Martinez uncurls his fingers from the butt of his gun and secures the holster again, deliberate. He leans forward, both hands on the desk. “You ever shoot someone, Cox?”
Percy nods. “A couple times.”
“Ever kill someone with your gun?”
“No.”
Martinez rolls his shoulders, as if easing a crick in his neck. “I have.”
“Gil Mains,” Percy says, automatic.
“That’s right. And a few others before.” Martinez stares at his hands for a moment. “It’s not any different. I have a gun. You have magic. We can both kill if we want to.”
“And if we don’t want to?” It’s a whisper, Percy staring at him wide-eyed.
“Then we don’t.”
“What if I can’t help it? What if I can’t control it?” Percy touches the folded piece of paper on the desk.
Martinez sighs. “You can’t control everything, Cox. Sometimes...sometimes you only have a lot of bad choices in front of you. But when it comes to taking a life, there’s always a choice.”
For a moment they are silent, staring at each other. The far wall shimmers—hallway, then wall, then something that looks like a pinball arcade.
I focus all my attention on Martinez and Percy as the dream starts to break up around us.
Percy stands up. “I’m sorry.”
Martinez shrugs. “We all make choices.”
“Want to walk down with me? Grab a beer maybe?” Percy’s already fading.
Martinez sits as his desk for a moment. Pulls his phone out of his pocket and clicks through the phonebook to a name I recognize. Ms. Carver – Department Psych.
He sits for a moment, thumb poised over the button to dial. Finally, he taps back to the main menu and tosses the phone onto the desk. He stares up at the ceiling as the conference rooms are swallowed up in a swirl of light and sound. “Damn it, Cox. Don’t make me choose with you.”
7
I put on jeans and a t-shirt, pull my hair back neatly on the back of my neck. Trying to present as male is difficult—it makes me want to pull off all my skin and cut away these unfamiliar parts—but I will be away from all my normal places soon. The places I have found where I can pee in relative safety or order a coffee without someone hassling me about my height or how my face ain’t pretty enough to be wearing a skirt.
It’s a painful thing to do, but it will mean less difficulty as I travel back home to find my bones. It’s only temporary.
The house is quiet. It’s Wednesday morning. Papa Michaels will have left for work before dawn, and Mama Lettie has a Bible study down at the church.
I shrug into a hoodie and stuff a clean pair of underwear and socks into the bottom of my satchel. Then tuck the new notebook in on top, and the lavender and gold book of sonnets Mama Lettie gave me the night before.
There’s about three hundred dollars in the top drawer of my dresser—carefully collected over the past few months doing odd jobs for the Michaels or the old lady down the street. It’s not much, but it should help Franklin pay for gas and food while we travel. I tuck a couple twenties in my pocket and put the rest inside the pair of extra socks in the bottom of my bag.
I pause to smooth the blankets on the bed and turn the light out in the closet, making sure everything is in its place. I’ve written a letter. It’s taken me weeks, writing and rewriting the same few sentences over and over again as I tried to find the right words to tell Papa Michaels and Mama Lettie how much their kindness has meant to me. Tried to explain that I cannot stay with them because all that kindness still can’t make this my home.
I pull the envelope out of its hiding place and write Mom and Dad on the outside. Add a little heart and prop it up on the dresser next to the hairbrush. Now that I’m getting ready to leave, it feels like a hollow, almost cruel, gesture, but it’s all I have. I can only hope they will find some comfort in having something to hold onto after I’ve gone.
The house is supposed to be empty, but when I reach the kitchen, I find Mama Lettie sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes. The windows and the back door are open, so the smoke drifts mostly out to the yard. It’s hard to say how long she’s been sitting there waiting, but there are three or four butts already stubbed out in the ashtray next to her coffee cup.
For a moment, everything remains still. Me standing in the kitchen doorway, my satchel clutched against my chest, and Mama Lettie sitting at the table, smoke curling from the cigarette pinched between her fingers.
Finally, she takes a drag and reaches for her coffee. “So you’re leaving, then.”
Something in her eyes tells me she don’t just mean for the day. Something in the way her lips tremble, smoke curling in and out like river weed drifting with the flow, tells me she knows I am not Alex.
“Yes,” I say.
She sighs and takes another drag on her cigarette, the end glowing bright as she sucks on the filter. “Well,” she says after a minute. “I made you some food.” She stubs out the cigarette and goes over to the fridge. “Some sandwiches. And cookies. There’s a couple fruit cups in here. And plastic stuff to eat it with.” She holds out a paper grocery bag, the top rolled up neatly so it’s easy to carry.
“Thank you.” I take it and fit it down into my bag. It’s bulky, but it ain’t too heavy.
“You’re welcome.” Mama Lettie nods and reaches for the pack of cigarettes again.
“How did you know?” I ask it as gently as I can, but she still flinches. Fumbles with the lighter, the striker rasping over and over again as she tries to get a flame. “Here.” I take it, light it, and hold it steady while she pulls on the cigarette ‘til the end is burning red hot.
“Thanks, honey,” she says, less awkward than I have ever seen her, despite the shake in her hands. She plops down in her chair and picks up her coffee cup, scowling when she realizes it’s empty.
“I got it.” I take the mug, fill it up, stir in the sugar, and hand it back. Then settle in the chair across from her. “How did you know?”
“That you were leaving?” She shrugs, sips her coffee. “Found that letter under your mattress last week. I didn’t mean to. Just was changing the sheets and thought I’d flip the mattress...” She leans back in her chair, looking at me. “But I’ve known you weren’t Alex for a while now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
Mama Lettie grins. “Oh, sweetie. You’ve done a good job pretending you don’t remember, but...you’re still not her. There’s little things. The way you sit. The way you’re glaring at me now.” She takes a puff off her cigarette. “I wasn’t sure at first, but a mother knows her child.” Her grin softens. “You’re not Alex.”
“I’m sorry.” My chest aches, and I rub it, trying to soothe away the hurt. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, honey. You gave me a chance to love my daughter. Not just inside, but where the world could see.” She slurps her coffee, nervous. “I hope that she knows that.”
“She does.” And that may be a lie, but it sounds true.
Mama Lettie nods and brushes away tears. “She’s happy where she’s at? Not hurting anymore? Not sad?”
“Not hurting. Not sad.”
She covers her eyes with her hand, sucking in a few hard breaths. Then smiles at me, lips trembling with the effort. “And you? Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re certain? Alex or not, you are always welcome here.”
“I know.” I stretch across the table and take her hand. “Thank you.”
She grips my fingers tight. “Will I see you again?”
My heart aches so I can barely breathe. “No,” I say, gently. “I don’t think so.”
She cries. One hand clutching mine, the other covering her eyes as she sobs.
“Mama Lettie.” I stop, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sorry,” I mumble finally.
She waves her hand and rubs her cheeks dry on her sleeve. “Don’t
be sorry, honey.” She lets go of my hand and plucks a napkin out of the needlepoint box in the center of the table. Blows her nose. “Don’t be sorry.” She stands up. “I shouldn’t keep you.”
I stand up more slowly, wondering if I should leave her alone. “I could stay a little while longer if—”
“No, no. You have some place to be and I’m just going to sit here and smoke the rest of that pack.” She rummages through her purse, then holds a handful of money out to me. “Here. Take this.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” She presses it into my hand and folds my fingers around it. “It’s not much, but it should be enough to get a place to sleep for a week or so. Okay?” And there’s a steely edge to her voice that says she won’t be refused.
“Yes, ma’am.” I tuck the money down into my bag. “Thank you.”
“Ah.” She smiles and slides her arms around me. “You be careful, all right?”
“Yes, Mama Lettie.” I look down at her, doing my best to look stern and not broken. “You too.”
She gives me a squeeze, then steps back and leans against the counter. “I’ll be all right.”
I nod, unable to trust my voice, and walk out the kitchen door. Then around the corner of the house and past the kitchen window, trampling heavily down the driveway. When I reach the front corner of the house, I pause and tiptoe back to peer in through the kitchen window.
Mama Lettie has her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. But then she straightens up and marches to the table and lights another cigarette. One hand on her hip as she blows a mouthful of smoke toward the ceiling.
I swallow against the lump in my throat and tiptoe back toward the sidewalk. She’ll be all right, I think. Maybe not at first, but she’ll be all right.
The air shimmers with heat as the sun climbs toward zenith. I tuck my hands in my pockets and start walking. Franklin will be waiting.
8
Franklin doesn’t answer the door at first. For a moment, I wonder if he has left already. Maybe he took my warning that his sister was in danger seriously, but preferred not to take me along. I knock harder, prepared to slip around the back and break in if I have to, but the lock snicks open and Franklin stares out at me, bleary-eyed. “I thought I told you to come around back.”
“I forgot.” Which is true. “Long night.”
“Yeah.” He steps to one side. “Come on in.”
“Thank you.” I step inside, and he shoves the door shut, already turning down the hall toward the kitchen.
“You want a cup of coffee?” He gestures to the pot on the counter, the last few drops just trickling out of the basket.
“I guess.” My notebooks are spread out on the table, a plate with half a sandwich sitting forgotten in the middle. Franklin, I realize, is still dressed in the same clothes he had on yesterday. “You didn’t sleep?”
He pours coffee into two mugs. “Not in a bed.” He nudges the books aside to set the cups down. “Sugar?”
I shake my head and take a mug, sip from it politely. The coffee is hot and bitter, but I’m not here for the food. “Well?”
He drops into the chair on the other side of the table. “You’ve done a lot of work over these past few months.” He smooths the pages of the nearest book, takes a gulp of coffee. “You certain it all adds up like this?”
“Yes.” I take another sip from the mug, shudder at the taste, and set it down.
He frowns, rubs his braids back from his face, and slurps down more coffee, apparently oblivious to the heat of it. “And you’re going to keep my sister safe, right?”
“In exchange for your help, yes.”
“And if I don’t want to help you?” He rubs his chest. “Last time almost killed me.”
“I remember.” I turn my cup on the table, watching the dark brown liquid tremble and shimmer with the reflection of the yellowed light overhead.
“Why should I risk that again?”
“Because I can help you stop the threat to your sister for good.” I shrug. “Or, you can run off to Atlanta and try and move her someplace else. Again. Try and hide her from the Sisters. Again. And hope that maybe this time they won’t find her. Again.”
“Egh.” Franklin tosses back the last of his coffee, then reaches for the pot to refill his mug. “And you’re certain...” He pauses, staring at the confusion of pages laid open on the table.
I spread my hands across the books. “This road, as hard as it is, will mean your sister will be safe. Not just for a year or two. For good.”
“There is a lot of risk written here.”
“Yes. But how much have you already done to save her?” I reach across the table and take his hand, impulsive. “I want to help you, Franklin. Not just because you can help me, but because you already have. And I want to help you.”
He shakes his head. “Shit, Delaney.” He stands up and stomps out of the kitchen. Muffled swearing echoes down the hall.
I collect my notebooks, organizing them back into sequence. Wondering if I should leave and come back later, once he’s had time to think about it some more.
“Hey.” Franklin hangs against the doorframe. “You coming?” He’s wearing a different shirt, and his hair is pulled back.
“Coming?” I blink at him, even though this is the thing I hoped would happen.
“You said you wanted to see the magic books. If we hurry, we can get there before Mrs. Dihn closes for lunch.”
“Ah.” I pick up my journals and clutch them against my chest. “I’m ready.”
Franklin ushers me back down the hall to the front door. “I’ll meet you out by the street.” He locks the door behind me, and I go down the steps to the sidewalk to wait.
There’s a rumble of an engine behind the house, and Franklin pulls down the weed-smothered driveway in an old Chevy Nova. “You want to put those in the trunk?”
I shake my head and climb into the passenger seat. “That’s okay. I need to look through them again.”
9
Mrs. Dihn’s store is in an older brick building—part grocery store, part herbal supply, part charm warehouse. Unlike a few tourist boutiques in the more popular sections of town, there are no complete charms here. But the glassed-in shelves behind the cash register are crammed full of rock and bone and feathers and roots, all the bits and pieces necessary for folks like Franklin to build the most common charms.
Mrs. Dihn herself is small and flawless. Shiny dark hair drawn back modestly, golden skin, and dark brown eyes that burn when she sees me. But Franklin steps past me and leans on the edge of the counter, friendly-like.
“We need to see the books.”
Dihn’s lips thin. “So you are helping this one?”
“More or less.”
She glances at me, and I square my shoulders against the urge to take a step back. “Good morning, Mrs. Dihn.”
“Egh.” She leans across the counter toward Franklin. “You know what she is?”
“Yes.”
“If she has promised you something...”
Now Franklin looks at me, but there is no doubt in his eyes. Just resignation. “You know there is only one thing that I would make this sort of deal for.”
Dihn’s eyes narrow. “Laurel?”
“Yes. And the Sisters.”
“Ptah.” She mimics spitting before bustling around the end of the counter to look up at me. Her eyes glitter like glass, and are as sharp, too. “You will take care of the Sisters?”
I nod. “Yes.”
She reaches up to grab my face, fingers pinching my jaw as she pulls me down so we look in each other’s eyes. I have not told Franklin what I actually intend to happen to the Sisters. Maybe I don’t have to. Maybe he is more concerned with his sister’s safety.
But Mrs. Dihn seems to see.
She flinches. A sly grin pulls at her rose petal lips, reminding me that Franklin and his sister are not the only ones the Sisters have hurt. She leans so close I feel her breath against my skin.
“You swear to me that you will do this thing, Power?”
“I swear it.”
“Ah.” Her smile grows. “All right. You may read the books.” She bangs her hand on the bell sitting on the counter. When there is not an immediate response, she rings it again, turning to yell at the back of the store. “Mark.”
A large young man with the same golden skin and dark hair emerges from a half-concealed hallway. “Yes, Mom?”
“Watch the store.”
Mark looks at Franklin and me, face impassive, but his blue eyes are just as sharp as his mother’s. “Yes, Mom,” he says. He pulls his smartphone from his pocket and settles on the stool behind the counter.
Mrs. Dihn gestures for us to follow her. “This way. Quick.”
She leads us back through the curtained doorway, down a narrow hall to a battered wooden door. There is a faint jingle as she pulls a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocks it. The stairs on the other side are caked with dust and fall steeply into darkness. I glance at Franklin, who nods and steps past me.
“Watch your step, Delaney,” he says.
I lick my lips and follow him down the stairs. As I reach the floor, dirt and brick by the feel under my sneakers, the little bit of light from the top of the stairs is snuffed as Mrs. Dihn pulls the door shut and locks it again. A switch clicks.
Bare bulbs dangle from the arch of a tunnel. I shiver, remembering Daddy’s muddy hole in the afterlife, but the air is musty, not rotten. Mrs. Dihn marches ahead of us without hesitation. She unlocks another door at the end of the tunnel, and we move into a large, low-ceilinged room cluttered with stacks of books.
Dihn locks the door behind us, flips a few more switches on the wall to turn the rest of the lights on. “Which books?”
“Just one. The Book of the Dead.”
“Sit there.” She gestures to a little table and chair directly beneath one of the hanging lights. She disappears back into the shelves.
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