But he is still only mortal.
He tosses his hair out of his eyes. “Next week, then.”
She nods, forcing herself back into her normal cool mask. “I look forward to it.”
He slips out the back door of the office, squeezing past a family dressed all in pinstriped blue and white standing in the main hall outside the portrait photographer's space.
Martinez is waiting in the parking lot, windows rolled down and sleeves rolled up. “How'd it go?”
Percy shrugs. “She's still looking for deeper meaning.”
“In your relationship with Green?”
“That too.” Percy tosses his jacket into the back seat and buckles his seatbelt. “She can't understand why a Power would embrace death like that.”
Martinez pauses, one hand on the ignition. “It wasn't accidental?” There's a reason they let him do so many suspect interviews and interrogations; he has a bland quality that makes it hard to read what sort of answer he's looking for. At first Percy had suspected Martinez was reporting to Ms. Carver, but none of their conversations ever seemed to have a bearing on Carver's questions. He can't be sure who Martinez talks to after driving him to the psych appointments, but it isn't her.
“It didn't look accidental,” Percy says thoughtfully.
“No.” Martinez chews that over for a moment. “But what could she want from that?”
Percy looks at him, sly and amused. “Even you can see the answer there.”
“She wanted to be normal.”
“Wants,” Percy says. “She wants to be normal.”
“Wants?” Martinez's eyes are like glass under his lowered brows. “She's not done yet?”
“Do you think she's done?”
He lets his breath out in a hard rush. “No. No, I don't expect she's done.”
Percy smiles. “Good.”
Martinez shakes his head. “I doubt that.” But he starts the car and backs out of the parking space. “Better get back to the office.”
3
The air gets cold as I follow Baby’s trail through the woods. Not frosty, like a winter night, but chilly and damp—like the breath of a swamp. Stinks like one, too. The moon pulls a cloud over its face, leaving us in darkness. I take another couple steps before Baby squeaks.
“Ow. Watch where you’re going.”
I stop, blink hard, and try to see through the dark. Nothing. “I need a light.”
She sighs. “Fine.”
In the darkness something flickers. Then another. And more. Slowly drifting closer. A pinpoint of light lands on my dress—blinks off, on. Off, on. Joined by more until my skirt is a rippling layer of fireflies, all moving and blinking.
I suppress a shudder at the thought of many legs and wings and start walking again. The light has a liquid quality to it as it reflects off the silver beeches, washing across the dark ground beneath my feet, but it’s strong enough to light the way and reveal the lower branches that threaten to scratch Baby’s face.
The stink grows stronger. Like a green-choked pond or the rubbery dead smell of rotting mushrooms. Baby’s clinging tight. If I didn’t have one of her feet in each hand, I think her legs would be caught ‘round my neck.
“Is it much farther?”
She shivers. “Just a little ways. Past that thicket.”
The path dwindles to the width of my hand, winding through a stand of saplings and honeysuckle. No way through it without getting scratched. I pull Baby down into my arms, tuck the edges of my sweater over her face, and push my way through. It’s deeper than it looks—despite the chill in the air, sweat rolls down my back as I trample the brush and wiggle between saplings too thick to bend out of my way.
By the time I reach the other side, I’m breathless, stinging from dozens of scrapes. It’s dark for a moment. Then the fireflies regroup on my dress, their flickering light revealing the malignant shape of a lightning-struck oak. The trunk is split open to the ground, each half continuing to grow, the branches twisting at odd angles as they reach skyward again.
I set Baby on the ground and pick at a snarl of hair, trying to remove the spiny twig in the center of it. “What is this?”
She curls one arm around my calf. “This is where Daddy lives.”
“But he’s… dead.” My cheeks flush as soon as I say it. We’re all dead. I shake my head. “I mean, why isn’t he with you and Addie?”
Baby looks up at me. Big eyes shining with the queer yellow-green of the firefly-light. “It’s safer this way.” She shrugs, an odd gesture on her tiny body. “Besides, he don’t like sunlight.”
I pace a few steps back and forth, looking. My firefly skirt swings back and forth—heavy under the weight of all them bugs—and the light swings, too. Up to touch the leaves overhead, then down to skitter across the spongy ground. “If he lives here, where is he?”
She points toward the center of the tree. “Down there.”
I frown and step up on the bulging roots. In the very center of the split tree is a hole. The splintered wood surrounds it like teeth. Or hair. I’m reminded of a mouth or a woman’s privates. “You sure?”
She nods.
“Why can’t he just come up here?”
“It’s not safe,” she says again.
“But me going down into there is?”
“The tree is safe. And the passage below. It’s Daddy you need to be worried about.” She grins at me, sly-like. “Or maybe you’ve been listening to those stories you tell for too long.”
I close my eyes, thinking. I’ve always looked fondly on Daddy. The things he taught me helped keep the craziness at bay all those years I was in Greenhaven. But I remember the times he weren’t friendly and kind. Times when he and Momma fought, not because she was cracked, but because she put herself between him and us girls.
“He’s got a temper when he drinks.” The words come out soft, but it seems the woods around us sigh and rustle as though something has let out a breath.
Baby nods, pulls a piece of string from her pocket. “Hold out your hand.” When I do, she ties one end of the string around my pinky finger, the other end around her wrist. “When you need to come back up, you tug on that, and I’ll pull you back up.”
I look at the string, doubtful. “Is it long enough?”
“It will be.” She puts one hand on the back of my knee. “Be careful now. Daddy’s got a way with words, too.”
Before I can say anything else, she shoves me forward into the maw of the tree.
I ain’t ashamed to say I squeak with fear, dropping between the splintered edges of the oak, but I’m not falling proper-like. Instead, I drift down like a bit of dandelion fluff, the fireflies swirling around me, and land on my feet. I look up, searching for a glimpse of the sky above or Baby’s round face. Nothing.
The fireflies settle again. Not on my dress, but around a small opening that leads away under the ground. I squat down on my heels and take a peek. Smooth packed earth on all sides, the top laced over with furry tree roots. The bugs creep forward, lighting the way.
I don’t fancy crawling down there after them, but I figure I don’t have much choice, and if I take too much longer, I’ll be in the dark.
I tie my hair in a knot on the back of my neck, take a deep breath, and start crawling. I’m not scared of much, but after a few feet, the sweat starts trickling ‘cross my back and belly. Partly ‘cause it’s hard work movin’ on hands and knees through this tiny hole in the dirt. Before long, I’m lyin’ on my stomach, pulling myself along with my elbows, the roots touchin’ my shoulders on either side and brushin’ against my cheeks with feathery fingers.
The fireflies crawl on, undaunted by the narrowness of the tunnel. I grit my teeth and claw my way after them, determined not to find myself stuck in darkness.
Finally, they stop at a point where the passage widens out. I creep past them, gingerly so I don’t accidentally crush any of them, and stand up in a large room. It’s dark, but not pitch black. I blink and squint, thinki
ng I see something on the far side, then stoop and look at the fireflies still huddled inside the mouth of the tunnel. “You coming?”
They retreat with a rustle of wings. Not abandoning me, but not coming any farther neither.
“All right.” I brush my hands on my skirt, then put one hand on the wall and begin to feel my way around the edge of the room. Blinking ‘til my head aches as I try and see something. Anything.
There’s a rustle behind me, and I turn, hoping to see the fireflies have changed their mind. Nothing. I lick my lips and clear my throat, nervous. “Hello? Daddy?”
4
Percy and Martinez barely get settled at their desks before Elliot comes out of one of the conference rooms along the back of the sprawl of desks and filing cabinets that make up the Special Investigations unit and gestures them over.
“Things go all right?” She looks at Percy intently.
“Yes.” Percy nods.
“Good.” She flutters her hand to usher them into the conference room where MacKenzie is already waiting. “We've picked up a new case.”
Percy looks at the projection screen. Two girls with brown hair and blue-white faces, eyes closed and mouths in the faint smirk the dead have—neither happy nor sad. “Murder?”
“Not exactly.” MacKenzie clicks the remote in her hand, and the photo on the left fills the screen. “This is Angela Moore of Savannah, Georgia. She was found six days ago in the parking area outside her apartment. The first responders thought she was unconscious, but after being admitted to the hospital, they discovered she was in a complete vegetative state. Toxicology came back normal, and there were no signs of injury. She did not require ventilation, but she was completely unresponsive to all stimuli. Roughly twenty-four hours later, her heart stopped.”
She pushes another button, and the photos make a little do-si-do around each other. “This is Martina Gonzaga. She was found twelve hours after Ms. Moore died. Same condition, breathing without assistance, but otherwise unresponsive. Due to some artifacts found nearby, a specialist was called in.” She pauses, eyes flickering toward Percy, then back toward the screen. “He told the hospital staff that Ms. Gonzaga's soul was gone.”
Elliot huffs. “Soul?”
“Her conscious self,” Percy says. “That unknown quantity that makes us aware, that can contradict our physical selves and allows us to do things instinct would prevent us from doing.”
MacKenzie frowns, but continues. “The specialist said he detected traces of a supernatural force that had pulled that... consciousness out of Ms. Gonzaga. Not a physical trauma or accident, but an active ritual of some sort.”
Percy rubs his lips. “She died within the next day.”
“Yes. And they reached out to us, but...”
“There weren't enough victims to establish a pattern.” His words hit the table hard. Not just heavy, but sharp.
“Not 'til a couple of hours ago.” Another click of the remote. “This is Emily Grant. She was found just after noon today. The Savannah police contacted us as soon as they got word from the hospital.”
Elliot twitches her hair back over her shoulder. “So, if the pattern continues, we've got less than twenty-four hours to try and find her... soul before she winds up dead, too.”
“That's right.” MacKenzie glances at Percy again. “The question is, are we equipped to handle this?” The downward tilt of her mouth adds a different emphasis. Are you equipped to handle this?
He shrugs. “Maybe. The lack of injuries would indicate it's not a creature of some sort. Bad magic is nasty business, but we're probably looking at another person. And he or she will have weaknesses. Leave a trail.” Another shrug. “Everything physical can be destroyed.”
Elliot leans forward, brown eyes darker than usual. “Do you have any idea why?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “But I'll do some reading on the way and once we're there... hopefully we'll pick up something else in person.”
MacKenzie nods. “I want to be on the road in an hour.”
They all scatter to collect travel bags from the locker room, dig cell phone chargers out of desk drawers, collect laptops and tablets and gear from the tech supply. Percy takes the elevator down to the archive in the basement, narrowly avoiding Martinez, who is not quite talented enough to be in two places at once.
The librarian is an average woman with a taste for black and things that sparkle, and the appropriately vintage name of Connie. She smiles as Percy lets himself into the climate-controlled room that forms the bulk of the archive. “Percival. How goes the quest today?”
“It goes to Savannah.” He leans on the edge of her desk. “I need to research the nature and practice of soul-stealing.”
Her fingers flutter over the keyboard. “By creature or human?”
“Human, I think. And the bodies survive for a period after the removal.”
“Ick.” She makes a face. “Nothing worse than limbo.” Another rattle of keys. “At least, I'd guess there's not much worse. Maybe if there is a flaming afterlife, limbo would be preferential.” She hits a couple of keys decisively. “There's four books in the deep storage, but they've been scanned so you can have them to keep in a handy digital format.”
“Just four?”
“In deep storage. But we've got some other volumes over here that are transcriptions from the big collection in DC. You can take copies with you for those.” She's marching down the rows, pulling books with plain, grey cardboard covers and black lettering down the spines.
“No digital on them?” He says it teasingly.
“I'm working on it. But the mimeographed Courier is hard enough to read in print form, which means doing text recognition instead of a straight scan and then checking every word to be certain it is correct. And you see how many volumes there are.” Connie looks at him indignantly, then pauses. “Oh. A joke.”
“Apparently not.”
She flushes through her pale makeup. “Sorry. Just been a busy day down here in the crypt. And this thing in Savannah sounds dangerous. Stolen souls?”
“Seems that way.” He collects the armful of books from her. “Maybe it's just a deadly disease.”
“Boo. Not better.” She stomps back to her desk and retrieves a flash drive from one of the ports on her computer. “Here. Your digital copies.”
He slips the drive into his pocket. “Thank you.”
“It's why I'm here.” She smooths her dress. “You'll be careful, right?”
“Always.”
“And call me if you need anything.”
“You know I will.” Percy edges towards the door. “Don't work too hard while I'm gone.”
She laughs, awkward, and Percy takes the opportunity to slip out into the hall. Connie has always been friendly toward him, but lately she's been different. Flirting, he thinks. But there's a nervous edge to it, like she's not certain what she's doing.
He pushes the elevator button with his elbow. A year ago he might have been interested, but now he's certain Connie would never be a good fit for him. Not after Delaney.
Ms. Carver has encouraged him to look for a new relationship. “Maybe something casual. No strings.” But that's never had much appeal to him. It's hard enough to engage with people he spends every day with. Putting that much effort into a few hours of physical contact is not a price he is willing to pay. Even if he wasn’t waiting for Del.
When he steps out of the elevator, MacKenzie and the others are gathered near their desks, sorting out the last few cases and packing individual copies of the files they've been sent from Savannah.
Percy slips his books and the flash drive into his shoulder bag and stacks it on top of his suitcase. Martinez has already added the briefcase with laptop, tablet, and the necessary cords to keep both powered up.
“Where’ve you been?” He looks at Percy, stern.
“Archive.” He pats his bag. “Picking up some reading material for the trip.”
Martinez rubs his forehead, as though c
hasing away a headache. “All right. You sure you’re ready for this?”
Percy looks at each of them in turn. “I’ve got to go back in the field at some point. Might as well be today.”
Elliot frowns. “This one could get rough.”
“True. But you said they already have someone there. A specialist. He can help me with the supernatural stuff.”
Mackenzie nods. “Okay. But get this straight. You are not going off on your own. Understand?”
Percy tilts his head in agreement. “Fair enough.” He slips his bag over his shoulder, tucks his jacket under one arm, and picks up the briefcase with his other hand. “We don’t have much time.”
5
The faint light of the fireflies makes my head ache, each beat of my heart causing the room to pulse as if it is closing around me like a fist. I press my hand against the crumbling dirt. It is as solid as a thing can be this side of death.
I take another step forward. “Hello?”
In the deepest dark part of the room, something moves and sighs.
“Daddy?”
There is a click, as loud and unsettling as the hammer on a gun, and light flares, blinding.
I throw my arm over my eyes, trembling and blinking away tears in the sudden glare. When I lower it, Daddy stands there grinning.
“Mornin’, Biscuit.”
I swallow hard and knot my fists up tight. I’ve seen that grin before, and it ain’t friendly. But I’m grown now, and Daddy and I stare at each other—eye to eye. Not like when I was small. “Hello, Daddy.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Finally decided to come for a visit?”
“Yeah.” My eyes are beginning to adjust. I blink at the room—dirt walls and ceiling, bare bulbs hanging at the end of long wires. For a moment I wonder how he got electricity down here, but then I figure if Addie can set the sun and Baby can give me a dress made of fireflies, then surely Daddy can find a way to have light in this muddy hole.
“You and your sisters been all right?”
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