Rogue

by Gina Damico

  One by one, they squeezed through the narrow opening. Lex was last, and it was a good thing, too; if she’d been first, she might have turned right around.

  They’d crawled into someone’s living room.

  “Okay, this is weird,” Elysia said, looking at framed photos of the strangers’ lives. “Do we know these people?”

  “No,” said Uncle Mort. “They’re Necropolitans, so you can bet they’re no fans of ours.”

  “Think they’re fans of breaking and entering?” asked Driggs.

  “Doubt it,” said Uncle Mort. “But if we don’t win this war, they don’t get an Afterlife. So maybe they’ll forgive us just this once.”

  He began to raid the refrigerator, stuffing several containers of leftovers into his bag. While he was at it, he egged the man’s photo and drew a mustache on his wife.

  “Oh, calm down,” he said when he caught Lex looking at him funny. “A little vandalism never hurt anyone.”

  A sharp intake of breath brought his rummaging to a halt. Everyone’s eyes flew to Bang, but hers were still glued to the pages of the Wrong Book. Her hand, hovering an inch over the page, held the jar as she read.

  “What, Bang?” Driggs asked.

  She looked up, surprised to see everyone watching her. “Nothing,” she signed. “I think I figured out what these pages say. But they’re—it’s weird.”

  “Weird?” Lex said. “Do tell.”

  They gathered around Bang and listened as Pip interpreted her flying hands. “She says that the section she managed to rip out is kind of unusual. The rest of the book was full of instructions for Grotton’s various tricks, like the reset, but this part is more like a journal.”

  Pip’s eyebrows narrowed, as if even he didn’t believe what he was about to say. “It’s still kind of murky, but what she’s been able to get the gist of so far is a story about Grotton torturing some farmer and his family. He kills the kids, Damns the wife, then sends the farmer to the Dark—but the strange part is the way they’re talking, like Grotton was doing some kind of experiments.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Ferbus. “He’s the one who invented Damning in the first place, isn’t he?”

  Bang frowned, looked at the pages, then signed again. “True,” Pip translated, “but he’s making it sound like he invented even more than that. Like—”

  Bang shook her head. “I don’t know,” she signed to all of them. “I’ll need to read more to figure it out.”

  Uncle Mort scrutinized her. “See that you do.”

  His eyes were getting that intense look again, so Lex tapped him on the shoulder. “So,” she said loudly, “what’s our next move?”

  He blinked a couple of times. “Well, it should be slightly easier to move now that it’s getting on toward nighttime. Fewer people around, less likely we’ll be spotted. On the other hand, things will be much quieter, and with you elephants stomping around, there’s a greater chance of someone hearing us—”

  “Hang on,” said Elysia. “We’re not stopping for the night?”

  Uncle Mort paused to stare at her. “We’re a little pressed for time here, Lys.”

  “Yeah, but—” She looked to Ferbus for help. “It’s just that we’re kind of, um, exhausted.”

  “And hungry,” Ferbus added.

  “And some of us really have to pee,” said Pip.

  Pandora raised two fingers. “And other things.”

  Uncle Mort irritably ran a hand through his hair. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “You want to camp out for the night? Where do you propose we do that?”

  “Well, obviously we can’t stay here,” said Lex.

  “But we can’t leave until we know where we’re going—”

  “For cripes’ sake, enough with the drama!” Pandora said, blowing past him. “Everything is a crisis with you people. Stairs are hard, that tunnel’s too small, my sister died—sack up already! You really want somewhere to sleep?” She flung the front door open. “Come on. I know a place.”

  ***

  “The National Museum of Grimsphere History?” Elysia said, reading the sign before them.

  “OH no,” Ferbus said. “We’re not going to have to learn things, are we?”

  “And risk pushing out the space in your brain devoted to basic motor skills?” Pandora said. “Heavens, no.”

  Back at the apartment, she had barked at them to slink out the door and take a quick left down a deserted hallway. Lex tried to sneak a peek at what the rest of Residential looked like, but Uncle Mort was shoving her along too quickly to get a good look. All she ended up getting was an eyeful of the green carpeting that ran beneath their feet, leading them to a large wooden door.

  “Well, go in,” said Pandora. “It’s open to the public.”

  “So, for once, we won’t have to destroy private property,” Uncle Mort said, opening the door. “Look how far we’ve come, gang—”

  A shriveled, bony fist punched him in the face.

  Since there wasn’t much force behind the blow, however, it just sort of shoved him off balance for a second. Uncle Mort rubbed his cheek, as if he’d been stung by a mosquito. “Ow.”

  “Don’t you dare come in here!” a little man in a bow tie and suspenders yelled. He stared out at them from behind a pair of humongous old-man glasses, his wispy white hairs quivering as he shouted. When the Juniors came in anyway, he got even angrier. “Don’t you dare take another step!” They took another step. “Don’t you dare—”

  “Turlington!” Pandora blared, holding up a balled fist of her own. “You shut that pie hole of yours or I’ll stuff it with a hearty slice of knuckle cobbler!”

  “Knuckle cobbler?” Lex whispered to Driggs.

  “Good name for a band,” he replied.

  The man almost fainted. “Pan—Pandora?”

  “Damn straight!” She puffed out her chest and trapped him up against the wall. “Now, you’re going to let these friends of mine bunk here for the evening, and you’re going to be real nice and real pleasant about it, and above all, you’re not even going to think of ratting us out. Got it?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, shaking. “Whatever you need. I think I might even have some pillows and blankets left over from the last overnight camp, in the closet behind the—”

  Pandora karate-chopped the side of his head.

  The Juniors watched as he went down like a sack. “What’d you do that for?” Uncle Mort asked once the poor man stopped twitching.

  “He would have ratted,” Pandora said with confidence. “Old Turly was my partner for a brief stint back in our younger days. Thick as thieves, we were. But he’s a squirrelly bastard, I know that much.”

  “So are you,” Uncle Mort pointed out.

  “That’s why we were such good friends!”

  Uncle Mort stared at her for a moment more, then rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Fine. Make yourselves at home, kids. Just step right on over the unconscious senior citizen.”

  The National Museum of Grimsphere History had none of the sleek, modern sophistication of the rest of Necropolis. Lex didn’t know what she had been expecting—dinosaur skeletons would have been cool, albeit unlikely—but this place seemed more like a library in the Playboy Mansion, provided anyone in the Playboy Mansion knew how to read. A plush red carpet blanketed the floor, the main wall was made of deep mahogany panels, and the opposite wall was solid window. From the ceiling hung a chandelier that could have paid for Lex’s college education, and maybe Cordy’s, too.

  There didn’t seem to be any exhibits, which definitely threw the room’s title of “museum” into question. The shape of it was odd as well—long and thin, almost more of a hallway arcing with the curvature of the building. But as Lex brushed her hand along the smooth, polished wall panels, she began to see why the museum was set up the way it was. Centered at eye level was a thick red line that extended all the way down the length of the room. Thinner black lines hash-marked the main red one every few feet or so, with the one closest t
o the door labeled PRESENT DAY.

  “It’s a timeline!” Elysia exclaimed.

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” said Ferbus.

  Elysia glared at him. “Thank you, Captain Overused Expression.”

  “No, thank you, Captain Shut Your Facehole.”

  “Captains, please,” said Uncle Mort. “No fighting.”

  A few more feet down the line, a stunning photograph of Necropolis stretched from the floor to roughly Uncle Mort’s height. The caption next to it read:

  Ain’t she a beaut, folks? The largest structure in the Grimsphere, Necropolis rises hundreds of feet in the air and is enveloped by a single pane of specially made, nonreflective, camouflaged glass. A marvel of size, culture, and elegance, Necropolis is universally recognized as the crowned jewel of the American Grimsphere. Not like that monstrosity of a city, DeMyse.

  Bang, having taken a break from the Wrong Book at the opportunity to read something new, tapped the words. “I thought museums were supposed to be objective,” she signed.

  “That’s Turlington for you,” said Pandora. “Always shoving his opinions where they don’t belong.”

  More interesting tidbits popped up as they walked down the timeline. Construction of the current Necropolis building had begun about fifty years ago; before that, the entire operation was housed in an office building in Wichita. Judging by the black-and-white photo, it had sat there in plain sight for the whole non-Grimsphere world to see.

  “Less attention called to it that way,” Pandora explained. “No one gives a badger’s bunghole about a stuffy old office.”

  “‘McGuffin Casket Company: Corporate Headquarters’?” Lex read off its sign.

  “Yep! And before that, it was Deady’s Formaldehyde and Embalming Liquids!”

  “Subtle.”

  Farther down the line was the founding of DeMyse, complete with old photos of the city. Before it was invaded by kitschy hotels and sleek nightclubs, it had looked like something out of a spaghetti Western. Lex tried to picture LeRoy in a cowboy outfit, and somehow, it still suited him. As long as the chaps had rhinestones.

  “Hey, it’s Croak!” Pip said.

  As the first Grimsphere city founded in the New World, Croak was the sturdy cornerstone upon which Grimsphere society in America was built. Today it continues to enchant visitors—Grims and non-Grims alike—with its friendly citizenry, small-town charm, and world-famous diner, the Morgue (though I have personally always found its onion rings to be far too greasy).

  “That rat bastard!” Pandora shouted.

  “Wait a sec,” said Lex. “There were people living on this continent long before the United States was a twinkle in George Washington’s eye. What about the Native Americans?”

  “Oh, they were accounted for,” said Uncle Mort. “The range of the jellyfish extends all over the world, remember? No souls were left behind.” He pointed farther down the timeline. “For a long time, all Grimsphere operations were centered in England. It wasn’t until the late Renaissance that it started branching out to other places.”

  Lex tried to imagine a hub in a castle. “Don’t tell me they had Smacks.”

  “Not as we know them today. Grims’ technology has evolved alongside the rest of the world’s. Back then they just infused their scythes with jellyfish venom or something.”

  “So England handled the deaths for the entire world?” Lex persisted. “Who did it before England existed?”

  Uncle Mort shrugged. “We don’t know. Grimsphere records only go back this far.” He pointed to the end of the timeline, labeled MID-FOURTEENTH CENTURY. “Before that, it’s anyone’s guess. The true origins of the Grimsphere are mostly unknown.”

  “There must be artifacts, though. Old scythes or ancient scrolls or—I don’t know, cave paintings of the ether?”

  Uncle Mort shook his head. Confused, Lex turned to Pandora, who was doing the same thing.

  “Nothing?” Lex asked. “No earthly records of Grims at all?”

  “Grims are good at keeping things secret,” Uncle Mort said. “It’s kind of our thing.”

  “That’s pretty impressive,” said Elysia.

  “Yeah,” said Lex, dubious. “Like, really impressive. To the point of being implausible.”

  “Hey, look.” Pip pointed at the very last entry on the timeline. “Grotton got his own sign.”

  The notorious mass murderer known as Grotton was responsible for the unauthorized, sudden deaths of hundreds of people—including many Grims. Grotton also developed the practice of Damning, a practice so despicable I won’t even bother to describe it.

  “In a museum,” Lex said dryly. “The sole purpose of which is to describe.”

  Bang walked up to the Grotton description and read it over a couple of times, frowning. After a moment she chose a spot near the window, sank to the floor, and continued studying the pages from the Wrong Book.

  Uncle Mort let his bag fall off his shoulder. “Well, looks like this is our home for the night,” he said. “Better get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  “But we’re almost there, right?” said Elysia.

  Uncle Mort laughed so hard at that, Lex couldn’t help but be a little disturbed.

  After distributing among themselves the food they’d taken from the strangers’ apartment, everyone spread out to different areas of the museum to sleep. Uncle Mort wandered back toward the main entrance, near the present-day side of the timeline. Ferbus and Elysia retreated to the DeMyse area, while Pip joined Bang near the windows between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Pandora returned to the Croak photo and curled up under it like a loyal old dog.

  Most fell asleep quickly—except for Bang, who kept methodically sweeping Grotton’s finger over the Wrong Book’s pages, still preoccupied with figuring them out.

  Lex watched her while picking through some cold spaghetti. “This is going to sound bonkers,” she said to Driggs, “but I wish Grotton were still here.”

  “Do you miss his sparkling personality? His devastating good looks?”

  “Oh, shut up.” She chucked a piece of meatball at him. “The guy’s a stone-cold dick, no question. But with the whole Dark thing, and what Bang’s been reading in the Wrong Book, I just feel like there’s something we’re missing, or . . .” She looked at the blurb on the wall describing Grotton’s treachery. “Something off about him.”

  “Some thing?” Driggs said. “Singular?”

  “Okay, there is an entire Old Country Buffet of things off about him, but I just get the feeling—it’s like he knows something we don’t, or—ugh, I don’t know.”

  Driggs grinned. “You’re sexy when you can’t form sentences.”

  Lex raised an eyebrow. “So, uh, speaking of stone-cold dicks—”

  “Classy, Lex.”

  “—Any chance you can . . . hop into your body?”

  The corner of Driggs’s mouth tugged upward. “I can try.” He squeezed his eyes shut and started to exert some effort, as if he were lifting something heavy.

  Lex couldn’t help but snicker. “You look constipated.”

  He opened one eye. “Not helping.”

  She laughed again, and that seemed to do it—his body popped back into being.

  There was no time to waste. “Come on.” Lex grabbed his hand, dragged him to the farthest end of the museum, and plopped them both down on the floor. “Hope there isn’t anyone below us.”

  “If so, they’re already asleep. I mean, I’d already be asleep if you weren’t licking my ear. Why are you licking my ear?”

  Lex retrieved her tongue. “Because I feel like something awful is going to happen tomorrow. And I’m really hoping it doesn’t involve my grisly demise, or an even grislier demise for you than your last one, but—” She swallowed. “I want this night to be a happy one, because I think they’re going to be in short supply from now on.”

  “Yeah, but—” He glanced behind them. “With four friends, one uncle, one Pandora, and a comatose museum cura
tor within hearing range?”

  “Good point.” Lex nodded thoughtfully, as if they were debating tax reform. “However: this.” She grabbed his hands and slapped them onto her chest.

  His eyes bulged, then met hers. “Compelling rebuttal.”

  Lex grinned and dove back into his face while Driggs’s hands reached around her back. “Ah, the over-shoulder boulder holder,” he said in a sneering voice, picking at her bra. “My old nemesis.”

  “Okay, don’t panic,” Lex said. “Do it just like we practiced.”

  “Right. The hook faces out.”

  “The hook faces in.”

  “DAMMIT.”

  While Driggs worked his fumbling magic, Lex relaxed against the glass and only slightly wondered if any souls in the Afterlife were watching the rampant debauchery unfolding within. Eh, free show. Who cared. Her heart was too busy fluttering each time he touched her bare skin, her brain and body firing off all sorts of frolicsome hormones. She dreamily let her gaze fall on the opposite wall, where a series of photographs hung.

  “Did you add hooks?” Driggs said, his yanks getting more and more desperate.

  “Yeah, because somewhere in between all of our daring escape plans, I totally busted out my sewing . . .” She squinted harder at the photographs and trailed off. “. . . machine . . .”

  “I’m just saying,” he said. “This can’t be normal.”

  Lex’s throat had gone dry. “Driggs.”

  “Might there be magnets involved?”

  “Stop.”

  He stopped, freaked out by her expression. “What’s wrong?”

  Over the past year, Lex had been surprised by a lot of things. She’d been surprised to find out what her uncle really did for a living, and that she was destined to become a Grim just like he was. She’d been surprised when Zara revealed herself to be the murderer Lex had been hunting for, she’d been surprised when Cordy died, and she’d been really surprised to learn that she was special, like Grotton, a one-of-a-kind Grim with extraordinary powers.

  So many of those times she had flipped out, lost her shit right there in front of whoever was unfortunate enough to be in the same room/building/city as she was. But the expression that Driggs saw wasn’t one of outrage or horror. It was blank. The only hint that something was wrong—seriously, seriously wrong—was in the details. Her nostrils flared in and out. Her bottom lip quivered slightly. And she wasn’t blinking.