Prophecy Girl

by Cecily White

  “Sod off.” Luc blushed.

  As soon as we’d stepped to the curb, the vampire’s car squealed away, leaving two lines of black rubber against the pavement. As first introductions to a species went, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Sure, he was arrogant and stunning and rude, but so are male models…and they pass for human all the time.

  Tiredness washed over me as I laced my fingers through Jack’s, pulling him in the direction of our boarding house. “Home, sweet hovel?”

  “Actually, we have one more stop. It’s a little one. Five minutes.”

  “Oh, come on!” I begged. “I’m clean. I smell nice. I want to eat a granola bar and go to bed. Whatever it is, we’ll do it in the morning. Please?” I tugged on his arm again, but it was like tugging on a stalled Mack truck.

  “Five minutes. You’ll hardly notice.”

  I sighed. “Two.”

  “Four. Please?”

  …

  Ten centuries later, we trudged to a stop at our destination, the House That Time Forgot. Out of a mess of brambles rose a clapboard cottage that was not only smaller but decidedly shabbier than its neighbors. Bright pink paint flaked off it in sheets, and a mass of yellow weeds crawled in fingers up the dingy white porch trellis. Whatever had happened to it during the last hurricane obviously hadn’t been fixed, because the poor structure listed so far to one side I actually worried it might collapse onto the house next door.

  “Do you gravitate toward crappy places?” I asked as I stared up at it. “Maybe it’s something in your genetic make-up. Where do you live, anyway? In a roach-filled shack?”

  He gave me an odd look out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve seen where I live.”

  “No, I haven’t,” I argued. “How would I? Do you think I stalk you in my spare time?”

  “Well, no, but in the caves…” He swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

  Okay, to be fair, I had tried to Google-stalk him. But Google-stalking is a far cry from having your demonblood best friend park his vampmobile across the street and use his x-ray vamp-vision to spy into someone’s house. That’s just rude.

  Eager to get the errand over with, I stomped up the rickety steps to the front door. On one side of the porch, a rocking chair had been chained to the railing, though both looked so termite-infested I couldn’t imagine anyone would be interested.

  Jack slunk up the stairs behind me with his mouth clamped shut and his hands pocketed. Flustered was such an uncommon look for him I had to double check to make sure I was seeing it right.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I demanded, impatient. “Do you miss Luc already? Or are you miffed I called you a shack-dweller?”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when a soft creak sounded from the doorway and a familiar voice spilled out. “I ‘spect he’s insulted ‘cause you done forgot somethin’ that was s’posed to be unforgettable. Ain’t that right, baby?”

  I whirled, half-expecting to find another Crossworlder, or maybe a nice, rabid werecat to round out the evening. What I got was far, far stranger.

  In the doorway, looking shockingly normal in a printed T-shirt and jeans, stood Benita Bertle, resident cafeteria lady at St. Michael’s. She’d tucked her hair into a bright purple headscarf and skull-shaped earrings dangled from both earlobes. Other than that, she looked like a regular person. No apron. No hairnet. No spatula.

  “Bertle?” I sputtered, before I could stop myself. “But—”

  “Hi, Benita. Sorry we’re late.” Jack brushed past me to give the woman a bear hug that nearly lifted her feet off the ground. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too, baby. Real good. And you—” Bertle wagged a finger at me. “You ought mind yo manners, missy. T’aint right for a woman to sass her Watcher. Not in public, anyhow.”

  A little girl in a white eyelet nightgown poked her head around the lunch lady’s girth to stare at me. “Uncle Jack, is that her?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  Jack sank to his knees, one hand coming up to muss the girl’s hair. “Delia, what are you doing up so late, young lady? Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

  “Mama said I could stay up to see y’all.” The little girl grinned, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. “That’s her, ain’t it? She don’t look like no angel killer. A prossitute, maybe, but not no angel killer.”

  Jack let out a snort and I felt my patience begin to thin.

  “For your information, you little punk, I am neither a prostitute nor an angel killer,” I told her. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Ten, last July.”

  “Hmph!” I frowned. “Ten is old enough to know better.”

  Bertle chuckled again, more heartily this time. “C’aint argue that now, can I? Come on in, y’all. Delia, why don’t you head on up to bed, baby? I’ll be along to tuck you in.”

  The little girl blushed as Jack grabbed her for a quick kiss on the cheek. “G’night, Uncle Jack.”

  “‘Night, beautiful,” he said with a wink.

  I listened to her feet patter up the stairs as he led me into a narrow foyer that could only be described as eclectic. Like my house, only way, way worse. Every surface seemed to be covered with broken antiques, battered turntables, strange religious art, and more than a few coconuts carved into the shapes of monkey-skulls. Even the faded plaster walls were layered with wooden masks and gilt-framed portraits of slaves. It reminded me of one of those Pakistani flea markets that can fold itself up and disappear in five seconds. I gave the coconut skulls a wide berth as we passed into the kitchen.

  “Why did she call you my Watcher? Is she crazy?” I whispered to Jack.

  “She’s a seer,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  Honestly, the whole situation threw me a little off balance. I’d been sifting through Jack’s “caves” comment earlier and the only explanation I could come up with was that he must have seen my vision in the catacombs. Which I’d kind of suspected. So, okay. I’d been caught having sex fantasies about my crush. I mean, sure there was a part of me that wanted to curl into a ball and die of mortification (omigod-omigod-omigod), but rationally I recognized this was survivable. Like Dad said, the occasional fantasy is perfectly normal teenage behavior, right? Right? The problem was, if that really was his apartment and he’d seen the whole thing, did that mean the vision wasn’t just a random, hormonal figment of my imagination? What about every other thing I’d seen when I’d touched him? Our wedding, for example. Had he seen that, too?

  Good grief! Could I still call myself a virgin?

  “Y’all grab yourself a seat and we’ll get started.” Bertle pushed me into one of four ripped green kitchen chairs. She poured some tea into a cracked porcelain mug and shoved it toward me, then sank into the chair opposite. “Baby, you ever had your aura read?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, then,” she grinned a gold-smattered, toothy grin, “you in for a treat.”

  Jack settled into the chair beside me. He gave my hand a quick squeeze before he set it on the scuffed Formica surface. As if by instinct, his leg stretched out to rest against mine, tendrils of warmth threading into connection through our jeans.

  “Close those pretty eyes and gimme yo hand, sugar,” Bertle said. “Jackson, git away from her, boy. You know I c’aint see nothin’ with you lightin’ her up like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  I shut one eye as Jack pulled his knee away from mine. The threads dissipated.

  Bertle’s hands were like a midnight breeze on my palm. Her fingers stroked so lightly into each groove I could barely feel them. It was soothing, actually.

  “Can you see them?” Jack asked her after a few minutes.

  “Shush, you,” Bertle scolded. She kept stroking my palm slowly, rhythmically. Although my brain simmered with questions, I kept quiet. After what seemed like an eternity, she set it down on the table and gave it a pat.

  “Well, okay, then,” she said,
and slowly rose from her seat. As if by habit, she picked up a stack of salad plates by the sink and started washing them, one at a time. Then, she started on the dinner plates.

  “Benita, did you see the souls or not?” Jack pressed.

  Bertle turned but didn’t pause her task. “No, baby, I din’t see nothin’. There ain’t nothin’ to see,” she said. “That girl ain’t no Graymason.”

  He sat up straight in his chair, his hand reaching for mine. “What do you mean? Are you saying the Book of Blood was wrong? She’s not Lucifer’s bloodline?”

  “Oh, she Lucifer’s, a’right. But she ain’t no Graymason.” Bertle wiped her hands on the edge of her T-shirt and spun to face us, a glimmer of amusement in her eye. “That girl’s a Wraithmaker.”

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Wraithmaker

  I sat motionless at the kitchen table.

  Jack and Bertle stared at me expectantly, like at any moment I might grab my chair and start smashing things. Granted, there was plenty in this house that could benefit from a close encounter with a kitchen chair, but their expressions wigged me out, nonetheless.

  “Wraithmaker.” I rolled the word over my tongue. It sounded vaguely familiar. “So, what is that? Like at Christmas? With fake pine cones and ribbons and stuff?”

  Bertle arched an eyebrow at Jack. “Trained her well, did ya, baby?”

  Jack lowered his forehead onto the table with a thud. “Amelie, I’m going to say this one last time. You. Must. Do. Your. Homework. I’m not kidding. Our world is full of dangerous things. When you neglect your studies, you deny yourself the tools to deal with them. Every assignment—”

  I lifted a hand to stop him. “Allow me. Every assignment is a rare window into the ancient and noble tradition of the Guardians, a key to the mysterious power of the Crossworld, blah, blah. Don’t forget the part about how I’m not living up to my potential.”

  He glared at me. “Benita, can we have a minute?”

  “Sho ‘nuff, baby. I’ll just go see ’bout Delia.” Smiling, she pushed herself away from the counter and sauntered toward the stairs. Jack waited until she was gone, then leaned forward.

  “Ami, this is serious. I’m not always going to be around to look after you. I need to know you can take care of yourself.”

  “I totally can. Pinkie swear.” I held up a pinkie to show my commitment.

  “That’s not good enough. I need you to promise me, no more shortcuts. No more screwing around in your lessons, no more pranks. You’re off the Otrava now. There’s no telling what you can do once you’re properly trained and bonded—”

  He stopped, probably hearing how ridiculous his words were.

  Properly trained and bonded? We both knew I wasn’t getting bonded. Even if I did prove my innocence, no one would bond with Lucifer’s bloodline. I’d be lucky if they let me live.

  “Amelie, I—”

  “Save it,” I said, my voice quiet. “I know you’re right. If the Elders let me back into school, I’ll work harder, okay?”

  He paused, thoughtful, and then stood. I watched him pluck a thick, leather-wrapped Bible from a bookshelf and open it on the kitchen table.

  “Okay,” he said, “History 101. Wraithmakers are like the Guardian version of a necromancer, only less creepy. In Deuteronomy, they’re called bone-conjurers…ones who can bring back the dead. But it doesn’t work the same way with us as it does with humans. A human necromancer raises spirits by letting them feed off his or her energy. So the spirit can stay active only while the necromancer is nearby. They have no form, no soul. It isn’t like the thing is alive, do you understand?”

  “Yeah. Sort of,” I said. “Not really.”

  “Okay, Wraithmakers aren’t like that,” he continued. “They’re the flip side of a Graymason. Graymasons can take souls out of a body and funnel them into the spirit plane, right? Well, Wraithmakers can bring them back.”

  I stared at him, pensive. It wasn’t that his words didn’t make sense—they did. I just had a hard time believing something so bizarre could be true. Especially about me. “So, you’re saying I can raise the dead? Like, I could bring back Elvis? Or my mom?”

  “Elvis, probably not. Your mom? If you could find her, yeah,” he said. “But Charlotte’s been dead for ten years. The longer a spirit’s gone, the further away it gets. Its mortal memories, personality—all that starts to degrade. It’s not like summoning a spirit from the past. Any diviner can call up a fragment of spectral energy. Wraithmakers don’t deal in fragments. They give life to lost souls.”

  “Uh-huh. This is creeping me out. Are you saying I’m some kind of zombiemaker?”

  “No, zombies are the walking dead. They’re just reanimated corpses,” he explained. “You actually make souls live again. Eat, breathe, love. All you need is an empty vessel. Do you understand?”

  “Sure,” I said. “How?”

  He flipped the book closed with a sigh. “That, I don’t know. It’s been thousands of years since either Graymasons or Wraithmakers have existed. I doubt there’s anyone alive who…”

  I waited to see if he was going to continue. He didn’t. “Who what?”

  “Forget it. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dude, you say that a lot,” I noted. “This is my life you’re talking about. Didn’t you just finish saying how I need to study more? Learn more? How am I going to find answers if you don’t help me?”

  “Some answers aren’t worth finding.”

  I was getting ready to argue when the intentional thud-thud of footsteps sounded in the hall. Bud did the same thing whenever Matt came over to watch TV—usually during one of Lisa’s break-up phases. It was a pointless gesture since Matt and I were totally platonic. Still, I recognized the thud-thud.

  “Y’all ‘bout done?” Bertle paused in the doorway.

  “More or less,” Jack answered. “There is one more thing.”

  Of course there was one more thing. Wasn’t there always? I took a swig of my tea and braced myself for yet another life-destroying nugget. “Bring it,” I said.

  “Amelie, you’re an only child, right?”

  “Uh.” That so wasn’t where I thought he was going. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Are you sure? I mean, really sure?”

  I gave him a dark look. “Let me think…boring family camp-outs, dress-up tea parties for one. Unless you count my imaginary friend Lurlene, I can safely say, yes, I am an only child. I’ll ask again. Why?”

  Jack looked at Bertle.

  “Lemme try somethin’.” She took her seat across from me and clasped my cold hands between her warm ones. “Baby, you know how sometimes the moon looks so big in the sky, you swear it could fall on top of you?”

  I glared at Jack.

  “And y’know how sometimes that moon done shine so bright, you think yo eyes might just burn up from it?”

  “This is a metaphor, isn’t it?”

  “Pay attention,” Jack hushed me, stern.

  “Well, baby, as big and beautiful as that moon may look, you gotta know it ain’t real. There ain’t no such thing as moonlight. That’s just sunlight reflected off a big ‘ole rock in the sky,” she said, with a wiggle of her fingers out the darkened window. “That’s what you are. You got a light so big and beautiful inside you. But, baby, it ain’t yours.”

  I switched my gaze back to Jack, fully confused. “I suck at metaphors. Can we maybe do this without the imagery?”

  “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. This time, it was his turn to hold my hand, which, honestly, I preferred. “Remember a few minutes ago I said that Graymasons and Wraithmakers are like flip sides of a coin?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, that’s more true than you know,” he said. “You’ve heard about Graymasons—the ones we were created to defeat, the ones who broke the walls to the Crossworld and let all the vamps and weres rise. They’re basically soulless and evil, right?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Well, it turns out
we were partly wrong about that,” he admitted. “They do have souls. Big, powerful, twisted souls that got so horrified by what they’d become, after a few generations they started splitting off all the good parts of themselves into separate beings. One soul, two bodies. Like twins. That’s what a Wraithmaker is. Still Anakim, still Lucifer’s blood…but like a shadow-self.” He dropped his gaze. “If Benita’s right—which she always is—that’s what you are. Amelie, the reason your birth only showed up once in the Book of Life was because only one soul was born. It just got…fractured. You’re not an only child. Whoever’s doing this is your twin.”

  Silence fell over the table—the kind of silence that, in horror movies, is usually followed by a scream. Except, no scream.

  “I don’t have a twin,” I said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “Benita?” Jack glanced across the room at Bertle, his eyes pleading.

  “Don’t you think my parents would have mentioned if I had a twin? I’m not an idiot, Jack. Don’t you think I would’ve noticed?”

  “Not necessarily. Benita, a little help?”

  Jack and I could have gone back and forth like that all night, and neither of us would have budged. It just seemed so ridiculous, the idea that I could have a sibling and not know about it. The only redeeming part was that Jack was still holding my hand. That felt nice, at least.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said, shifting gears. “Let’s talk about something else. Y’all think the Saints have a shot at the Super Bowl this year?”

  “Amelie.” Jack’s forehead creased into a disapproving frown. “In the past millennium, there is only one recorded birth to Lucifer’s bloodline. Yours. So either you are the Graymason and you’ve been secretly portaling around the world killing people for the past few years. Or, as Benita says, you’re a Wraithmaker—a splinter part of the Graymason’s soul. It would explain how you healed me so completely at assembly. And how the real killer managed to attack us while you were standing next to me. Now, I know this is hard, but I need you to try to wrap your mind around it. Either you’re a killer, or you have a twin. Are you a killer?”