Dead Girls Don't Sing

by Casey Wyatt

  My gaze shifted to Jonathan. “What have you done to him?”

  “He is subdued for the moment. But I can’t hold him for long. Why are you in this time?”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Unless he read it in my mind.

  A wolfish grin spread his lips wide. “Now you’re starting to understand. And don’t think those puny mental shields you’ve erected around will keep me out for long.”

  I imagined a giant poop emoji and thrust it into the forefront of my mind. He could puzzle it out.

  “Aren’t you full of surprises?” He frowned, head turning toward the shut door. In an instant, he stood in front of me. “Whatever happens, do not move a muscle. Either of you. Your lives depend on it.”

  A slender female, veiled from foot to toe in black, drifted into the room. This wasn’t my delusional mirror lady come to life. This entity was something else entirely. A primal force. Bone deep terror prevented me from fleeing. Jonathan’s jaw clenched.

  King Edward packed a wallop on the power scale, but this woman—she was equally imposing.

  She stood before us, silent. My knees quaked under my gown and terror raced across my limbs as she stared my way. I prayed that she couldn’t see me. I don’t know why. I knew if she could see me, I would be dead.

  The weight of her scrutiny pressed on my shoulders no different than if she were standing on them.

  She turned her head, then drifted from the room. Relief crashed over me, instant and welcome.

  Do not move.

  Not a problem. I could keep still for a long time if it meant I wouldn’t have to be in her presence again.

  After what seemed like an hour, the king moved. He waved his hand freeing Jonathan. Before my husband could speak or move, he waved his hand again and Jonathan re-froze.

  “Could you teach me to do that?” It could come in handy. “Who was she?”

  If I was going to have nightmares at least I could give the monster a name.

  “I will not speak her name. And knowing it will only cause you pain. You need to leave.” The king nicked his wrist, then dabbed a drop of his blood on his fingertip. He beckoned me to take it. “Come. You will need sustenance for this trip.”

  Sure, it would provide enough energy for a year. I also bet it would be as heady as fifty-year-old whiskey. But the strings it would attach to me...no thank you.

  I shook my head.

  Taking his blood could grant him even more control over me. After his earlier displays of power and unexplained abilities, I wasn’t willing to take a chance.

  “A kind offer, Highness, but I’m happily married. I don’t suck on another man’s body parts.”

  He studied me, amused. “Yes, you are surprising.”

  “As you keep saying.”

  King Edward’s smile evaporated. “It is not safe here for you. She must not find you aware in this time.”

  “I would love to leave, but I don’t know how it works. Maybe click my heels three times?”

  “You say the oddest things.” He shook his head. “Mother sent me to assist you. She had her reasons. Though even she must be unaware of how strange you are.”

  “What can I say? I’m special.” I wondered how Thalia had become the heir apparent later. Had she taken Edward out?

  No need to shine a spotlight into that bat cave.

  The king tapped his temple. “Oh, you are good at distracting a man from his purpose.”

  And I didn’t even have to strip my clothes off to do it. “You’re right. I’m not getting any younger here. How do I move on?”

  “If it were me, I’d will it to happen.” He snapped his fingers. “Before I forget. This is for you.” He held out a Tarot card.

  The card was unremarkable, except for the odd characters around the border. They could have been part of the card but without the whole deck, I couldn’t tell. “Who gave that to you?”

  “Not important.” He gripped my right wrist, activating the cuff. “I don’t think it would be healthy for me to know how you came into possession of this.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Think carefully of your destination,” he said.

  Man on the moon. Carnaby Street came to mind.

  Power snaked around me. The cuff woke up. A rip in reality ripped open before me. And by rip, I mean a person-sized, angry gash in the fabric of space-time. Bright light burst from the crack masking whatever lay beyond it.

  Before I could say holy shit the king pushed me forward.

  “God speed, Cherry,” he said, then shoved me inside.

  I STOOD ON A SIDEWALK, knees weak, hunger clawing at me.

  One moment I was in an Edwardian library, the next, downtown London. Street lamps bathed everyone and everything in a solid, and somewhat unflattering, yellow glow. Exhaust clogged the air and heat rose from the pavement warming the soles of my thin shoes.

  My wrist pulsed under the weight of the cuff. A faint puff of steam rose from it. I hoped I wouldn’t have to jump again. I wasn’t sure I believed that I could do it by will alone.

  The Tarot card remained clutched in my right hand. How had it made the journey when nothing else did? Maybe the cuff had something to do with it.

  Come to think of it, how would I get the cure back to Mars? I hoped it was something I could hold in my hand.

  A passerby hurrying to reach a shop bumped me into awareness. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a storefront window that had captured everyone’s attention.

  I moved closer. Rows of televisions were broadcasting the same event. An excited newscaster repeated the same information at regular intervals.

  The crowd stood in awe, many smiling, others slack jawed with wonder. An older gentlemen looked out of time with his fedora. Several middle-aged women wore their hair puffed high, coated with enough hairspray to be fire hazards. The younger mortals were long haired and shaggy.

  I tried not to sneeze from the distinct odor of weed mixed with incense. The bell-bottoms and short skirts told me I’d been transported to the late 1960s. I stood silently, waiting for the effects of the time jump to wear off. Praying that nobody elbowed me too hard, because I might barf on them. Even though the English were unfailingly polite, I doubted they’d appreciate it if I got sick.

  “Let me see!” A sandy-haired boy bobbed up and down trying to get a view of the tiny black-and-white screens.

  Astonishment robbed everyone of speech. The entire street went silent, attention fixed on the astronaut stepping down a ladder. Neil Armstrong’s voice echoed across time and space as he took his giant leap for mankind.

  After another moment of hushed silence, cheers and enthusiastic applause erupted.

  “Can you believe it?” said a man next to me, reeking of pipe smoke. “The Yanks did it first. Landed a man on the moon.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t great with historical dates, but this one I knew. Sunday, July 20, 1969 was a big day for humanity.

  Finally feeling more like myself, I muttered, “Mars is better,” before stepping out of the crowd.

  The man probably thought I was nuts. Whatever. I had other more pressing issues to deal with. The mirror lady’s message made a whole lot more sense now.

  It’s not that I didn’t find the moon landing interesting or significant. Especially since I recalled living through it the first time. Like I’ve said before, undead time works differently. I don’t remember a lot of what I was doing in the sixties.

  If I had to guess, I was working in the club, then partying with Jay until the sun rose. Or I stayed home pretending not to hear Jay banging the bimbo of the day.

  Yeah, I was living it up undead style. But some things do stand out in that time period. Like my white go-go boots. I loved those things.

  After getting my bearings, I realized I was on Oxford Street, specifically at Selfridges where they’d set up a ginormous display of televisions and other space-related dioramas in their famous windows. Finally, a bit of luck.

  Thanks to the m
ystery woman, I knew where I needed to go next. To Carnaby Street.

  I remembered this place fondly. When I wasn’t working, the girls and I would head to Carnaby for the latest in mod fashion.

  I passed by colorful shop windows displaying the latest trends. If the situation were different, I’d go inside and peruse. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to rack up giant-sized bills in Jonathan’s name. He hated it, but would never let on because he knew I’d only do it more. Just another game we played.

  Games weren’t on my agenda at the moment. I had other, larger goals. Faint hunger pangs taunted my control, reminding me that I needed to eat soon. Cursing my weaker, younger self, I quickened my steps. I’d worry about where my next meal was coming from later.

  A young man jostled me.

  “Pardon,” he mumbled, fingers slipping near my purse.

  I let him root around for a moment, then grabbed him so fast he blinked twice before realizing he’d been caught.

  “Now, Miss. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

  I froze, taking in the culprit.

  Louis.

  Holy crap. And I couldn’t act like I knew him.

  “Really? So, your hand accidentally acquainted itself with the inside of my purse?” I didn’t carry much. But that wasn’t the point and we both knew it. “Tell you what. I won’t break your hand as long as you lead me to where I need to go.”

  He must have lived in the area or at least known it well. I didn’t have the luxury of wasting time locating the shop.

  Of all the things I would have imagined Louis doing in the 1960s, pickpocketing would not have been on the list. He’d told me that he’d been made a zombie at university back around the same time I became a vampire.

  This could be interesting.

  Relief flashed across his face as he shook the pain from his hand. What a faker. I bet it hadn’t even fazed him.

  “It would be my right pleasure to guide you on your way, miss.” The working-class accent was a nice touch. Even if it was a bit overdone.

  Fine, I’d play along. Fishing the card out of my dress pocket, I showed it to him. “Take me here.”

  He didn’t even blink. “Ah, you want to see Bellasandre. The all-seeing eye.”

  “Sure.” That name. Obviously, fake.

  “Not everyone who meets her is thankful. I’ve seen her reduce grown men to tears with her predictions.” He watched my expression. When I didn’t change my mind, he shrugged and beckoned me forward.

  We passed through the crowd unnoticed. Everyone was concerned with their own business, encased in their own little worlds. After taking a sharp turn down an alleyway, the short hairs on my arms rose to attention. The threat, whatever it was, was not human. At least none that I could smell or hear.

  “What’s your name?” No reason not to be sociable. Later, I could rib Louis about his shady past.

  “Louis,” he answered easily enough. A faint smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Why do you ask? Fancy a date?”

  “That’s a pretty ordinary name. Don’t pickpockets have codenames? Something like Sticky Fingers or John Doe.”

  He chuckled. “No comment.”

  We stopped at a decrepit door that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. Uneasy tingles raced up my forearms.

  Jonathan insisted magic existed, often using our undead status as proof. But I never really believed it. For one, I had never witnessed levitating books or spells turning people into toads.

  Staring at that door, feeling its presence like it knew who I was, challenged that belief. The longer we stood there, the more real the door became. Faint symbols, scrawled in chalk and something brown, perhaps blood, turned my knees to water. Whatever waited on the other side, it unnerved me.

  Louis shuffled beside me. When he spoke, the solemn tone caught me off guard. “It’s not too late to turn around.”

  I hadn’t come this far across space-time to quit because of a creepy door.

  “Not a chance.” With an audible swallow, I stepped forward only to stop a second later when I realized there was no doorknob.

  It didn’t matter. The door swung open without a sound. Eerie doors should creak or groan, not open with spaceship-like precision.

  “Who have you brought me today, Louis?” called a pleasant feminine voice. “Let me see our guest. Oh my . . .”

  Even though the door was open, the inside was inky dark and scentless. I stepped over the threshold.

  The gloom only lasted a moment. The room was decorated with pale comfy furniture. Colorful blooms filled mason jars and milk glasses on every flat surface.

  Gauzy veils obscured her face. Lacy white gloves covered her hands and wrists. She wore a yellow satin gown, train flowing around her ankles. Miss Havisham’s cousin had arrived, only wearing a Worth ball gown and ready to attend an opera. This had to be the weirdest fortune-teller’s lair, ever. Not a single candle, crystal, or hint of incense in the entire place.

  A sweet, tantalizing odor rose from her hands when she motioned for me to be seated. Even with the veils, I could sense her scrutiny.

  I didn’t like it. Yet, I couldn’t help but gape at the contradictions in front of me.

  “Are you Bellasandre?” I leaned forward in my seat.

  Louis took his place near the woman’s right-hand side. He gave me a curious stare as if seeing me for the first time as well.

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “I never thought . . .” Recovering, she angled her head, assessing me. The veil molded to her facial features yet didn’t reveal any secrets. “Why are you here, my child?”

  I suppressed a snort. My child. I was triple her age.

  “Weren’t you the one who contacted me in the mirror?” When she remained silent, my stomach sank. Great. Crazytown here I come. But if that were true, that meant I had imagined her wearing the exact clothes she’d appeared in earlier. No delusion is that accurate.

  I pushed the Tarot card in her direction. “Stop pretending you don’t know why I’m here. Tell me about this.”

  She hissed, recoiling like I’d thrust a handful of wriggling vipers in her direction. An odd reaction to a tool of the fortune-telling trade. “Where did you get that?”

  “Does it matter?” Maybe coming to her shop had been a mistake. The universe must be mistaken. Or I really had hallucinated the veiled lady.

  “More than you can imagine.” Bellasandre reached behind her head and gathered the veil. She stopped short of revealing herself. “I hoped I was wrong. I’m sad that my vision of your future came true.”

  “What are you—?”

  Her hand slammed down, capturing my wrist. I yanked. Her grip remained solid and unbreakable. I grabbed at her with my other hand. She captured the hand, pinning me to the table. A mortal could never hold me.

  “Sit still, Charity. We need to talk.”

  I froze. I breathed through my nose and mouth, scenting. If she were undead, I should have been able to sense it. “Who are you?”

  A song rose. Hummed under the veil. Familiar and terrifying. The same song my loony aunt used to sing before she played her games with me.

  Impossible ...

  “Yes. Go ahead. Deny reality. I can smell your fear.” The veil rippled as she smiled underneath. “Blood should know blood. Should it not? I can see you haven’t forgotten me. Like the others of our family.”

  No. This couldn’t be happening. Bile climbed up in my throat. A sort of paralysis crept through my limbs.

  “Aunt Cassandra? How?” I croaked. If I had a heartbeat, it would be jackrabbiting in my chest.

  She waved a gloved hand. “Long story. Suffice it to say, I was given another chance. Much like you.”

  The veil dropped from her face. Bright blue eyes, clear as I remembered, greeted my gaze. Her skin, smooth as fine porcelain, was framed with pale blond ringlets. Age had not touched her in the last one hundred years.

  The same whiff of lunacy, the zealous belief in prophecy
that had scared me witless as a child, remained too. Pain throbbed inside my skull. Hazy memories dangled beyond my grasp.

  “He took them from you,” she said, irises turning pitch-black. Her thumbs stroked my imprisoned wrists. Cold lanced upward, numbing my arms. “I can see it. The holes in your mind. Memories plucked like succulent fruit. How dare he?”

  An unwanted force slipped into my mind, sharp and probing. I howled, unable to stop the intrusion.

  Aunt Cassandra had locked me in the cupboard. For my own good. To keep me safe from the future. From death.

  The walls closed in around me.

  The tiny space suffocated, smothered me.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I couldn’t move.

  I was trapped.

  I screamed, a wild thing ensnared, willing to do anything to escape.

  The wooden tabletop exploded beneath my arms. Splinters embedded in my skin as the table crashed to the floor. I didn’t care.

  And still she held me strong, enforcing her will upon mine. I was no better than a helpless child.

  “I hate you.” I cried and pulled, fighting her with every ounce of vampire strength.

  “Hush now.” She soothed my skin with a blow of breath. The air chilled until frost rose from the surface of my exposed limbs.

  Cold didn’t bother me. This was different. It seeped into my soul, pouring truths and revelations. Things I didn’t want to remember.

  She glowered. “He took it from you. The future you should have had. Instead, he decided to put this burden upon you.”

  Cassandra spoke more to herself than me, forgetting I was the victim, once again, of her mania.

  My fear of small spaces made sense. The claustrophobia. She’d done it to me. Locked me inside the cupboard. Something terrible had happened.

  I didn’t want to remember.

  “Stop it!” I clawed at her again, nails digging deep gouges in her gloves, penetrating her skin. Blood, as cold and dead as mine, slicked my palms and soaked the fabric crimson.

  “He had no right to take my warnings away from you.” Her words, chilling. “He is strong. I cannot completely repair what he has done.”