“Totally.” That and a dead kid named Flanagan. How could she just shrug stuff off? I put on my jacket and checked the time again. “Text me if you hear anything?”
Siobhan pulled sweats and a hoodie from her locker. “Want to grab a few holes at Dunks? I’m in the mood to celebrate, and only fat and sugar will satisfy.”
“Rain check? I have to be somewhere before seven.”
She sniffed the air. “No shower?”
“No time,” I said and headed for the exit.
“Basking in your own stink! Next, you’ll be manspreading on the T. Conning, I’ll make a man of you yet.”
“God, I hope not,” I said. Every man I’d known had let me down. It would be a miracle if I ever found one who didn’t.
Miracles happen every day. Maybe today was that day. If I could turn back time to win a hockey game, why couldn’t I do the same thing to Louie? I rubbed my thumb, and an idea of how I could retrieve the egg from the pawnshop popped into my head. It was brilliant, positively brilliant—and illegal.
My cell phone rang. “Hey, Ma.”
She shouted in my ear, “Rehearsal’s running superlate, and Mr. Parris still can’t get his shirt buttoned. Can you be a dove and rescue Devon from aftercare?”
“I’m really pressed for time.”
“I can’t be in two places at once,” she said, on the verge of losing it.
“Don’t worry about Devon.” I wanted to ask if she had taken her meds, but that would make it worse. “I’ve got this.”
Her reply was drowned out by the sound of hammering, then the line went dead. I jammed my phone into my pocket. If the bus was punctual, I could make the pawnshop with fifteen minutes to spare. All I needed was a little divine Providence to make the bus run on time.
Ha.
Like Providence was ever on my side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE back door of Beacon School opened, and a shaft of light sliced the darkness. A mop bucket exited, followed by a mop handle, then a pair of hands so large and leathery, they could pass for catcher’s mitts. The hands belonged to a middle-aged man with drooping, rheumy eyes. The name embroidered on his jumpsuit was Pete. It was a spare jumpsuit that Pete kept in a broom closet. No one had noticed that the real Pete was sleeping in the corner of the same closet.
The man who was not Pete dumped the mop water, then tossed the mop back inside as the buzzer sounded to end the hockey game. The Conning girl would be getting off the ice now, and when she left the school, Harken would be outside, waiting to follow. He had spent the last few hours masquerading as Pete, watching and listening, and he was convinced the girl was more than she seemed. He had dismissed her sidewalk poem as trivial, but other signs persuaded him.
The birds. Blackbirds everywhere, with enough ravens and crows to make murders.
And the girl. He had heard her in the infirmary, crying out in her sleep. Then the nurse had said something about her thumb being infected, and a shiver had cut right through him. When he was watching the hockey game from the wings, he felt a strange tug in his stomach. He had looked up to see her shimmering.
Lesser norns did not shimmer.
Harken tossed Pete’s coveralls into the Dumpster. The lights in the school parking lot were so dim, he had no worry of being seen. The whole lot was deserted, except for the car that belonged to that Will Patrick boy.
“Poor bastard,” he said, walking toward the car. “He’s still inside.”
The BMW was parked far away from the building. It looked abandoned, sitting all alone in the darkness, just beyond the light. Harken gave the trunk a tug and felt something wet on his fingers.
“What the hell?” he said and smelled his hand. “Blood.”
The blood had congealed like jam. The trunk lid was scarred with a dozen long gouges, three of which cut straight through the metal and the lock. He lifted the lid and cursed.
The trunk was empty.
“Where have you gone, you little bastard?” But Harken knew before the words left his lips that the boy hadn’t gone anywhere.
He plucked the flashlight from the built-in BMW tool kit and shone a light on the pavement, searching for more blood. There! The droplets glimmered like sanguine raindrops. He followed the trail until it dead-ended beside a cluster of utility buildings. The largest was labeled “Lawn Equipment.” When Harken wiped the dirt from a window and aimed the flashlight inside, he found a variety of mowers, hedge clippers, and grass trimmers.
“Damn it,” he whispered. “Not here.”
He followed the diminishing trail to the next building. It was labeled “Theater Arts,” and on the frame was a large smear of blood. He shouldered the door open and peered inside. In the middle of the room was a dark circle. The circle was smeared into the dirt, and there were clear signs of a struggle.
No, he thought. Not a struggle.
An attack.
Harken swept the darkness with his light. The beam illuminated two lumps of material in the dirt. He nudged them apart with his toe, revealing two strips of flesh caked with blood and dirt.
“Lips,” he said. The boy had lost his mouth. Probably had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. If his lips were here, where was the rest of him?
Harken found the body a few yards from the hut, in a bare patch of ground under a massive oak tree with long, spreading branches as thick as a man’s leg. A length of hemp rope swung from one of the sturdiest branches, and at the end was a noose. The noose was wrapped around Will Patrick’s neck.
The boy had been handsome when the day started, but the Shadowless wasn’t one to let beauty go unpunished. As Harken had guessed, the boy’s lips were missing. His face was bruised, and his dark eyes bulged in their sockets. His body twisted on the rope like a weather vane in a storm.
If there was anything the Shadowless liked better than lopping off body parts, it was watching a corpse twist in the wind.
He couldn’t let the poor bastard swing. He lifted the body and dug the noose out of the swollen flesh of his neck, then lowered the corpse onto his shoulder. Rigor mortis was setting in, and carrying him was like toting a slab of heavy marble. He returned to the theater arts shed and set the boy on the ground. From a box labeled “Props,” he removed a sheet and covered Will Patrick with it. The white shroud made the body less horrific and hid the swollen head and blood-speckled face, but it didn’t change what the Shadowless had done.
In old Salem Town he had helped the Shadowless hang more than a dozen people. That was four hundred years ago, but he had looked into the dead eyes of every victim and still could hear their screams. Especially the children. They haunted him the most.
“You’ll not be haunting anyone,” he told Will Patrick, and removed two coppers from his pocket. He pushed the boy’s eyelids shut, thankful that she hadn’t cut those off, too, then placed the coins over the lids. “A penny for the ferryman.”
The sheet began to shimmer, the fabric resonating with silver light. The light took a human shape. At first, there were no legs or arms, but as the ether thickened, the features hardened, and the spirit became Will Patrick.
“Why do you summon me?” he said in a flat, harsh voice.
“To send you to the afterlife,” Harken said. “It’s part of my penance to the Fates.”
“The afterlife is forbidden. The Shadowless has designs for me.”
“What plans?”
“The Shadowless does not share her schemes with servants. I must wait until she has use of me.”
“She’s already used you enough, boy,” Harken said. “Take the tokens and let the ferryman do his work.”
The spirit threw back his head, wailing, a high-pitched keening sound that belonged more on a Scottish heath than in a school in Boston. “She will give us treasure. Treasure beyond all imagination.”
“Seeing as you’re dead, how will you spend your treasure?”
The spirit shimmered, uncertain.
“That’s what I thought,” Harken said.
“Listen, why is Malleus interested in Willow Jane Conning?”
“The Shadowless does not reveal her plans,” the body said.
“No more lip out of you.” Harken put a foot on the corpse’s chest. “The Conning girl was your friend, and she’s in danger. There’s not much hope for your soul if you turn down the coppers, but if you help her, you might not spend eternity in damnation.”
The shimmering shadow lost substance, and the ether spread out in a thick fog. Harken felt it move through his body, sending a cold shiver down his spine. The temperature had plummeted, and when he exhaled, he could see his breath in the air.
“The Shadowless hunts the girl who knows no future and no past.”
“No past and no future? That’s—”
“The Shadowless hunts the girl who knows no future and no past.”
“Does she think that Conning is the girl?”
“The Shadowless hunts the girl who knows no future and no past.”
“Tell me!”
“The Shadowless does not share her secrets.”
“Neither do I.” Harken threw back the sheet and removed the coppers from Will Patrick’s eyes. The lids popped open, and empty sockets stared up at him. “I take back my gift. Go to whatever hell will have you.”
The fog thickened for an instant, then melted into the ground, a whispered voice lingering. “Hell is empty, and the devils are here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I ran down the front stairs and sprinted to the student parking lot, which was on the back side of campus, near the rail yard. The lot was totally deserted, except for two dark cars and a white kidnapper van with LARRY’S LOCKSMITH stenciled on the side. In a pool of harsh light I saw two guys standing by the trunk. One of them was Mr. Johnston. The other was a middle-aged guy with gray coveralls, jimmying the lock.
“See this?” the locksmith said. “Looks like somebody took a butcher knife to it.”
“Just get it open,” Mr. Johnston said.
The trunk popped. “There she goes,” the locksmith said. “Just stuck, not lo—Jeezum Crow, will you look at that blood?”
“Oh, hell.” Mr. Johnston dialed his phone. “I’d like to report a possible assault.”
“Possible assault?” I crept toward him, full of trepidation. “That’s Will Patrick’s car. Where is he? What happened to him?”
Jaybird held up a hand, but I scooted around him to see for myself. He covered the phone and said, “Larry! Get her!”
The locksmith moved in front of me. He wasn’t big enough to block my vision, though, and I got a glimpse of the empty trunk. It was bathed in blood.
“The Shadowless,” I heard myself say. The Shadowless had done this, just like she had killed Flanagan at the cemetery. They had disturbed her grave. So had Kelly. Was she dead, too? Is that why she wasn’t at the game? “I need to call Kelly.”
“Hold on now.” The locksmith tried to grab me. “You need to stay right here till Jaybird says it’s okay.”
“No!” I shouted, surprising myself.
Jaybird reached for me. “Willow Jane, we need to talk.”
“Got to catch me first!” I yelled and took off.
I reached the bus stop two minutes before the bus was due to arrive. Panting, I dropped onto the graffiti-covered bench. A light rain began to fall, illuminated in the headlights of passing cars and trucks. Rain. Of course.
My ex-boyfriend was dead, and it didn’t even bother me. No, it bothered me, but it wasn’t a surprise. Since I could turn back time, could I go back far enough to truly change the past? Could I keep Will Patrick from dying? Could I help my friends?
I called Kelly’s number and got voice mail. “Hey, Kells. It’s Willow. Give me a call. If you can.” If you’re not dead.
I hung up and waited for the bus. One minute late. One minute ten seconds late. I watched each second tick by, feeling more and more panicked, until I felt the hairs on my neck stand up.
Someone was watching me.
I searched the shadows through the rain-streaked glass but couldn’t see anything but rush-hour traffic. The endless line of cars made me feel even more alone. Even more vulnerable. “Step into the open!” I yelled, feeling way more brave than I felt. “Leave me alone or I’ll call the cops!”
In the miasma of loud rain and bright headlights, I saw a dark figure, face hidden by a hood, sitting on a motorcycle. My hands started to shake, and my mouth went dry. I pressed into the corner of the shelter, knees under my chin, trying to make myself small. The bike’s headlight flicked on, and high beams blinded me. I raised my phone to shield my eyes, but the light seeped through my fingers like a milky veil.
Blood will have blood, I thought, but it wasn’t my voice. It belonged to a man, a man whispering in the darkness. Blood will have blood. My hands started shaking, and the air seemed to freeze around me. I buried my face in my knees and wrapped my arms around my legs, trying to fight a violent, fevered shiver.
“Leave me alone!” I screamed.
Then I heard the sweet music of air brakes, and the 10 bus swung to the curb. Heart pounding, I jumped from the shelter. The door popped open with a hydraulic hiss, and I ran up the steps.
“Stop. You paying or not?” The driver pointed at the fare box. “Nobody rides for free.”
“Right, right,” I said and dug out my CharlieCard. “Sorry.”
The bus lurched out into traffic, and I tucked a strand of wet hair behind an ear. The seats were all taken, except for the back. I didn’t want to go to the back.
“Take a seat,” the driver barked. “No standing in front of the white line.”
As I walked down the aisle, I watched out the windows. The road was full of cars and trucks. Their lights reflected on the rain streaming down the windows, mixing with the red, yellows, and greens of traffic lights. It was hard to tell one vehicle from another and impossible to spot a motorcycle. Maybe I had just imagined it, I thought as I swung into the last seat. What if I was just freaking out over nothing?
My phone pinged, and I screamed. Passengers looked up. I turned away from them, embarrassed, and checked the screen.
My heart sank.
The time was 6:45. Fifteen minutes to closing, and there was no way I could pick up Devon at aftercare and make it back to Louie’s.
Siobhan. She lived close to Devon’s school. Maybe she could give me a hand.
“Hey,” I said after she answered, “you’re not close to home, are you?”
“Out with the team, scarfing doughnut holes sans you. Nom, nom.” She chewed in my ear. “Where’d you go in such a hurry?”
“Which store?”
“Down on Dorchester. Why?”
It was on the opposite end of South Boston, too far away to help. The bus stopped at a light, and I looked out the window. A motorcycle was idling in the next lane over. The driver wore a hood. His face was hidden.
“I repeat, why?” Siobhan said.
“Call me crazy,” I said, “but I think there’s a creeper stalking me.”
“Stalking you at school?”
“On the bus.”
“There’s a creeper on the bus with you?”
The hooded rider stood on the pegs and craned his neck, trying to see inside.
I slid behind the seat. “He’s following the bus. On a Harley.”
“A Harley?” Siobhan asked. “The bus is way faster than that.”
“You’re not taking me seriously!”
“Sorry, Willie,” she said. “But you have been acting kinda batshit crazy.”
Then I saw the sign for Louie’s Pawnshop shoot past.
The time was 6:52.
Eight minutes till the witching hour, I thought. Devon had waited this long, so she could wait a little longer.
“Talk later! Bye!” I pulled the stop cable and shoved the door open. An alarm chime rang, and the driver started yelling, but I hit the sidewalk and sprinted like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.
CHAPTER FORTY<
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“LOUIE!” I yelled when I burst into the pawnshop. “I’m here for the egg!”
The cowbell over the door clanked. Louie looked up from his laptop, then snapped it closed. “Look what the cat drug in,” he said. “Don’t tell me you came for the egg.”
“I came for my egg.”
“Got my money?” Louie laughed at his witty retort.
“No,” I said. “But you’re going to give it to me anyway.”
“Yeah?” Louie coughed and almost brayed in my face. “Why’s that?”
I leaned across the counter and jiggled my eyebrows. “Because I wish I’d never sold it to you.”
The corners of Louie’s mouth twitched. “You don’t say.”
“I really wish,” I said and contorted my face like a toddler sucking on a lemon, “that I had never sold it to you.”
Louie scratched his belly and burped. “I dunno what you’re up to with the dancing face thing. Maybe your brain’s gone sour.”
“I SAID—” I raised my voice as if calling on a higher power. “—I WISH that I had never sold you that egg!”
“Yeah, well,” Louie said, cleaning the wax from his ear, “if wishes were horses, we’d all be winning at Suffolk.”
I puckered my toddler face again. My wishes had been coming true ever since I blew out the birthday candles. Why wasn’t it working now? “I wish you’d shut up.”
“And I wish you’d get your twitchy face out of my sight.” He checked his watch. The second hand and the minute hand had already swept past seven. “Closing time, kid. Get lost.”
“This is not how my plan’s supposed to go!” I sucked on my sore thumb. “Dammit, Louie! Give me that egg!”
“What egg?” Louie pushed the laptop further away. “You mean the one that’ll belong to me in, oh, two minutes and change? The one locked in my safe in case some psycho gets ideas about stealing it back?”
“Come on, Louie,” I said, my voice softening. “Don’t make me beg.”
“Gee, my heart breaks for you, sweetheart.” Louie popped open the laptop and showed me an online auction page. The bid was $15,892.00. “Now your precious egg’s going to belong to username BennyHannah12 or Qwertyxqr99. Depending on who forks over the cash.”
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