“Did you talk to Christy while you were at the library?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I didn’t need to. That woman with the British accent at the front desk—her name’s Hilary—she helped me track down everything I needed.”
“So what do we do with all this stuff we’ve learned?”
I smile. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
“So you have no plan.”
“Oh, I have a plan. I just don’t know how to implement it. I think the next thing we need to do is bring all of this”—I tap my notes—“to Pelly and get his input.”
“I don’t know that I can sleep over again.”
“That’s okay. We’ll come to you.”
She just looks at me for a long moment, then says, “How are you going to do that?”
I grin back at her. “Magic ”
* * *
We talk a little more, but all we’re doing is going over the same ground. When we realize that neither of us has anything new to add, Maxine takes off to where Jared’s band is rehearsing, and I go to the record store to see Thomas.
The after-school/after-work rush is over and he’s alone in the store, sitting behind the counter reading the latest issue of Mojo, which is like his bible. I stand outside for a few moments and watch him through the window. He really is pretty much the coolest guy I’ve ever gone out with, and for sure the nicest. He’s only a year older than me, which makes him Jared’s age; not too tall, though he’s still tallish beside me, with dreamy pale-green eyes, scruffy brown hair, and the sweetest smile.
When I come in, I see he’s listening to the Streets, which is really just this one guy, not a band. Jared hates the album, but Thomas likes it. I do, too. I think it’s the cadence of the singer’s half-spoken vocals over these hypnotic rhythms.
Thomas grins when he looks up and sees me, then leans across the counter to give me a kiss.
“So how was school?” he asks.
“I skipped most of my classes and was at the library doing some research.”
His eyebrows go up—this is how my Mr. Cool asks a question.
“You’re Irish, right?” I say.
“Not really. I’m third generation, born and bred in Newford.”
“But did your parents or anybody else in your family ever talk about life back in Ireland—you know, the customs and stuff?”
“You’re doing a paper on Ireland?”
“Not really ... It’s just ... what do you know about the Good Neighbors?”
He leans forward on the counter and gives me that smile of his, just a little crooked, dimple in one cheek, a twinkle in his eyes. Definitely meltworthy.
“Now what makes you call them that?” he asks.
I shrug. “I just heard that they don’t like to be called by name.”
“It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” he says. “Everybody talks about fairies now. You’ve got your T-shirts and jewelry and tats and lord knows how many books on everything from their supposed living habits to how you can call them into your life to help you with your problems.”
“I never thought about it like that.”
“Oh, sure. It’s fairy this and fairy that. We’ve even got CDs that are ‘inspired’ by the fairies, for god’s sake. But it wasn’t always like that. The way my grandparents told it, the one thing you didn’t ever want was to get their attention. If you did, you made sure you treated them with great respect. And you never show your fear.”
“Like with a dog,” I say.
He smiles. “That’s one way of looking at it. Only fairies are far more dangerous than any dog.”
“Do you believe that?”
“What? In fairies, or that they’re dangerous?”
“Both, I guess.”
“So you’re researching fairies?”
I give a nervous look around the store, checking things out from the corners of my eyes.
“You keep saying the word,” I say. “I thought you weren’t supposed to call them that.”
He cocks his head and gets this teasing grin. “You know, I never took you for one of those girls who goes for fairies.”
“I don’t go for them,” I tell him. “And the less I have to do with them, the better. But I don’t really have much choice.”
I stifle a groan. That just slipped out, and now he’s going to think I’m a complete flake.
“But you’re writing a paper on them,” he says.
Well, I’m in this far, there’s no point in holding back now. Besides, I really like Thomas. I might omit certain details about my life when I’m talking to him—just as I do with Maxine—but I try not to lie to him. I try not to lie to Maxine either. So far it’s only been a couple of times. One day I’m going to have to tell her everything, but I’m dreading it because I’m pretty sure once she really knows what I was like, the stuff I’ve done, she won’t like me anymore.
“It’s not for a term paper,” I say. “I’m trying to get them out of my life.”
“Fairies.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Real fairies.”
“Yes, already.”
“And you want to get them out of your life.”
“Go ahead. Have a laugh.”
But he doesn’t laugh.
“Fairy trouble isn’t any laughing matter,” he says.
What, has everybody in the world always been a true believer except for me?
“Do you really know about this stuff?” I find myself asking.
“Only the stories I heard growing up.”
He motions for me to come around the counter and sit on the tall wooden stool he’s not using. He leans with his back against the counter, propped on his elbows.
“So what’s going on?” he asks.
When he puts it as directly as that, I have to tell him. I start with Ghost and take it all the way through to last night. He shakes his head as I finish up, but not, I discover, because he doesn’t believe me.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “On one side you’ve got the ghost of a dead kid, some bad-ass fairies, and some really bad-ass spirits that feed on people’s souls. On the other there’s you and Maxine and your imaginary childhood friend.”
“Pelly. Who turns out to be not so imaginary.”
“I don’t like the odds.”
“You don’t like them? Try being in my shoes.”
He gives me that smile he uses when he thinks I need to be cheered up.
“I couldn’t,” he says. “They’re way too tiny for these big feet of mine.”
“Ha-ha.”
He reaches out and brushes his fingers along my cheek. “It’s just ... I’m worried, Imogene.”
I know he is. What I can’t figure out is ...
“How come you believe me?” I ask.
“Why would you lie to me?”
“I wouldn’t. But really, this is like totally stretching credulity, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. Except I’ve had my own experience with the fairy world.”
“You have?”
He nods. “I was just a kid, maybe ten or eleven; I can’t really remember. It was the night my uncle died. I was lying in bed and I heard this wailing outside the house, so I got up out of my bed to see what it was. I thought it was, you know, a car alarm or something, but when I opened my curtains, there was this ...” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know how to describe it. This thing was hanging in the air outside my window, two stories up, with its face pressed up against the windowpanes. It looked like a corpse, skin as white as bone, with hair like snakes, and a mouth that almost seemed to split its face in two. And seriously deranged eyes.”
“What ... what did you do?”
“Screamed and fell to the floor, which is where my parents found me when they came bursting in a moment later. Turns out what I saw was a banshee. It comes to a house and does its wailing thing when a relative is going to die.”
“You parents told you that?”
He shakes his head.
“My granny did. She saw it, too, at her house, the same night. The next day we found out that my uncle—her son—had died.”
“So how come just the two of you saw it?”
“Granny says it’s because we both have the Sight.”
“You can see fairies?” I ask.
“I guess, but I’ve only seen the one, and that was plenty. Granny’s seen others.”
Neither of us say anything for a long moment. The CD’s ended and it’s quiet in the store. No customers. Outside I can see people walking by, cars and buses on the street, but it’s like we’re in this little pocket of silence, this totally quiet place that’s somewhere outside the world.
“How come you never told me about that before?” I ask.
“How come you never told me about Pelly and the rest of it?”
“Because it’d make me seem like a total idiot.”
“Same deal for me,” he says.
“Oh.”
“Though the truth is, I haven’t even really thought about that night in a long time. It’s not the kind of thing you dwell on, you know?”
“So you never saw it again?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t ever want to see it again Uncle Sean’s the only close relative I’ve lost. I’m hoping everybody else sticks around for as long as possible.”
He has this sad look, and I feel bad for ever having brought any of this up and making him remember. I reach out and take his hand, give it a squeeze. He smiles back—not a big smile, but it’s real.
“I’m going to talk to Granny after I finish up here tonight,” he says. “See what she can tell me. Do you want to come?”
I nod. “But I should get home. I need to see Pelly.”
“I don’t like you being on your own with those things out there.”
“I’ll be okay. I’ll call you on your cell if things get weird.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Then I give him a big kiss and reluctantly head off for home.
John Narraway told me how to get in touch with him if I ever changed my mind and was ready to move on. I still haven’t changed my mind, but I hope he won’t realize that until he’s already come to me. And that when he comes, he’ll at least hear me out.
I leave the school, duck into one of those old carriage lanes that run behind the tenements in this part of town, and call for him. “Stay in one place and call my name three times,” he told me, “and I will find you no matter where you are.” So I call his name now. Once. Twice. Three times.
I know he’s getting close when the sounds around me start to mute and all the color drains out of everything. Red brick goes to gray Yellow and green garbage bins gray as well. When I look to where the lane begins, there’s no longer any traffic on the cross street, vehicular or pedestrian. The silence becomes absolute until I hear the footsteps approaching from behind me. I turn to see John, fiddle case in hand. He slowly shakes his head as he gets near.
“Why do I know you’re simply taking advantage of my good nature?” he says.
“I just need to ask you something,” I tell him. “It’s not a big deal.” And then I throw him a bone. “If I can get this thing done, I think I might be ready to move on.”
We both know that’s not going to happen, but people like John live on the hope that everyone will come to their senses, eventually. That anyone can change.
“What do you need to know?” he asks.
“These soul-eaters you were telling me about ...”
He nods. “The anamithim. What about them?”
“I need to know how I can switch their attention from one person to another.”
He gives me a look that it takes me a moment to recognize. Then I realize it’s respect.
“You’d be willing to sacrifice yourself for your friend?” he asks.
I feel small. I hadn’t even considered that. I still can’t consider it. I don’t have much, but I died too young. I’m not ready to give up even this semblance of living that I have.
“Actually,” I have to tell him, “I was thinking more of one of the bullies at my school.”
I’m prepared for the way his face goes, this mix of sad and angry. He thinks I’m a coward. I am a. coward, always have been. Death didn’t change that.
“I’ve already told you,” he says, his voice cool. “Once someone’s brought to their attention, they don’t forget.”
“But it’s just the soul they’re after, isn’t it? Does it matter whose?”
“Of course it matters.”
“None of this was Imogene’s fault.”
“We both know that,” John says. “But it’s too late to do anything about it now. And besides, who made you judge and jury?”
I have to laugh. “This coming from you?”
“I don’t judge,” John says. “I’m just here to help souls move on. Whether they do or don’t is their choice.”
“There are a lot of people who deserve to meet the soul-eaters. Like Brent Calder.”
“Sorry, I don’t know the name.”
“He’s the current big-shot bully at my school.”
“See,” John says, “there’s part of your problem right there. You don’t have a school anymore. You’re dead.”
“Whatever. It still doesn’t change the fact that Brent deserves this way more than Imogene.”
“Because he’s such a terrible person?”
I nod.
“How do you know he can’t be redeemed? How do you know that he won’t change his ways and perhaps make some great contribution to the world?”
“How do you know Imogene wouldn’t?”
“We don’t,” John says. “But it’s already too late for her.”
“Do you have to keep harping on that?”
“Apparently, since it doesn’t seem to stick with you.”
I bite back the sharp retort forming in my mind and change tack. Because something occurs to me.
“Okay” I say. “I get what you’re saying. I can’t swap Imogene for Brent, or probably anyone else, right?”
John nods. “I’m sorry, Adrian. This isn’t something designed to frustrate you personally. It’s just the way it is.”
“But what if I want to give myself up in her place?” I ask. “Is that doable?”
I can see the answer in his eyes before he speaks.
“You know what that means, right?”
I nod. “I just ... stop.”
“Forever. Whatever comes next, you don’t get to find out.”
“I know. Just tell me, is it possible?”
What I remembered was the look of respect he had for me when he first thought this was what I wanted to do. Something about that look, and the way he’s regarding me now, tells me it is possible. Not that I’ve actually got the guts to do it. But I figure, if there’s a way to put myself in Imogene’s place, then there might be a way to fix it that so that Brent gets taken instead.
“Yes,” John says. “Supposedly it’s possible.”
It’s obvious he’s reluctant to tell me even that much. “So how does it work?”
“Adrian, this isn’t the way to—”
“How does it work?”
“Not easily. The problem is petitioning the anamithim before they simply eat your soul.”
“And how do you do that?” I prompt when he doesn’t go on.
“I’ve heard conflicting stories. The method that’s supposed to work best has you offering them a loaf of unleavened bread that contains sugar but no salt. Like an Indian flatbread, I assume. You offer the loaf from within a circle that has been drawn with salt.”
“Salt wards them off?”
“Among other things,” John says. “But their patience is infinite. If you call them to you from that circle and don’t give them what they want, they can wait for eternity for you to leave the circle. Or for the wind to blow a gap in it. Or rain to wash it away.”
“Unless you did it indoors,” I say, “except I guess i
t would get pretty boring sitting inside a circle for the rest of your days.”
John nods.
“So that’s it?” I ask. “You just offer them this loaf?”
“No,” John says. “That’s just to get their attention. I guess you’d call to them as well.”
“And then when you have their attention ...?”
“You bargain with them.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would that do anything?”
“They’re big on respect,” John says. “On receiving it and giving it. And the one thing they respect above all else is bravery and selflessness. For you to offer yourself to them in place of your friend would show both.”
I nod slowly. “I guess ...”
I’m trying to think how I can turn this around so that it’s Brent they take instead of me. But then I realize something else.
“How do I get the loaf?” I say. “I can’t touch anything. I couldn’t even make the salt circle.”
“I know,” John says.
“But you can touch the physical world, right?”
“I won’t be part of this,” he tells me.
“But—”
He lifts his hand to stop me. “No. And don’t call me again, Adrian. Not even if you change your mind about this and decide to go on like you should have done in the first place. Someone else can help you cross over.”
He fades away before I can argue further. Color seeps back into my surroundings. I can hear the traffic on the street again, see people walking by on the sidewalk. Imogene, I think.
I don’t have any choice. I have to ask Imogene to get me the bread and salt, to make the circle. Only how do I do that without having to explain everything else? How could it work without her totally hating me?
I think of the fairies then.
They owe me, but that won’t make any difference to them. Maybe I can think of a way to trick them into helping me.
Yeah, I think as I start back to the school. Like that’s something I could ever pull off.
It’s funny. Tonight’s the first time in a long while that I’m not nervous about going to bed. I’m actually looking forward to that weird music and seeing Pelly. No, I’m counting on seeing him. But as soon as I start to drift off, the shadows pull loose from the corners of my room, and I jerk awake.
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