7 Souls

by Barnabas Miller; Jordan Orlando

  “Showtime,” Ellen was saying. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the wind. Surrounding her in a circle were Trick, Amy, Joon, and Dylan. Everybody was holding the thick paper notes Ellen had given them—the ones with the three lines of writing below the mesmerizing red symbol that seemed to keep moving, crawling on the page when you weren’t looking, like one of those optical illusions you see in kids’ books. When he’d first gotten Ellen’s text message, summoning him to the roof (the same message they’d all gotten), he’d had no idea what to expect, but once the page was in his hands, any doubts about the oddness of the gathering melted away. TODAY IS THE DAY, the note said, and those four words conveyed a wonderful sense of purpose, of correctness, that had filled his heart from the moment he’d first read them. He found himself repeating them in his head, over and over, basking in the knowledge that today was the glorious day they were going to get Mary Shayne back for everything she’d done to them.

  “Mary’s on her way,” Ellen went on, checking her watch. She’d been talking for a while, explaining her plan, and every word had been music to their ears. “We’ve still got a few minutes…. She’s wandering down Madison Avenue, fantasizing that she’s Audrey Hepburn.” Joon and Amy made faces at this, sneering contemptuously. “No, it’s true! She spends an hour each week trying to channel Holly Golightly, believe it or not…. I’ve timed her for two months and it’s like clockwork. We’ve still got a few minutes before she gets here. Trick, you know what to do?”

  “I sure do.” Breaking up with Mary Shayne was such an appetizing prospect that he was bouncing on his toes with impatience—he couldn’t wait to be face to face with her and do the deed. The fact that it was going to look like a fakeout later in the evening just made it all the sweeter.

  “Good. You’d better go straight down to the street and wait for her there,” Ellen said, checking her watch. “Next up is Dylan—you’re going to ask her out on a date.”

  “All right,” Dylan said readily. “When?”

  “It’s got to be at the end of the school day,” Ellen said firmly. “I want her suffering all afternoon. Joon and Amy, you’ll get her ready for the date.”

  “That’s our job?” Joon said, sounding disappointed. “That’s all? That sucks.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ellen told her, smiling secretively. “There’s going to be more—a lot more. I know how mad you are about, well …” Ellen trailed off, not looking at Joon, but Joon’s and Trick’s eyes met, and it was clear to Patrick that they’d both gotten the message.

  “What’s the coup de grâce?” Dylan asked. His scruffy hair blew in the mild wind. “The big prank at the end,” he explained, seeing their puzzled faces.

  “She’s going to try to off herself,” Ellen told them, eyes glittering with excitement. “She’s going to put a gun to her head and pull the trigger. The gun won’t be loaded, of course, but she’ll learn her lesson.”

  Gun? Amy was mouthing quizzically.

  “What gun?” Joon asked.

  “Patrick, that’s your next job,” Ellen went on, shivering slightly in her orange hoodie as she turned toward him. “You know what to do? Are you up for it?”

  “Sure,” Trick assured her. Ellen had explained that part, moments earlier, while they’d waited for the others to arrive—and now he understood what Mason’s nearly brand-new, gray-market Smith & Wesson automatic was for.

  “My buddy Mason’s coming to the party,” he told them all. “He’ll have his gun with him. He’ll probably hit on Mary—he’ll definitely hit on Mary,” he corrected, making them all laugh. “That’s when Joon comes in. Joon, you’ll like this guy—he’s really ripped.”

  “Yum, yum,” Joon said flatly.

  “You’re going to have to get the gun away from him,” Ellen told Joon in her calm, reasonable, authoritative voice. “Can you do that?”

  “Absolutely,” Joon said with regal assurance. Trick believed it; Mason loved to show his weapons to girls—he thought it turned them on. Trick was beginning to understand the master plan, and he approved. Ellen was in charge, completely, and it was a good thing, too—it just made so much sense to listen to what she was telling them to do. It had made sense since he’d awakened that morning, filled with a strange, calm certainty that everything was going to be all right, today—that somebody was going to tell him what to do, and once he’d done it all, the biggest problem in his life would be gone.

  “I have a question,” Amy said, her red hair billowing around her face as the wind whipped across the roof. “I’ve got to drive her to that house, right? How will I know where to go?”

  “Patrick’s job again,” Ellen explained. “Patrick, I’ll draw you a map; you’ve got to memorize the directions and repeat them back for Mary and Amy. Your car’s ready?”

  “Full tank of gas,” Trick assured her.

  “And I’m supposed to send her a scary text,” Joon added. “Right?”

  “Right,” Ellen affirmed. “Sometime after ten, once Scott signals he’s got everything set up at the farmhouse. I’m going to find Mary right then. I’ll be with her at the party when she gets Joon’s text—I’ll make sure she takes it seriously. Once we’ve got the gun I’ll take the bullets out and get ready for the big event while you’re giving her the runaround.”

  “Will she do it?” Amy asked. “Will she actually pull the trigger?”

  “Yeah,” Ellen said, nodding calmly. “Yeah, you bet she will. You’ll all be gone, and she’ll think it’s all her fault.”

  “She never thinks anything’s her fault!” Patrick objected. “She’s got the biggest fucking ego on the planet. What makes you think she’s even capable of blaming herself?”

  “That’s all bullshit,” Ellen said. “She hates herself more than all of us combined. That’s why she needs to feel like such a fucking star all the time. That’s why she needs to treat everyone else like shit. It’s because she can’t stand herself. Believe me, she’ll do it. She’ll pull the trigger.”

  Patrick found himself picturing that image, and felt a warm rush of excitement. From the looks on their faces, the others seemed to be doing the same thing.

  “Okay,” Amy said. “I still don’t understand what this farmhouse deal is all about, though—it sounds so complicated. What do we have to do, exactly?”

  “Scott will explain, once he gets to school,” Ellen promised, reaching into her pocket and pulling out an enormous, heavy clump of industrial-looking keys. “I prepped him late last night. Once he gets here with all the equipment, he’ll fill you in.” Ellen tossed the keys across the circle to Amy, who fumbled them and nearly dropped them. “And you can give him these—I forgot to give them back.”

  Patrick wondered what that was all about—What are those keys, anyway? What did I miss?—but as he quickly reminded himself, he didn’t need to know. All he needed to worry about was what Ellen had told him to do.

  “There’s one more thing,” Ellen said, pointing to Dylan. “Stick around—I’ve got to talk to you. Everyone else, it’s showtime—let’s get moving.”

  STANDING IN THE WRECKED, deserted living room of the hotel suite, her nostrils—Patrick’s nostrils—stinging with the ambient smoke and the acrid stench of the party, Mary reeled from what Patrick’s memory had shown her. The efficient, cold-blooded way that her friends had ganged up on her, tricked her, planned the whole thing, was amazing to visualize even though she’d already known it had happened—since she’d inferred it from the spell itself, the curse that her own sister had unleashed on her.

  (The Sorcerer chooses 7 Minions, the 7 Men and Women who most despise the Victim)

  Finally, Mary understood her own role … the fiendishly clever way Ellen had recruited her along with the others.

  (WHOM DO YOU HATE THE MOST?)

  Ellen was right: she hated herself, even more than the rest of them did (although hearing them laugh at her private Breakfast at Tiffany’s routine hurt so much that it barely seemed possible). Mary forced herself not t
o dwell on her self-pity, and to concentrate on the details of Patrick’s memory.

  What were those keys? Mary thought, picturing the glittering shape that had flown across the rooftop that morning and been caught by Amy. And what the hell was the “one more thing” with Dylan at the end?

  “Dylan’s going to die,” Ellen was whimpering. “This is all my fault. It’s turned into a nightmare, it’s gotten out of control….”

  Oh, Ellie, Mary thought. She was nearly trembling with repressed anguish. She wanted to grab Ellen and hug her, try to comfort her—but she didn’t move. She could feel her own grief erupting inside of her, and she had to muster all her self-control to suppress it and hide it. She was not herself—literally; she was Patrick Dawes, and she couldn’t let her guard down. She had to be as smart as she’d ever been in her life. Scott, Joon, Amy, Mary and now Patrick were five souls.

  Five out of seven, she thought grimly. She clearly remembered what she’d read in that antique, threadbare purple book. 7 souls—and then oblivion.

  “Ellen,” Mary said, flinching at the familiar bass echoes of Patrick’s smoky voice. “Ellen, why? Why are you doing this?”

  “The same reason you are,” Ellen said bitterly. She was crying. “Because I hate her. Because I want to get back at her.”

  “For what?” Mary yelled, staring at her crying sister in shock and disbelief and sorrow. “Get back at her for what? What did I—what did Mary ever do to you?”

  “She tried to kill my mom!” Ellen screamed.

  What?

  Mary was so stunned that she nearly forgot to breathe. I did what? I tried to kill Mom?

  “What do you mean?” she managed to rasp out. “Tried to kill her … when? How?”

  “Ten years ago,” Ellen sobbed. “The day my dad died … that’s when it happened. The day Mary ruined my mom’s life.”

  I ruined—What?

  “I don’t—I don’t know that story,” Mary said.

  “Nobody does!” Ellen raged. “Mary acts like it never happened! Mom and I are the only ones who know! Mom never talks about it, but she’s got to live with Mary, like, every day, knowing what she did!”

  What in the name of God in heaven is she talking about?

  “But Mary will know,” Ellen whispered. “When this day is over, she’ll know.”

  I will? Mary wasn’t sure what to ask next—Ellen’s stunning accusations had made it very difficult to think. “What—”

  A familiar metallic clatter suddenly filled the room. Mary knew exactly what it was. Someone’s here, she realized, recognizing the sounds of Patrick’s suite door being unlatched and opened—a noise she’d learned to recognize and anticipate after countless room service and valet calls, and all the other Peninsula Hotel benefits she’d shamelessly sponged while dating Patrick.

  “Shit—is that Mary?” Ellen said frantically, grabbing Mary’s—Patrick’s—wrist. “Too soon, too soon—we’re not ready….”

  The door swung wide and bashed into the wall, and Joon, Amy and Scott hurried into the room. Mary stared, wide-eyed. Scott and Amy looked haunted and pale—as pale as Ellen—and their movements betrayed their erratic mental state. Joon was soaking wet, still wearing her sodden party dress, looking almost exactly as she had outside Dylan’s fire escape, her hair hanging over her face like black moss. But Mary’s eyes fixed on Joon’s right hand and what it was holding.

  The gun.

  That’s what’s-his-name’s gun—Mason’s gun, Mary finally realized, remembering Trick’s awful dealer friend, the meth head with the ripped body—recalling Patrick’s memory of the rooftop meeting. The gun he brought to the party—the one Joon was supposed to get from him. It was the entire reason Mason had been at the party—maybe the entire reason there was a party. She hadn’t recognized it when she’d lifted it to her own head, but now, staring across the wrecked hotel room, she realized it was the same one—the same satin-finish Smith & Wesson automatic.

  “Finally!” Ellen shouted. “Where the hell have you been? Mary’s on her way!”

  “Good,” Joon said quietly. “Good.”

  “What do you mean, good? Everything’s gone wrong! Dylan’s been shot!”

  “Yeah,” Joon said, smiling with one side of her mouth. Mary couldn’t take her eyes off the gun—the gun that hung from Joon’s slim hand like the clapper of a funeral bell. “Serves her right, doesn’t it? Now we’ve both lost a guy.”

  “You fucking crazy bitch!” Ellen screamed, grabbing Joon by the throat. “What the hell did you do?”

  No—no, Mary thought, feeling her breath catching in Patrick’s raspy, cigarette-stained throat. No, please, no—

  “We don’t have time,” Joon shouted back, grabbing Ellen’s wrists and easily shaking her hands free. The gun swung around and Ellen and Mary and Amy and Scott all ducked. “Get your hands off me, damn it—and get your shit together. You said she’s on her way—we’ve got to finish this.”

  “Okay—okay.” Ellen was panting, starting to cry again. Mary watched as her sister got control of herself. “Give me the gun,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Joon met Ellen’s eyes and held out the gun, and Mary stared, mesmerized, as her sister reached out and took it, holding it like a trophy, tilting the weapon so the lamplight gleamed on its smooth black surface.

  “The rest of you, hide,” Ellen ordered. Her voice had changed, Mary realized, powerless to stop herself from walking forward, watching as Ellen carried the gun through the open doorway into Patrick’s bedroom, toward the bed … and the wooden box that lay on its sheets.

  (Because I hate her.)

  Mary stood there in Patrick’s body and clothes with the smell of Krylon spray paint filling her nostrils and stared at her sister as Ellen carefully opened the wooden box, placed the gun inside it and then pulled a folded note from her pocket and put that inside the box next to the gun. The ceiling spotlights flared in Mary’s eyes, the white glare filling her vision, expanding like the pain and sorrow in her heart until she had disappeared within a numbing platinum void.

  6

  DYLAN

  BRIGHT WHITE LIGHT WAS shining in Mary’s eyes, glittering from the glass spyhole set directly in the center of the white door in front of her. A pounding noise was coming from the other side of the door, shaking it visibly. Mary could feel cold brass in her right hand; she looked down and saw her own hand—a boy’s large hand—turning the knob and pulling the door open while the pounding continued. She wanted to stop herself, but she couldn’t—there just wasn’t time. Dylan’s muscles were already moving, turning the knob on the Shayne apartment’s front door and pulling it open, and Mary had something like one second to realize where, when, and who she was—and to try to stop herself—but it was too late.

  The door burst open, practically knocking her backward, and then she was staring out into the fifth-floor landing, where Joon Park stood in her ruined clothes pointing a gun right at her and pulling the trigger.

  The muzzle flash and blast were brilliant and loud. The gun jerked, its barrel slamming backward and forward as the cartridge was ejected and a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke filled the air. Mary was blown backward and she felt white-hot agony in her abdomen and then a blast of pain all up and down her body as the wooden floor slammed into her from behind; she was on the floor now, staring up at her apartment’s hallway ceiling, with a pool of warmth spreading behind her and her mind nearly comatose with pain and shock.

  “Aaaahh!” a male voice was screaming—Dylan’s voice, echoing inside her skull.

  That’s me, Mary thought. The pain was so intense that she was convinced she would go insane if it continued.

  Joon came forward, into the apartment, still brandishing the smoking gun. The look in her eyes—viewed from floor level—was terrifying. Mary could hear the clatter of footsteps and a slamming door as Real Mary dashed into her bedroom and slammed and locked the door.

  “There,” Joon whispered. She was looking down at Mary—at Dylan
—contemptuously. “Now you’ve lost a guy you cared about, Mary—how does it feel?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mary screamed. She couldn’t help it. “Oh, God, it fucking hurts—”

  Joon had stepped over her and was heading down the corridor toward Mary’s bedroom door—Mary could hear her footsteps creaking on the floorboards.

  Think, she told herself through the pain. Think—figure it out.

  Ellen had said that she’d cast Horus’s vengeance curse—the Curse of 7 Souls—on Mary because Mary had “tried to kill Mom.” Mary couldn’t make heads or tails of that remark. She’d come to understand what all the others had against her—why they’d been enlisted in Ellen’s curse—but she still couldn’t figure out what Ellen, her sister, had against her.

  “I’ve called the cops!”

  Mom’s voice, coming through her bedroom door. Mary remembered—she’d experienced this same moment already, not that long ago, from within her own bedroom.

  “Whoever you are, the cops are coming! I called nine-one-one!”

  The next few minutes were hard for Mary to keep track of. She realized that she might be going into shock—she was paralyzed, staring at the ceiling, but she vividly remembered the pool of blood that was spreading on the floor around her. She tried to keep awake, to keep herself rational, but it wasn’t easy—she had a strange, hallucinogenic awareness of Joon heeding Mom’s warning and running past her, a black and silver blur, waving Mason’s gun, and then she realized that her mother was there, crouching over her, a big blur smelling of tobacco smoke and flowers, and she was crying again, staring up at her mother’s face from the floor and realizing just how close she was to death—how she’d spent what seemed like an endless amount of time in proximity to death, thanks to an ancient Egyptian sorcerer she’d never even heard of before today.