie, weighing how much she could say—“Mabel and the Secret Six planted that bomb. And who was Mabel’s best friend?”
Evie stared down at her stockinged feet. “Mabel didn’t do that.”
“Now who doesn’t wanna see the truth?” Theta said gently.
Henry sat up again. “There is somebody who might know how to find Sam.”
“Who?” Evie said.
Henry cleared his throat. “Somebody you’re really close to. You might even be related.”
It took Evie a second to understand, but then she frowned. “No. I refuse to speak to him on principle.” She crossed the room and ducked behind Theta’s painted dressing screen, which had been liberated from a Ziegfeld Follies costume shop. The comment about Mabel had hit home, and Evie was afraid she might cry. She was always a little wobbly after a reading, and this hadn’t been any ordinary reading.
“He’s still your uncle,” Henry said. “And he used to be Jake’s best friend.”
“If it weren’t for Will and Sister Walker and Jake Marlowe, we wouldn’t be chasing ghosts and worried about the end of the world,” Evie called as she wiggled out of the borrowed pajamas and back into her dress. “If it weren’t for Uncle Will, my brother would be alive.”
“They’re still our best hope,” Henry said.
Evie came around the side of the dressing screen. She pushed a wayward curl out of her face.
“Do you suppose…” Evie choked back the lump in her throat, losing her battle. “Do you suppose she’s… at peace?”
Theta exchanged a quick glance with Henry. “If anybody’s got a right to rest in peace it’s Mabel Rose,” Theta said quietly.
Mabel did deserve to rest in peace, and Evie knew she was a terrible person, because if there was any ghost she longed to see, even for just a moment, it was Mabel’s. The tears threatened again. Evie would not cry before breakfast.
“Fine!” she said, throwing her hand
s upward. “Let’s go see Uncle Will. But don’t expect me to be polite.”
Henry grinned. “Well, if there’s going to be drama, I’m all in. Let me just get changed.”
Ling Chan doubted that anyone knew the streets of Chinatown like she did. Other people might know the best grocers for bok choy or which fishmonger had the day’s freshest catch. But Ling knew where the sidewalks were roughest, which cracks had to be carefully negotiated, and just how long it took to cross Canal Street if you had to be aware of the crush of people around you while also searching for a pebble-free spot on which to land your crutches.
The journey from her parents’ restaurant on Doyers Street to Staino’s Bakery on Mulberry was only a few blocks, but Ling felt every jolt up her spine. The heavy leather braces she wore chafed against the insides of her knees and her hands were calloused from the grip on her crutches. She was still adjusting to her new life, adjusting to the stares of people who thought that she was someone to be pitied or that she was bad luck. Usually, she kept her focus forward, refusing to look. Other times, though, she’d glare back at the rude ones until finally, red-cheeked, they’d look away. I’m just like you, she wanted to yell. For all your staring, why can’t you see that?
Ling had other things on her mind this morning, and they were all named Alma LaVoy. Alma Rene LaVoy was the most alive person Ling Chan had ever met. The pretty chorus girl was the light in the sky over Chinatown during a New Year’s celebration. When she entered a room, the room shifted. It took notice. No one took more notice than Ling. She was in love with Alma, she’d come to realize. Huh, she thought, smiling to herself. This is what love feels like. But Ling was worried, too. Someone as alive and fizzy as Alma had needs. Physical needs. Needs Ling wasn’t certain she could meet. For Ling, love—deep, passionate, intense—was real. But sex? So far, sex was a hypothesis her body didn’t seem interested in proving. Alma, on the other hand, seemed very comfortable with sex. And Ling couldn’t help wondering how long Alma would want to stick around without getting what every winking Tin Pan Alley or Follies song hinted at between the bars.
At the corner of Mott and Canal, Ling heard her name being called and saw her upstairs neighbor, Mim, hurrying toward her with an urgency that could only suggest the juiciest of neighborhood gossip. For once, Ling was grateful for the distraction. Still, she couldn’t help noticing that Mim never once had to look down as she ran.
Mim was breathless when she reached Ling. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Ling said, ignoring her mother’s admonition to Go to the bakery for bread and come right back, no dallying, lass.
“Ghosts! There were ghosts in Manhattan last night!”
“What? Where?”
“I heard it from Sallie, who heard it from May Wong, whose brother, John, works for a couple on the Upper East Side, the Ashtons. They are so rich, Ling! Four floors—all to themselves! Can you imagine?”
Ling had forgotten that getting coherent gossip out of Mim was like trying to put pajamas on a cat.
“What happened?” Ling said, cutting to the chase. It was her turn to cross, but she would wait for the next go-round.
“They were having a party. They were very drunk. May says they have their very own bootlegger who comes to the house by a secret entrance. Oh, and Mrs. Ashton has three mink coats. I’d settle for just one. It wouldn’t even have to be all mink.” Mim sighed.
“What about the ghosts?” Ling pressed.
“Oh! Well, they decided to bring in a Diviner for a séance.”
Ling snorted. “Probably a fake.”
“The Ashtons can afford the best,” Mim said, a slight dig at Ling. Everybody in Chinatown knew that Ling could walk in dreams and sometimes make contact with the spirit world.
“Anyway, during the séance, she conjured a real, live ghost!” Mim continued.
“Ghosts can’t be live. That’s why they’re ghosts,” Ling muttered, but Mim just kept going.
“And John told May, who told Sallie, who told me that Mrs. Ashton could be heard screaming from the library to open the doors right away and to call the police—”
“To arrest the ghost? Stupid,” Ling grumbled.
“—aaaand when they opened the doors, Ling, the chairs were overturned and the Diviner had fainted dead away on the floor. All those rich people came screaming out of the room and left without even taking their coats.”
“What did the ghost look like? Was it fresh? Did it say it was hungry?” Ling pressed. The cop on Canal Street looked to Ling but she shook her head. She’d have to wait for the next crossing.
Mim looked at Ling with distaste. “How should I know?”
“Because you seem to know everything else, but not the important things.”
Mim’s eyes gleamed. “I saved the best for last.” She pursed her lips, holding on to the information. She was clearly relishing doling it out in teaspoonfuls, and now Ling was going to miss her chance to cross Canal Street again. The traffic cop had given up on motioning to her.
“The ghost spoke to them. She said, ‘The Diviners did this.’”
All the air left Ling’s body. “What?”
“That’s what everybody’s saying, you know. Harriet Henderson even said in her column that Diviners are responsible for all of this—the ghosts, the sleeping sickness last year, the bombing, and the trouble with all these anarchists, these foreigners.”
Ling rolled her eyes. “Mim. Your parents are immigrants. So are mine,” Ling said. She had very little patience for Mim and her prejudices.
“Those people are different. Not like us,” Mim sniffed.
It was almost time to cross again. “I have to go to Staino’s for my mother,” Ling said. She suddenly wanted away from Mim and this upsetting gossip that didn’t feel like gossip, but like a train bearing down on Ling, who had one foot stuck in the ties.
“Say, you know that Evie O’Neill, don’t you? The one who was best friends with the bomber?” Mim said, a parting shot.
Mabel. Her name was Mabel, Ling thought, feeling a tightness in her chest.
“You ought to be careful, Ling. You don’t want them to come for you.”
And Ling could tell there was a hint of glee in the warning.
The spring day had begun to sour. Ling crossed Canal into Little Italy. On Mulberry Street, a crowd had gathered in front of a shop nestled between a pasticceria and a tiny cafe. Several men surrounded a dark-haired woman in a long flowing dress and shawl, preventing her escape. One of the men gripped an ax. Ling could feel the woman’s terror as if it were her own. In the street, people looked on, doing nothing.
“Please—this is my shop! My business,” the woman pleaded as two men smashed in the front windows with baseball bats, right across the gold-leaf lettering that read FORTUNES TOLD.
Ling froze, unsure of what to do, of what she could do. She’d seen a mob turn before. Not long ago, a man had been openly taunting her on the street in front of witnesses who did nothing to stop it, and if Henry hadn’t come along at just that moment, well, she shuddered to think what could have happened to her. Now, though, she was one of those mute witnesses.
“Why are you doing this?” Ling said, sounding every bit as frightened as she felt.
The man with the ax turned to her, his face ruddy with rage. “Stay out of it.”
Two big men emerged from the shop carrying a large wooden barrel. “There’s at least eight more in there,” one of the men grunted. The ruddy man stepped forward and swung the ax. The blade bit into the wood again and again until the barrel broke open and a rush of amber liquid swooshed into the gutters. The pungent smell of whiskey flooded the streets. This woman wasn’t even a real Diviner, just a bootlegger using a fortune-telling shop as a front. It didn’t seem to matter, though.
“La strega!” one of the onlookers shouted and spat at the woman’s feet.
Ling knew that word. La strega. Witch.
“Oughta lock ’em all up, every last one of those Diviners,�
�� someone said as Ling continued up the street, keeping her gaze firmly on the sidewalk as if the only things that could hurt her lived there.
FAIRY TALES
Theta, Evie, and Henry strolled arm-in-arm among Central Park’s budding trees. Spring had come to the city almost overnight. Pink-and-white blossoms bowed in the breeze. Spring had been Mabel’s favorite season, Evie remembered, and she ached not to be able to share it with her. She picked up her pace, eager to question Will about the Shadow Men. It was high time they knew everything about them. Sam’s life depended on it.
The three of them passed a governess scolding a little boy in short pants who refused to go home for a nap, but they were too immersed in conversation to hear the child crying, “But I see him when I fall asleep. He’s all covered with worms and he says he’s going to eat up Mummy and Daddy first and then he’s going to come for me!”
“Now, now, that’s only a bad dream. Buck up.”
A car backfired coming up Central Park West, and Theta jumped.
“Gracious! Just an old flivver breaking wind.” Evie giggled.
“Sure. Of course,” Theta said, dropping her shoulders. That’s what living with Roy had done to her. If you never knew when a smile might turn into a slap or a punch, you stayed on alert. Theta hadn’t heard from Roy lately, and that troubled her. She knew she should be relieved, but Roy wasn’t the type to let something go. He’d promised he’d get even, and Roy was a man who kept his promises, not out of love but out of spite.
“Oooh, look—a crocus! It truly is spring,” Evie said, breaking away to admire the new flower.
Henry leaned in to Theta. “It was only a car, darlin’,” he said, sensing her worry. “You showed him—that’s why he’s made himself scarce. What can he do against your power?”
“A lot, Hen. My power’s unpredictable. You know that. I almost set Sam’s hat on fire this morning. What if Roy goes after the people I love? For the first time in my life, I got something to lose.” Why hadn’t she heard from Memphis yet?
But Evie was back now, going on about a pair of shoes she’d seen in exactly that shade of crocus, and for once, Theta was happy to let Evie prattle on if it meant Theta didn’t have to talk.