by Gwenda Bond
Miranda staggered back toward the forest. She heard the boys behind her. Phillips caught up, touched her shoulder. It was a small comfort against the sight of that shoreline.
"Dee went into a room alone 'to prepare,'" Bone said. Then, "Dad says he talks to angels."
"Satan was an angel," Miranda pointed out.
"No," Phillips said, "this isn't something any god would be involved in. Or any fallen angel. The devil is just the kind of word my gram would use."
"What do you mean?"
"The forces he's calling on… You've felt it when he looks at you, when he touches you. He was just a man once, a mad scientist who wanted to believe he was talking to angels. A man who believed in progress, in the dream of a New London on this island. But he has become something else. Worse. More."
"Death," Bone said.
They left it at that.
Miranda sat next to Phillips on the sidewalk in front of the house that formed the main hub of activity for the returned, and they watched in silence as the returned and the theater types bustled around. She'd asked Bone to fetch her messenger bag from his dad's car, and she got up when she saw him carrying it toward them.
Phillips said, "Where are you going?"
"Just to freshen up," she said. "A girl needs her secrets."
He smiled at her, but he still looked worried. And that's why she couldn't tell him where she was going. He'd only worry more. He'd want to help. It was better for him to stay out here in relative safety, in case she got caught.
She met Bone and took the bag. "Thanks," she said, then lower. "Follow me inside. I need one more thing."
Bone did as she asked, without drawing attention to it. He really wasn't so bad.
In the apartment, the bizarre prep continued with women sewing their fingers raw and a mix of men and women in the kitchen drying candles. The room smelled like burnt wax. A couple of the women glanced up at them, and went back to work. Unconcerned.
And why should they be. What threat could Miranda pose to them?
"What?" Bone asked.
"Your dad, where is he?"
"He's in the bedroom next to the one Dee's in, I think."
Good. "Can you distract him?"
Bone looked at her. "What are you going to do?"
"Better if you don't know." When he didn't answer, she leaned in close to his ear, "You said you should have done something."
He hesitated, but said, "Give me a minute."
"I'll wait in the bathroom across the hall."
Miranda kept her bag tucked against her side. She went into the small bathroom, softly shutting the door, while Bone broke off into the room across the hall. The mirror called out to her, and when she saw what a mess she was she swiped at her hair in an attempt to smooth it. She made sure her face was angled so she didn't have to see the snake. Then she got closer to the door so she could listen while she rummaged in her bag.
Bone and his dad were arguing. Bone raised his voice, no doubt so she'd hear him. "Dad, I get that you have things to do, but I need you for a minute outside. Just a minute."
Miranda waited, taking a handful of change from the bottom of her bag and transferring it to her pocket. She resisted a fist pump when she heard them enter the hallway, Roswell complaining as he went.
She opened the door by degrees, and rushed across into the bedroom once she was sure it was clear. She hoped against hope that Roswell hadn't taken the gun with him.
He hadn't.
It rested on the center of a pillow on the bed, like a crown in some king's chamber. She walked over, put her bag down next to it. She knew she didn't have much time, and this was a long shot at best. The gems on the grip flashed as she picked it up.
She stuffed the coins from her pocket into the long barrel one by one, using a pen from her bag to press them deep inside. For the capper, she crumpled the page with the picture of Dee she'd ripped from Roswell's book earlier and added it. When everything was in and she was satisfied a casual examination would reveal nothing, she hurried back to her hiding place. Roswell harrumphed his way back up the hall seconds after she closed the door.
She had no idea if the coins were enough to jam Dee's weapon. Probably not. But she'd tried.
Phillips observed the rest of the day from the edges. Next to him on the sidewalk, Miranda stroked Sidekick's head. The desiccated insects in the forest and the rotting fish washed onto the beach were never far from Phillips' thoughts. The voices of the spirits snuck and insinuated, and he did his best to block them.
"I should be helping the techs," Miranda said. "They'll be down several staff. Polly… It's still the show."
Phillips shook his head. "No. Way."
He'd attempted another conversation with his mother, but she waved him off. She whispered, "He'll find out. We can't talk. I'm doing this for you." He'd considered calling his father, couldn't figure out how that would help. So he sat and watched and tried to locate an exit strategy.
Whatever the wrong thing inside Dee was, Phillips knew they would regret forever the moment when it got what it wanted, what it had waited for all this time.
Immortality. With forever, with powerful followers in forever, Dee could do anything.
He must not succeed. You must stop this. Must stop. Must.
He shoved harder, shoved the voices away – either he was getting better at blocking them, or being near Dee made it easier. He wasn't sure how he felt about either possibility. But he didn't see how the chatter was supposed to help him; his gram's gift must have acted differently. How was he supposed to think with so many voices talking at him? What strength did spirits have to give?
The early evening stole in like a cat burglar, and brought Polly – who had been Miranda's friend before. She emerged from the house where they'd spent the night in a long cloak that matched her hair. Her fingers were red, bloody raw, and she sucked on one absently, as if she felt the hurt from far away.
"Dinner inside," she said. "Miranda, I need you to come with me."
"You're Eleanor, right?" Phillips asked. "My ancestor?"
The gray-haired young woman nodded. "You're one of Ginny's descendants. Such a surprise that she survived."
"She hated everything you stand for," Phillips said. "She passed that on down the line."
Eleanor smiled. "We have been misunderstood all along. I'm not surprised to hear it from my daughter's spawn. Come inside. Soup for you. And Miranda gets a bath."
Miranda climbed to her feet, and told him, "Have your soup. I'll do the bath because I smell." Polly smiled again, and Miranda clarified, "But if you try to stick me in some wedding gown or something, it will not happen. Got it?"
Phillips' smile was real, but gone as soon as Miranda left. What if they do try to put her in a wedding gown?
Sidekick stayed with him, looking hopeful.
"All right, boy. Last meal, it is."
In the kitchen, a few fat candles sat on wax paper, burned down to their wicks. They were black. "Subtle," he muttered.
The people who'd been working in the kitchen had slowly made their way out to the common area over the past hour. He discovered an enormous kettle of normal-smelling beef and vegetable soup on the stove, a stack of bowls beside it that must have been collected from several kitchens. Phillips scooped soup into one, noticing how loud every noise became in the lack of bustle.
He ate a bite, realised he was starving, but waited to see if he keeled over. He didn't, so he put the bowl on the floor for Sidekick to slurp in gulps. His own bowl went almost as fast.
Phillips expected Polly and Miranda would be the first to emerge. Instead, Dee joined him.
If Dee had been a skin cream commercial before, now he was an ad for youth itself. Vitality. Strength. Even the body he wore seemed in better shape.
He was also wearing yet another suit. This one had thin gray pinstripes. Some devoted follower, or his lackey Roswell, must have shopped until they dropped to make sure he'd be coordinated with his coven's capes. Dee's ow
n gray cloak remained folded across his arm.
"So, what's your big dastardly plan?" Phillips set down his bowl on the counter with a clatter. Couldn't hurt to ask.
Dee looked at him, eyes black and blank as if he were a painting that walked.
In that moment, Phillips felt sure he'd been right about the forces Dee was accessing. They were unknowable, beyond understanding. Maybe they were using him. Maybe he wasn't fully in control either.
Those eyes made the murmuring voices in Phillips' head go quiet. They made it hard for him to breathe.
Or maybe that was the invisible fist squeezing his lungs–
He couldn't breathe–
"Shall we go?" Dee's lips formed the words, and the flatness left his eyes. A boundless dark energy replaced the two-dimensional death glare.
Phillips knew who he'd see before he turned, gasping, lungs released.
Miranda stood in the middle of the common room with her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was loose and almost dry. She wore a fresh outfit – a vintage western shirt, a pair of jeans, and dusty sneakers. This was the girl he wanted to go anywhere with, anywhere except wherever Dee went.
Beside her, Polly and a couple of women Phillips didn't recognise wore heavy cloaks. Polly who was really Eleanor said, "Master, I apologise for the state of her. She wouldn't consent–"
Dee held up a hand. "Mary–" He paused. "Miss Blackwood is a vision. It will be my honor to escort her to the birth of New London."
Polly's mouth closed. She nodded.
"I'll walk with Phillips." Miranda crossed the room to him.
"That will be fine." Dee responded with a don't-care elegance he could afford, with everything else going his way.
Phillips could not fathom how the man had become so divorced from reality that he thought Miranda was not only into dead guys, but that she'd ever be attracted to someone who looked like her dad. Merry olde England hadn't been that backward.
Phillips' thinking must have showed on his face. The squeeze of his lungs was more than a warning this time–
He coughed, hacked–
Miranda gripped his arm, concerned. "What's wrong?"
The pressure eased at Miranda's question.
Phillips sucked in a breath. Dee was waiting to see how he'd respond. He choked out an answer, "What isn't?"
Dee's black eyes left him.
Still, Phillips wasn't breathing easy.
27
Break a Leg
The trek to the theater began at sunset. Dee, Polly, Roswell, and Sara were in the lead, followed by Miranda and Phillips. The rest of the returned formed a dark cloud behind them. The visual of familiar figures wearing the unfamiliar gray cloaks was guaranteed to freak out any friends and loved ones attending the Dare County Night to end all Dare County Nights.
They didn't walk along the main road, but took the back way. Miranda had always considered the path somewhat enchanted, because only people in the show used it. It hugged the coast, the waters of the Sound in full view, before dipping through the corner of the Elizabethan Gardens and on to Waterside Theater's backstage.
The actors and technicians had left a few hours earlier. Dee wanted them to put on the show, though Miranda still didn't understand why. Couldn't he clap his hands and make thunder and lightning strike and drop birds from the sky and take his stupid gun and force her to betray everything she was?
She didn't know about the other stuff, but the last one was coming. The moment when Miranda was made into the traitor he'd branded her as. She touched her cheek, an absent gesture that was becoming habit. Her last-ditch effort at sabotaging the gun seemed like a bad joke with the entire parade of body-snatching alchemists around her.
"What did they want you to wear?" Phillips asked.
These were the first words he'd spoken since they left Polly's, after that weird choking incident. He'd tell her if Dee had hurt him somehow, wouldn't he?
"Gray isn't my color." They'd gotten a tray of make-up from somewhere, and a sack-like too-long baby doll dress made in the same gray of the cloaks. Polly had attempted to force a cloak onto Miranda's shoulders, but she'd locked the bathroom door and put on her own clothes.
Miranda refused to look over at the Sound, in case it was dead fish fiesta from here to eternity. Dee looked far too strong, leading his favored companions toward the theater. Or Eleanor was favored, anyway – Sara was as much a pawn in this as Miranda, and Roswell just had a bad case of hero worship.
The wind tossed Miranda's hair around her face. She wanted to tell Phillips how much his sticking with her had meant. She wanted to tell him lots of things. But she didn't. He didn't say anything more, either.
She reached down to pat Sidekick's head, where he trotted along beside her. She hadn't wanted to bring him, but she was too afraid to leave him behind. If she never made it back, she didn't want him trapped with them.
The silent party finally reached backstage, winding along the stone path between the small buildings that housed everything from costumes and props to lighting gels and tools. A stagehand leaving the costume shop called out to Polly. "Poll, where have you been all day?"
Polly ignored him, fixated on Dee.
The man in the pinstriped gray suit didn't stop until they left backstage behind and reached the amphitheater. He stopped in front of the stage, waiting for the mass of his followers to file out behind him. The audience watched, their questions murmured.
The event had packed the house. Every seat was taken, aside from a large vacant section down front blocked off by strands of police tape.
Once his cohort was complete, Dee crossed to the first row of empty seats. He swept on his cloak with a flourish. He called out, words loud and clear as if they'd been broadcast through a wireless mike: "Welcome tonight's guests of honor. Your beloved have returned to you!"
The confused applause quickly gathered force as the returned claimed their seats. Miranda spotted Blue Doe at the back of the house with her cameraman, beaming as they caught the entrance on film.
The applause and Blue Doe's presence were all the confirmation Miranda needed to prove her theory that Dee had billed tonight as tourist fodder. The people here would see their annual income triple from the bump in interest caused by the disappearance and reappearance. The show's next season would probably be its biggest ever.
This night was about dragging out the attention on the new mystery, adding to the local legend. Next year's dollar signs were in everyone's eyes. Except they don't know we'll be living in "New London," then, with our creepy mayor, aka the devil of Roanoke Island.
When she finally looked at him, she realised Dee had been waiting for her. He leaned forward, giving her a small bow. "You will do me the honor of sitting at my side."
It wasn't so much a question. The snake burned, and her lips opened, "Yes, delighted," she said. He made her say it.
"I'll stay with you," Phillips said.
"Yes, and our Sara will be right beside you," Dee said, scanning for her, "in case you need motherly guidance."
Dee looked around for his wayward recruit, and Miranda located her at the same time he did. She was engaged in a heated conversation with Chief Rawling, who was in uniform. Sara met Dee's gaze and walked back to them, not another word to her husband.
The chief shot a worried look in Phillips' and Miranda's direction. Miranda matched it, as Dee's cloak swooped in the air. He urged them into their seats. Front row center, of course.
Blue Doe appeared as soon as they were seated, teetering in front of Dee. Her eyes narrowed on Miranda, trying to place her. Miranda craned her neck in the opposite direction.
"Sir, can I have a moment of your time?" Blue Doe asked. When she got no response, she said, "Anyone else care to do a quick interview? Come on, now. Don't be shy. America wants to hear your stories… What is that dog doing here?"
Without looking at her, Miranda reached down and tugged Sidekick in front of her feet.
"What do the capes symbolise?"
Blue Doe asked, exasperated. "At least give me that much."
Miranda shifted to catch Dee's response.
"Ceremony. The connection between souls who have been among the lost," Dee answered, nailing the reporter with a look that would have shut Miranda up.
It must have had the same effect on Blue Doe, because she took off, clicking away on her high heels. But Miranda didn't get a chance to enjoy the reporter's retreat, because Dee placed his hand over hers.
The hunk of flesh was cold as ice cubes. The summer night's humidity stuck to her skin, and she half-expected mist to form where his hand made contact.