Miscreated

by Dia Reeves

  “It’s right there.” They crossed the street and went up the stoop of one of the skinny houses. The porch was littered with pots full of exotic plants Jimi didn’t know the names of.

  Ophelia opened the door and waltzed in, bold as you please. With Alexis for a mom—sort of—Jimi knew a good-looking home when he saw one: heirloom furniture, doorknobs made of real crystal, hardwood so shiny and beautiful Jimi’s reflection in the floor looked better than he did.

  “Who lives here?”

  “Henrikson. Harrison. Hardly matters now.”

  In the living room, a dead woman sprawled on the couch, the only blot in an otherwise lovely home. Not really a blot. The woman’s brains were graffitied on the couch in a beautifully textured arc. Jimi thought about snapping a photo, but decided it would be disrespectful. Besides, who would he show such a thing to? Other than Ophelia, and even she looked perturbed. Because of the dead woman or because of Pallid Jon.

  His hoodie had fallen back and Miss Rictus’s elbow rested on his white blond hair as he sat with the dead woman, hand on her belly.

  “It’s a fact of life, O,” said Miss Rictus. “Why let it take you by surprise?”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m four.” She’d schooled her expression into something more neutral. “I’m allowed to not like things—especially facts.”

  “Is that why you brought him along?” Pallid Jon smirked. “To help you face facts.”

  “He goes where he wants.” Instead of admitting she’d invited him.

  Jimi was about to uninvite himself and leave them to their exclusive, over his head conversation, but he noticed Pallid Jon’s hand wasn’t on the woman’s stomach; his hand was in it. When he freed his hand, his fist was closed around a light so bright it would have driven Jimi insane only a few months ago. He still felt insane.

  “Is that her soul?”

  Pallid Jon looked surprised. “You can see it?”

  “What can’t he do?” Ophelia said, but it didn’t sound like praise.

  Pallid Jon pinched off a bit of the soul and fed it to Miss Rictus and then licked the rest like ice cream.

  “You eat them. You eat them? I thought you were helping them!”

  “We do help,” said Miss Rictus, nibbling the new bit of soul Pallid Jon held up to her. “Some souls are like zebras. They migrate from point A to point Z, but sometimes, a few of them are too weak to keep up with the herd. Or they have zero sense of direction. So we provide the direction, the transportation.”

  Pallid Jon said, “Our souls are external, so there’s plenty of room inside of us for stragglers. All those souls can make a person go crazy, though. The different personalities. All those memories that aren’t yours. So we have to cross into eternity from time to time and release them. Some of them.”

  “And eat the rest!”

  “Exactly.” Pallid Jon bit into the soul, savored it. “I prefer murder victims; the suddenness adds a certain spice. Ophelia prefers suicides.” Pallid Jon turned to her. “He’s upstairs, by the way. Or, you know, he will be.”

  Ophelia went into the front hall and Jimi caught up with her. “This was more than you wanted to see. You should go home.”

  She thought he was bothered by her. He was, but not enough to leave.

  “Why’d you lie? I tell you everything. I tell you things I don’t even tell God.” He paused, amazed by the truth of it. “You told me you don’t eat people, but you do. You’re a…”

  “What?” Her tone was defiant, but she was staring at her feet.

  “A metaphysical cannibal.”

  “When was I supposed to admit it? What’s the proper etiquette about revealing to a human that you eat souls?”

  “We aren’t human.”

  She sat on the steps. Looked up at him, all big-eyed and contrite. Jimi kicked his shoe against the rug and sat next to her.

  “You tell everyone everything. It’s easy for you.”

  “I’m not everyone; I’m me, and you said I was easy to talk to. So talk, damn it.”

  “Okay.” She sighed, resigned. “Okay.”

  “Jimi and Ophelia sitting in a tree,” sang Miss Rictus and Pallid Jon from the living room. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Ophelia stood and stomped up the stairs. “Cousins are stupid.”

  “Try having a step-cousin,” Jimi said, following. “That’s stupid times ten.”

  “Try having a cousin with an annoying pet monkey. That’s stupid times infinity.”

  They entered one of the bedrooms in time to see a man place a chair beneath a ceiling fan and the noose dangling from it.

  “Crap, there he goes.” Ophelia hurried Jimi toward the four poster bed where they sat facing the man.

  “Should we stop him?”

  “Stop what?” From her coat pockets Ophelia pulled a small bag of milk-chocolate covered potato chips. “We’re outside of time, remember? Even if we weren’t, it’s not our place to interfere. Not my place, that is. I guess you can do what you want. Want some?” As she passed the chips to Jimi, a small, pink hand snatched them away.

  “Miss Rictus!”

  Ophelia chased the chortling monkey out of the room. Apparently even the weirdest, most soul eatingest families had to deal with its share of wiseasses.

  It felt wrong to be amused while alone with someone on the brink of death.

  The man teetering on the chair was César’s age, but less well-preserved, and he’d clearly never worn a suit and tie in his life. He didn’t belong in such a nice house. He kept muttering “That whore” and “All her fault” and “Made me do it.” Over and over. Ophelia deserved a better meal than someone who’d only fill her with bitterness.

  Jimi still owed her a meal.

  The tap at the French window to his left was low but insistent. Shave and a haircut, two bits. Giggling.

  Jimi went to the window and beheld the winged children on the other side of the glass. He was briefly reminded of the hideous cherubim, but these were kid-sized and beautiful with wings like hummingbirds, the color of sunrises. Their brown skin made a sharp contrast with their white, irisless eyes. The four children weren’t identical, but near enough that it was difficult to tell them apart, and though they were nude, Jimi couldn’t begin to guess their sex as they lacked reproductive organs.

  They had stopped tapping, but the giggling continued.

  Jimi opened the window carefully. He didn’t fall out or fly to that hell place, but he felt compelled to say:

  “If my other mother sent you, tell her I said to get lost.”

  The four of them glanced at one another, double-checking, before saying in unison, “No one sent us. We felt you here and wanted to say hi.”

  They were so freaking cute, toes pointed elegantly, dark hair caught in an endless dance from the constant flutter of their wings.

  The one on the end piped up. “You seem nice.”

  “So do you.” Jimi decided to set his doubts aside. “Are we related?”

  That giggling again, hands covering their mouths.

  “We don’t think so. Can we come in?”

  “That’s not a good idea.” Jimi glanced at the man. He’d put the noose around his neck, but hadn’t progressed much further. Jimi wondered if he’d been as hesitant about shooting the woman downstairs in the head.

  “There’s a man. He’s…”

  “About to hang himself?”

  “We don’t care. Death is nothing to us.”

  Jimi nodded. “You’re like Ophelia.”

  “Nothing like her. Except that we like you too.”

  “And Jimi likes us. He doesn’t want us to see unpleasant things like corpses. Isn’t that charming?”

  “Nobody else cares what we see.”

  “That’s crazy talk,” Jimi said, watching them tumble and whirl before the window. “You guys are awesome.”

  “Really?” They stopped their acrobatics and crowded the window, white eyes as big as searchlights. “
Us?”

  “Well, yeah. Usually when I come across winged creatures, they try to kidnap me. Are y’all going to try to kidnap me?”

  “Do you want us too?”

  “No.”

  “Then we won’t.”

  “Cross your hearts?”

  More giggling.

  “We don’t have hearts.”

  “Or lungs.”

  “Or veins.”

  “Or cerebellums.”

  “Cerebella,” Jimi corrected, and they all stuck their tongues out at him. Tongues as red and pointed as spindle tree thorns.

  “I’m going to get Jimi a present.”

  “No, I want to.”

  “I don’t need anything,” Jimi told them, but added, “Ophelia does, though. I was just thinking that she needed something good to eat.”

  “And then we came?” Giggling and then, “We’ll get her something she’ll really like.”

  They flitted away, so fast he couldn’t track them.

  “Sorry about that.” Ophelia came back brandishing the chips triumphantly. “I kicked them both out. Maybe they can boss me around at home, but not while I’m...okay why do you look spooked?”

  “Do I?” Jimi rubbed his eyes and joined her on the bed. He’d clearly been alone with the murderer too long.

  “I thought he would have done it by now,” she said, eyeing him the way she would have a ham that was past its expiration date.

  “Is that why you eat souls? Because you don’t have one?”

  “Who said I didn’t?”

  “Pallid Jon. He said you were empty inside and that’s why souls could hitch a ride.”

  “He didn’t say we were soulless. We have them, but not on the inside.”

  “So where’s your soul?”

  “Parked outside.”

  “The Rolls? I knew there was something weird about that car.”

  “It’s not weird! When we come of age, we get to choose the form our souls take. I like to be mobile.”

  “Do I have a soul? On the inside?”

  Ophelia reached into Jimi’s chest, startling him. When she removed her hand, a bright dollop of light dangled from her fingertip. She licked it off.

  “Hey! Don’t be snacking on me.”

  “You don’t taste suicidal,” she said, like it was the surprise of the century.

  “I told you I wasn’t!” He hadn’t felt anything when she’d reached into him, but he felt something now, watching her suck the remainder of his soul from her finger. “What do I taste like?”

  “Biscuits and gravy. Red-eye gravy.” She looked wistful. “I ate a lot more human stuff when I was young. Like a comfort thing. I hardly bother these days.”

  “Then I shouldn’t have given you chocolate.”

  “I like chocolate.” She waggled the bag of chips in his face. “But I wouldn’t eat the chocolate girl regardless.”

  Jimi tried not to feel crushed but couldn’t help it.

  “It’s too beautiful to eat.”

  Jimi tried not to grin like an idiot but couldn’t help it.

  “Soup’s on!”

  The four winged children flew in through the open window carrying the body of a dead woman. They tossed it to the floor and it slid, ragdoll like, to Ophelia’s feet, knocking aside the man’s chair along the way. The ceiling fan didn’t even groan under his weight since the house was so sturdily built. Unlike the man’s neck.

  “Oops,” the winged children cried, and then giggled. “We had to go to Austin for the woman. Is that okay?”

  The woman’s wrists had been slit so recently that the blood still dripped from them.

  “It’s perfect,” Jimi said. “Nice and fresh. Doesn’t she look tastier than that old…Ophelia? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” She’d tucked her feet beneath her on the bed as though rats were running wild in the room. “Can’t you see?”

  “It’s your gift. The one you were begging me for in the car. An edible gift—the best kind.”

  She wasn’t looking at the dead woman. Or the dead man. She was looking at the winged children. Who were no longer cheerful or loop de looping.

  “She doesn’t like us.”

  “Nobody likes us.”

  “Stop that. Ophelia just doesn’t know what to say to people who aren’t dead.”

  “What kind of dead does she like?”

  “Mostly dead? We’re mostly dead.”

  “Yeah. Almost entirely.”

  Ophelia was utterly immune to their hopeful little faces. Jimi stood to block her horrified expression from their view.

  “Thanks a lot for your help.” He corralled them toward the window. Shooing at them set them adrift, as though they weighed no more than feathers. “Ophelia thanks you too, but it’s her dinner time. She needs to eat, and so do you. Shouldn’t you go home, have your own dinner?”

  “Yes,” they answered, sadly, wings drooping as they passed through the window. “Can we come see you again?”

  “Sure, anytime. Bye, kiddos.”

  “Bye!”

  Ophelia looked more alarmed than ever. “Kiddos?” she said, as he closed and locked the window. “Those weren’t kids. That’s the Penetraliad.” His blank expression made her facepalm. “You like the Twilight Zone, right? Don’t you remember the episode with the little boy who wished everyone he didn’t like into the cornfield? That’s them. Times four. I’ve never seen them outside eternity, Jimi. They could end the whole world. All the worlds. They’re aberrant. They killed him!”

  “He was going to commit suicide anyway.”

  “That’s not the point. We don’t do that. We don’t interfere.”

  “Is it like with vampires? Did I mess up something by inviting them in?”

  “Something like what? The laws of the universe? Ask the Mortmaine to help you figure out what you are.”

  “Screw the Mortmaine.”

  “You turned the Penetraliad into your bitches! Then sent them home to dinner. Do you know what they eat for dinner? Reality! Go to the Mortmaine.”

  “What if they tell me I’m going to grow a tail?”

  “Then your pants will fit differently.”

  “What if they tell me I’ll be dead before I’m thirty?”

  “There are worse things to be than dead.” Ophelia stepped over the woman and reached into the hanged man. Jimi thought the soul she removed would look different, but it shone as brightly as the woman’s soul downstairs.

  “Don’t eat him.”

  “I’m not. He’s not a suicide now anyway. Technically. His soul is sitting there; if I don’t take it, who will?” Ophelia inhaled the light like smoke.

  He sat with Ophelia on the floor next to the woman’s body and briefly wondered how her presence would be construed, but Ophelia was hungry. Forensics could wait.

  “Go on. Eat.”

  She scooped out the woman’s soul and ate it slowly. Burst into tears.

  Jimi had grown accustomed to Ophelia’s sly humor, her benign mockery, but this desolation and uncertainty was new to him. He took a moment to enjoy it, this weak, pathetic side of Ophelia; she’d seen him the same way many times before—including today—so it was only fair.

  “Dad did the same thing to my mom that this guy did to his wife. Only he ate her soul afterward, before he blew his brains out. Then he moved on. I visited him in eternity, but he doesn’t remember it. I’m the one who remembers. I’m the one in hell.”

  Jimi kept wanting to take pictures. She was the only person he’d ever met who looked gorgeous when she cried. Like her face didn’t understand awkward contortions and snot. She needed a hug though, not a photo shoot. She might not accept one from him since they weren’t friends. Even though he gave the best hugs in all of Texas. Three different girls on three different occasions had confirmed it.

  He should hug her and be done with it, but Ophelia would file it away in her Bossy McBosspants file and never let him hear the end of it. So he let her cry herself out and kept his hands
to himself.

  “Other than the murder-suicide thing, do you have any good memories of your folks?”

  “No. They hated being together, hated being apart. They were so intense, and they liked to eat the souls of dead children. They would have liked me better dead than alive.” Ophelia wiped her hand on her dress as though the woman’s soul had made it sticky. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t mind,” Jimi said, magnanimously. “Friends spill their guts to each other. All the rancid, hateful stuff. We are friends, aren’t we?”

  “No.” She sniffled into a tissue, and put her head on Jimi’s shoulder.

  Chapter 19

  Jimi biked to the darkside of downsquare. Past a field of wild cotton, like the aftermath of an epic pillow fight, past Texas mountain laurel trees that looked naked and dull without the pretty purple blooms that smelled like grape bubblegum. Past a patchwork of storybook homes and tumbledown railroad shacks in various states of disrepair, with chain-link and gravel overtaking the picket fences and flowerbeds of parkside.

  The storybook prettiness and squalor merged on Nightshade where Victorian homes that had been gorgeous long ago had fallen to decay. A row of grackles perched on fish scale roofs and cocked their heads as Jimi rode past.

  He stopped at a green home with a green pickup parked out front. It was the only green house on Nightshade. The Mortmaine weren’t known for their sociability, but the green house was open to everyone, and it was always full.

  If the Mortmaine were supernatural police, the Scholar was a supernatural librarian. How do you get rid of lures in the windows, how do you stop red clot from eating you from the inside? The Scholar could tell you. The service didn’t cost money; people paid in information. Any piece of knowledge, any experience or observation could make the difference between life and death.

  Porterenes filled the house, standing in a line before a closed door at the far end of the entrance hall. Occasionally the line was bisected by the people who actually lived in the neighborhood—the Mortmaine. They bustled in and out of rooms and up and down the stairs, dressed all in green or partially in green if they were initiates. The Mortmaine were oblivious to the line, but not to Jimi.

  He was used to being stared at—he was gorgeous; who wouldn’t stare?—but after a few minutes of waiting, Jimi had a feeling some of the Mortmaine were coming into the entrance hall specifically to look at him. The more the Mortmaine stared, the more the people in the line grew curious about what they were staring at, until everyone was staring. Jimi quickly grew sick of it. If everyone was going to stare that hard, they could see him much better from the front of the line.