What do you know about me, Ms. Greystone?
“Detective? Should I come find you? Are you in danger?”
I’m fine, Ms. Greystone. Please. What do you know about me?
She pauses for a moment. “We know what you have told us. You were a college student. You came here from Nebraska.”
What about people close to me? What do you know?
“You had a girlfriend.”
Have. I have a girlfriend, I stress.
“Of course,” Greystone amends, and I can hear the puzzlement in her voice in my head. “You have a girlfriend. And a mother, though you know not where she currently resides.”
Did you know I had a brother?
“I believe you did mention that, yes. You had a brother who died a few years back.”
I’m silent, pondering the question that is tearing me apart. A tear forms in the corner of my eye.
Did he though, Ms. Greystone? My brother? Is my brother here?
Twelve Years Ago . . .
It’s fall; I’m thirteen and in my final year of middle school. I idolize my older brother, more so now than any other time. Craig is four years older than me, and in my mind, he can do no wrong. Even as young as I am, I know that he gets into trouble all the time, but that just makes him so much cooler. He’s had girlfriends for years, and his bad-boy attitude drives them crazy. He loves heavy metal music and hardcore punk—anything fast, loud and angry. I can’t get enough of it.
The feeling isn’t always mutual. He doesn’t like his little brother hanging around him all the time. But just because he picks on me at times doesn’t mean he’s OK with anyone else doing it. It’s OK when he gives me grief. Even if I hate the words at the time, I love the attention. But heaven help anyone else if he catches them giving me a hard time.
Will Fenkle is the biggest asshole of the eighth grade. He delights in the misery of others, especially if he’s the one to make them miserable. No one—no boy or girl, teacher or kid—is safe from his attention. Unfortunately, this includes me. I’m not necessarily popular, but I am well liked by most. I get along with just about anybody. But something about me just rubs him the wrong way.
We hate each other from the first time we meet.
I wish I could say I step up and stop him from picking on other kids because of some noble desire to protect others. The truth is, I don’t want to attract his attention any more than anyone else does.
I ignore him as he makes life miserable for a few other kids in the hall. I’m glad it isn’t me. When he does turn his attention to me, I just keep my head down and a smile on my face like it’s all a big joke and try to weather it as best I can. If I don’t put up too much of a fight, usually the worst I have to deal with is having my books knocked out of my hands or having to listen to some half-witted attempts to insult my mom.
But then a few weeks into the semester, he starts picking on Dylan Anderson.
Dylan is a pain in the ass. It’s not his fault; he’s developmentally challenged, but thirteen-year-olds aren’t usually known for their patience and understanding. He lashes out at anyone who tries to talk to him. He can only say a few words and generally behaves at about a five-year-old’s level. He’s in special classes; we only see him during lunch and gym, and for the most part, he keeps to himself.
Of course, this makes him a prime target for Will.
But Dylan’s mom is friends with my mom. I grew up hanging out with Dylan. We’re not friends; I’m not sure Dylan knows how to have friends, or that he will ever want a friend, but he doesn’t lash out at me, and I try and help him out when I can.
And when I see Will start tripping Dylan, laughing at him, bringing Dylan to tears, I lose it. The next thing I know, I’m spinning Will around. Will’s surprise at someone attacking him is probably the only reason things go the way they do.
I land the first punch, hit him square in the nose with everything I have. His knees buckle as blood starts gushing from both nostrils, but I don’t stop. I keep hitting him, over and over in the face. When he drops to the ground, I start kicking him as hard as I can.
I don’t stop until some teachers pull me off him.
I am suspended for a few days. The principal hears how it started, hears what Will was doing to Dylan, and she has no sympathy for him. She suspends him, too. I think she’d like to give me a pass, but I did go kind of crazy, and she has to administer some form of punishment. Given the circumstances, I get off pretty light.
You know that theory that says all you have to do to stop a bully is to stand up to him? It doesn’t work out like that all the time. That might work if said bully doesn’t have an older brother who is even worse than he is.
My first day back, after school, Will is waiting for me with his brother and some of his brother’s friends.
It does not go well for me. They break one of my fingers. I get a concussion and a black eye.
But unfortunately for them, I have an older brother too. And my brother is way scarier than Will’s.
I stagger home and explain to my mom what happened. She has to take me to our doctor. My brother listens to everything I say from the other room but doesn’t say a word. As my mother hustles me out to the car, I look over at Craig. He nods to me, grabbing his keys. As my mom drives down the street, I look in the side mirror and see Craig hop into his car and drive away in the other direction.
He beats the tar out of those kids. Hospitalizes most of them. Only one of the boys who hurt me manages to get away before the police catch up to my brother. He paid special attention to Will and his brother. They spend weeks recovering, Will never did walk right after that.
My brother Craig goes to jail. He used a baseball bat, so he gets extra time for using a weapon. This was his second offense.
I think about what my brother did a lot. It occupies my thoughts many nights after this event. I’m proud, in a way, that my brother protected me the way he did, regardless of the consequences. But another part of me is just sad for my brother. I don’t think Craig knows what to do with himself. He is scared of the future, of growing up, and just lashes out at anything and everything.
Craig is sentenced to five years, but we know he should probably get out earlier if he can behave himself. He never gets the chance. Three months in he disappears from prison. Foul play is suspected, but nothing is ever proven.
I never see him again.
I sometimes wonder if he was protecting me that day, or if he finally saw an out from his responsibilities—a way to escape the whole process of maturing, getting a job, everything that comes with growing up.
I love my brother, but this is not what I want for myself. I want to be someone; I want to have a purpose in life. It would be easy to throw away responsibilities and follow my brother down his path. But anytime I’m giving up on something in life, if a challenge is too hard, I think about my brother. He is my hero, but I don’t want to follow in his footsteps.
I wait to hear an answer, dread pooling in my stomach. I feel raw, exposed, terrified.
“No, detective,” Greystone answers at last. “Your brother is not here. At least, not that I am aware.”
I gasp, but whether it is in disappointment or relief, I can’t really say. A weight is off my shoulders, one I didn’t know was there. I can’t explain why I even thought he might be here, I just needed to know he wasn’t stuck here like me.
I don’t know if there is anyone I can trust here in this godforsaken place, but for all her disdain, I think Greystone is the one I can distrust the least. Have I made an error? Have I given them something that will be used against me later?
I still don’t know what happened to Craig. He disappeared from the world, like I have. But I can take comfort that I really am alone in this place. It’s scant solace.
“Why would you believe he is here?” Greystone asks.
I don’t
know how to answer that.
I need a moment to myself—if you don’t mind.
“Of course, Detective Green.”
I struggle to compose myself and return to the colossal problems at hand.
Chapter 32
What the hell do I do now?
I’ve got answers. More answers than I know what to do with. More than I can safely handle assuming I can believe anything Frank just told me.
He’s a demon. A demon!
I have to accept that much at face value. And I’m pretty sure it isn’t just a misunderstanding that we have thousands of years of historical records claiming that demons are evil and corrupt creatures that want the worst for any humans that cross their paths. Demons are bad. I’m going to accept that one as truth. I’m also going to assume that Frank was lying as much as he was telling the truth. Or telling the truth but implying a different meaning—just messing me over in any number of ways. I’m not sure what his angle is, but I have to count on the fact he has one.
I’m usually good at reading people. I can tell by their mannerisms, their evasiveness, the inflection of their words—whether or not they are telling the truth. But Frank didn’t have a real body. There were no natural mannerisms to read, only those he chose to visually display. So, even if I felt he’s lying about something, it could be because he wanted me to assume he was lying.
I have no idea.
I can turn this thing in circles all day.
The information I have at hand is limited. Frank claims a demon is behind everything, which I know from experience is going to be greeted by heaps of ridicule. He says I’m something called a Seer and if people here find out about it they’re going to want to kill me—which most of my neighbors want to do anyway. He says he gave me the answer, but I don’t see it. I’m going to need help to figure this stuff out, but I have to do it without outing Frank. Because if I do, even on accident, I’m going to have a demon give me his personal attention and devote the entirety of his evil to making sure my life is as miserable as possible. And he’s been doing this stuff for as long as humans have been around.
This is going to suck.
After several minutes of chasing my thoughts around in my mind, I open the doors and to reveal the main room of the bar. My world has been rocked, again. Each time I think I have a grasp on the situation around me, a new doorway opens up onto something bigger and more terrifying. My knees are a little shaky, and I walk through the door and into the main room to see Marsh, with Greystone floating beside him, waiting for me. They are both staring at the doorway I exit. They are whispering fiercely with each other, but quiet down once I get near.
“Green,” Marsh greets, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where ya been, buddy?”
“Um. In here.” I point needlessly at the room behind me.
“You said you were going to talk to Frank.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“So, what did you do instead?”
I look at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
Marsh folds his arms in front of his chest, his shoulders looming over me. “Well, see, I’m a detective. Which means I notice little details like when the guy you tell me you’re going to talk to is sitting over there at the bar, drunk, singing off-key tunes to Warner the whole time.”
I look over at the bar. Sure enough, Frank is there. He glances up at me right when I look over, raising his glass to me, smiling.
“He was here the whole time?” I repeat, stupidly.
“Yeah. Or didn’t you think I’d notice that?” Marsh is irritated, but Greystone is looking at me in concern.
“Are you alright, Detective?” she asks.
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Frank was in both places at once. While it makes me look like an idiot or a liar to my companions, it does help cover up where I got my information. I’m going to have to be very careful how I ask my questions. Marsh might not look like it, but he’s smart. He’ll know if I’m obviously trying to hide something.
“Fine. I’m fine. I just needed some time alone to think. Look, I need to tell you both something in private.”
“What you got?” Marsh questions.
“Can we go somewhere in private, please?”
“Alright, alright, princess. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch. We’re done here. Let’s grab a carriage, and you can spill your secrets to us.”
We have to close Warner’s down first, to Warner’s obvious dismay. I can tell his heart isn’t in it, though. He’s going through the motions of being pissed about our heavy-handedness, but I think he’s relieved to be able to go home for a while. I just hope he’s still going to let me back in once he reopens.
Once Warner’s is behind us, the three of us are inside a carriage lit by gaslight and Greystone’s dim luminescence. Marsh just told the driver to drive with no real destination yet. Both Marsh and Greystone are waiting for me to get talking, but I realize I don’t know how to say this.
“Marsh,” I say slowly. “You were mad that I didn’t share my suspicions about the squad with you. I told you I’ll trust you.”
He nods, saying nothing.
“I’m going to trust you now. I think what I’m about to tell you could put my life in danger again.”
“Damn, Green. Why is everything about you? We’re supposed to be solving a string of murders.”
“This is related,” I assure him. I take a deep breath. I need to keep Frank out of this. “Have you ever heard of someone called a Seer?”
I can see Marsh roll his eyes in the gloom. “Oh, for fuc—”
“Detective Marsh!” Greystone scolds, then turns to me. “A Seer? Where did you hear this term?”
I wave dismissively. “Around.”
“And you think a Seer may be responsible for the murders?”
“No. Just, what can you tell me about Seers?”
Marsh adjusts the hat on this head, crosses his arms and scowls. Greystone thinks for a moment. “There haven’t been reports of Seers for decades, if not in over a hundred years, Detective Green,” she says. “Seers were those who saw the truths of things. Mortals often related them to fortune-tellers and psychics, but they were more than that. They were dangerous to all of us since they saw through our glamours. They could see our true faces. They used to be employed by the aristocracies in various European courts; they were witches and shamans in tribal cultures. They started churches and religions in the Americas.”
“Or corporations,” Marsh sneers.
Greystone ignores the interruption and continues. “They were systematically hunted down and exterminated a long time ago. Why would you think a Seer is involved in this, Detective Green?”
Here goes.
“I think . . . I think I’m a Seer.”
I might as well have said I was from Mars. Both of them strain to keep straight faces.
“Why do you think that, buddy?” Marsh asks, the tone that of an adult dealing with an imaginative child.
Greystone continues patiently. “That is highly unlikely. Being a Seer isn’t something you can learn, Detective Green. It can’t be taught. It is a gift one is born with. You would have to come from a line of Seers. It may skip generations—I understand—but there would be a record of it. If someone has told you that you can become a Seer, they are making a jest.”
“Let’s just say I think I am, OK? How would we know?”
“For one, to be a Seer, you would be able to detect lies,” Greystone says. She pauses as she sees Marsh stiffen beside her. “What?”
“I’m pretty good at that,” I confess.
“But that’s just a party trick,” Marsh mutters, looking at me strangely.
“Secondly,” Greystone ticks off on her finger, “you would be able to see through glamours. Can you do that?”
Frank said I could, I want to s
ay. Instead, I waffle. “I don’t know. Where’s a glamour that I can see through?”
Greystone chuckles. “Well, Detective, they are everywhere.”
Marsh points at Greystone. “She has one, I bet.”
“Detective Marsh!” Greystone objects, offended. Evidently, that is some kind of undead etiquette faux pas.
“How would I see through it?” I ask him.
“Why are you asking me? I dunno. What do you see when you look at Greystone here?”
I look at Greystone. She is looking back at me with a strange expression, is it nervousness? Dread?
“No. If it’s something she doesn’t want to discuss, I won’t say it. Ms. Greystone, I won’t—” I start to say, but she interrupts me.
“It’s OK, Detective Green,” she says like she’s swallowing something vile. “What do you see?”
“Don’t worry,” I assure her. I stare at her, looking her over. Her body is floating on the seat, seated but not really touching it. As a matter of fact, how does she keep pace with the moving carriage? I still haven’t figured that one out. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I don’t see anything strange. You look the same as you always do. Your hair is gathered up in a bun, and I see a sensible tweed business suit of some kind. Old-fashioned, but nice. Obviously, I can’t see any color, you’re all greenish-blue to me. You have a blouse of some kind buttoned to the neck, your glasses are horn-rimmed; I think that’s what they’re called . . .”
I trail off. As I describe her, Greystone’s eyes have been growing wider, her expression angrier. I look in confusion between her and Marsh. He’s looking right back at me, as confused as I am.
“Oh my God,” she snarls and simply disappears.
“What’s going on, Marsh?” I ask, dumbfounded. The only sound I hear is the rattle of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones outside. Marsh’s mouth is hanging open.
“That’s seriously what you see?” Marsh asks me.
“Of course, that’s how she’s always looked. Wait, why? What do you see?”
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