by Dia Reeves
“You need to take a class on how to comfort the living. You need to take three classes.”
“Or,” Ophelia reached into her coat pocket, “I can give you this. Gifts are comforting.”
He opened the unadorned box and found a bottle full of clear liquid. “What is it?”
“Stuff that’ll turn your tears black. Had it special made at the drugstore. The lady said only one drop in each eye and the effect’ll last for eight hours.”
Jimi followed the directions and blinked. “Now watch I don’t cry for three years.”
She laughed but he wasn’t joking. His eyes were dry even though he felt shaky and unsettled in a way he hadn’t since his wings had first burst free. At least this new thing, this cannibalism thing, wasn’t vividly visible and had a simple solution.
He wouldn’t eat anyone again. Period. He probably never would have if the Revelry hadn’t lowered his inhibitions so gruesomely.
A loud honk blasted him out of his mental funk. A blue pickup had stopped at the curb, a friendly girl at the wheel.
Friendly because she didn’t know he was a cannibal.
“That’s my ride.”
“Where’re you going? You never told me.”
“Sugar Lynn’s taking me back to the river. To drown. Hopefully this time she doesn’t get stabbed in the other kidney before she can resuscitate me.”
“I thought you were over that stupid idea.”
“It’s not stupid now.” He showed her the hourglass beetle in the jar he’d stowed away in Paul’s lunch bag. “I punched holes in the lid, but every day it gets a little dimmer; I have to get going while the going’s good. Don’t look at me like that. I know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t know anything. When you die, the beetle will eat your soul and then it will fly away.”
“Fly away how? It’s in the—”
The beetle fluttered on his hand like gold jewelry.
“That’s why Carmin didn’t punch holes in the lid.”
“Quick!” Ophelia removed a hanky from her pocket and scooped up the beetle. “You can’t let it touch your skin like that.”
Sugar Lynn honked the horn. “Jimi? What’s the hold up?”
“Just a sec.” Jimi shook the beetle out of the hanky and into Ophelia’s hole-free gift box. “Problem solved. See ya.”
When Jimi reached Sugar Lynn’s truck, Ophelia shouted:
“I’ll take you.”
Jimi looked to the heavens for strength. Would have shouted something back, but Sugar Lynn looked way too interested. He stalked back to the bench.
“Don’t start, Ophelia.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll get in trouble.”
“Only if I get caught.”
“No!”
“You don’t know enough about hourglass beetles or eternity or anything. How are you going to find Dez: meet me in eternity dot com? You need me. You’ll die without me.”
“I thought you liked dead things.”
“Not you. I like you alive.”
Such a statement from anyone else would have creeped Jimi the hell out, but from Ophelia?
“Enough to risk banishment?”
Nod.
“Enough to take me to Dez, even though you’re green with jealous rage?”
Nod.
“Enough to admit we’re friends?”
“Yes.”
Her emphatic yes—not nope, not yup; yes!—so resolute, so unflinching, galvanized him.
“Friends with me?”
“Who else, stupid?”
“Woo hoo!”
Jimi went to Sugar Lynn and called off their field trip. After she’d driven off, he and Ophelia went to the Rolls parked down the street. Instead of getting into the back as usual, she waved him up to the passenger’s seat.
“Are you licensed?” he asked, as she buckled herself into the driver’s seat.
“Just make sure you keep a tight grip on that beetle.”
Jimi did, clutching the paper box as tightly as he dared.
They drove north where the trees were thickest, and it was always twilight beneath the canopy. An occasional flicker of sunlight found a break in the leaves and spotlighted a turkey vulture tearing at roadkill, a neighborhood of gaudily painted houses, a Confederate cemetery overrun with kudzu.
“Why don’t you have your own car, rich as your mom is?”
“She’s not my mother. I had a car. A Dodge Challenger. Blue-black like the shadows that creep out of the woods at dusk. Dez totaled it when she crashed, and I haven’t felt like driving since. Maybe you’ll let me drive this one.” He ran his hand along the door, and she chortled.
Jimi looked at her and then tickled the dash. She smacked his hand.
“Stop that.”
“We should have sex in here. Inside your soul. That’s, like, some yogi level shit. Why’s your soul so big anyway? Is this normal?”
“Nope,” she said, proudly. “Usually there isn’t enough to make anything as big as a car. Pallid Jon only had enough to make Miss Rictus.”
Pallid Jon’s soul had snuggled with Jimi, had comforted him.
“So who was this other person you took to the afterlife?” he asked, eager to think about something else.
“A man who lost his wife.”
“You felt sorry for him?”
“Hell no! He took Miss Rictus hostage and threatened to do all kinds of horrible experiments on her if I didn’t take him over.”
“Did he see his wife?”
“She wouldn’t come to him. I didn’t get the feeling they’d gotten along when she was alive. He tried to renege, since he didn’t get what he wanted, but the Mayor made him give Miss Rictus back. What fairy were you?”
“Huh?”
“You said you and Dez went to a party as fairies on the day she died. She was the Blue Fairy. Which one were you?”
“Peter Pan.”
“He’s a fairy?”
“He lives in another world, he can fly; he hangs out with fairies. That’s good enough for me. Why’s everything turning black?”
The car felt as if it was still moving, but the view remained stationary, the artificial twilight beneath the trees deepening.
“Is that what you see?”
“Don’t you?”
“Even with red eyes, you can’t see what I see.” Ophelia spun the wheel to the left, and it was like riding a roller coaster in the dark. Jimi didn’t like it. Neither did his stomach.
“Who was that red-haired lady? You taped her picture in your little-kid diary and drew bunny ears on her head.”
“Chastity Evans. She was the reason my folks divorced. The apartment Dad lives in now used to be hers. Dad moved in after he got her pregnant. She had a miscarriage though.” He wondered briefly if it had been as macabre as Alexis’s. “The year after m…Alexis and I came back from France, Chastity died. From lupus. I got it confused with that movie Night of the Lepus and thought a rabbit ate her.”
Ophelia laughed, covering her mouth because she knew it was inappropriate. Jimi shrugged.
“I was nine. Why’re you so curious? All these questions. Are you that sure I’ll die over there that you feel like you have to satisfy your curiosity while you still can?”
She stopped laughing, but instead of answering him, asked another question.
“When you see Dez, are you going to talk her into coming back with you?”
“That’s an option?” he asked, stomach swinging as they turned right.
“No. But you’re you. What can’t you do?”
“I’m not going to eternity to see Dez. I’m going to look for your dad and get him to apologize on Paul’s digital recorder for screwing up your life. And mine. If he wasn’t so selfish, we’d have been friends ages ago. After a gift like that, I figured you’d have to be friends with me. Kinda pointless now, since you finally admitted it. Let’s go get a hotdog or something.”
Ophelia looked at him. Looked and looked. The
way she had after he’d taken her virginity. Like he was some kind of hero.
“Or we could park somewhere. I have no idea where we are now, but back upsquare we were close to the Old Mission. Dad said when he was my age that’s where all the kids would go make out.”
“Make out?”
Jimi grinned. “Or whatever.”
The car shot backward as if rockets had been strapped to it. The seatbelts dug into Jimi’s flesh as he jerked forward, losing his hold on the box. The beetle flew up to the windshield and then out of sight.
The windshield was no longer black but full of cold sunshine. They were on Ophelia’s street. In her driveway. With the Mayor’s hands pressed against the hood of the Rolls, glaring at them through the windshield.
Caught.
She walked around the car, black robes flapping, and gestured for Ophelia to roll down the window.
“I did warn you about this.” The voice of doom. “I didn’t imagine that conversation.”
Ophelia shook her head.
“So why were you taking this boy to eternity, shepherd? He doesn’t look dead to me.”
Jimi said, “It was my idea. I wanted to meet her dad. I insisted. I’m very persuasive. Ask anyone.”
The Mayor wasn’t paying attention, the heavy, awful weight of her gaze was for Ophelia alone. She wouldn’t really banish Ophelia. That happened in stories. To strangers. Not to people Jimi knew.
The beetle flew out of Ophelia’s open window and the Mayor caught it. Ate it.
Jimi yelled, “You’ll create a hole through space and time!”
“I am the hole through space and time.” The Mayor opened the driver’s side door. “Step out.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Jimi tried again as Ophelia exited, but the Mayor slammed the door on him.
“This doesn’t concern you.”
“It’s okay, Jimi.” Ophelia’s words breaking apart as she spoke them, dissolving. “It was a risk; we knew that. But, Ma’am, he’s worth it.” She dropped to her knees, as if to propose marriage to her worst nightmare. “He’s my best friend, and I’d do anything for him. He’s brave and confident and cares about people. Like, it bothers him when people aren’t happy. It only bothers me when he isn’t happy. I thought eternity was something he needed. I know you have every right to banish me, but please have mercy. Caring about other people is new to me. I’m sorry I cared so recklessly.”
The Mayor looked as taken aback as Jimi felt. That was probably the longest speech Ophelia had ever made to anyone besides him. And so poignant. He couldn’t have done it better.
“Such a difference from the stammering girl of last year.” The Mayor stroked Ophelia’s face. “Jimi’s clearly had a good effect on you, and I do like to see my Porterenes playing nicely together. You showed great courage during the Revelry. You made me proud, and that’s the only reason I’m letting you off so easily. I won’t banish you. I was hasty to ever say such a thing. Rise, child.”
Ophelia did, relieved, opening her mouth to effuse her gratitude when the Mayor reached around her. To hug her, Jimi thought. Instead she ripped. So violently that blood flew into the car, right into Jimi’s face. The Mayor held a large wing in each hand, easily, even though each one was larger than she was.
“A banishment is too severe. But mutilation seems just about right.”
Jimi scrambled out of the car and caught Ophelia as she slumped to the driveway and could only stare at the Mayor in horror as she tucked the severed wings under her arm. “I suggest you go home now and leave eternity to those of us who are actually eternal.”
The Mayor turned, robes swirling, and vanished.
Chapter 27
Ophelia lay in Jimi’s arms, unconscious, coat damp with blood; he stripped it off. The ruffled straps of her backless dress framed the gaping tears over her shoulder blades, frayed bone and cartilage where wings should have been. The blood seeped in strange patterns, as if not all of the bleeding was happening where they were.
Jimi lifted Ophelia carefully because of how slippery she’d become. Fumbled with the doorknob of her home with his slick hand but finally managed to get her inside.
“Please. Help. She’s hurt.”
Jimi parked her on the couch. Emptied Paul’s lunch bag and pressed it to her back—not nearly absorbent enough to stop the bleeding. Jimi removed his jacket, his shirt. Used them. Wished he had thought to bring her coat from the driveway where he’d left it. Wished the couch had a throw on the back like at Grandy’s house. Wished someone would help him.
An older man and woman—Ophelia’s aunt and uncle?—sat across from each other on a rug in the center of the room, rhythmically slapping the floor with their hands. Playing games while Ophelia bled to death. They weren’t the only ones in the house, but they were the only ones who were entirely there.
Wings but no bodies, bodies but no heads, heads but no shoulders. Other strange combinations roamed through doors and up the stairs. Even the second floor had vanished. A strange sky instead of a ceiling, pale blue stars twinkling. Some of those stars had wings.
Jimi strode to the older couple. “Hey!” Reached for the uncle but instead of warm skin, his hands disappeared into a cold void.
He didn’t panic though. They were just behind a door. Jimi understood doors, even ones he couldn’t see. Eventually his searching hands grabbed hold of one of them, but when he yanked, neither the aunt nor the uncle stood before him.
Jimi had pulled forth Pallid Jon, Miss Rictus asleep on his head like a fur hat, wings lending his lanky frame a holiness and purity it didn’t deserve. Holy or not, Pallid Jon would know what to do about Ophelia.
Jimi hurried back to her, to apply pressure to her wounds, to stop the bleeding.
“What are you doing here?” Pallid Jon studied the bloody smears Jimi had left on his bare arms.
“The Mayor ripped Ophelia’s wings off.”
Pallid Jon looked at her with an exalted indifference. “Why?”
“For taking me to eternity. For trying to.”
“You talked her into it?” he asked, with the uncertainty of someone who may still be dreaming but has no way to tell.
“The Mayor should have punished me, torn off my wings. I tried to explain.”
“Leave her.”
“She’s lost so much blood.” Jimi’s jacket and shirt were already soaked through. “We should drive her to the hospital—”
“Leave!” Pallid Jon sent him flying face-first into the front door. Jimi turned, holding his nose, but Pallid Jon, Miss Rictus, Ophelia.
Gone.
The house on the other hand was intact and empty of everything but silence.
Jimi opened the door and found, not the poison tree and the white lawn, but a field of wheat that stretched to the horizon on all sides. He checked to see if the house had landed on anyone. It hadn’t. He’d been pushed out of the world, but not as far as Munchkinland.
He had tried to avoid this with charm and crowds of friends, but it had happened anyway—he was alone. He deserved to be, after what he’d allowed to happened to Ophelia. Maybe Rishi was right after all, that Jimi would be better off with his own kind, in a place where his existence wouldn’t hurt anyone.
He listened to the mindless wind for a few moments more and then made a decision. Turned his back on the house. Took a step opposite the homeward tug in his gut, the first step in his new journey of solitude and suffering.
He fell. Away from the golden waves of amber grains. Into darkness.
He didn’t have enough time to scream before he slammed into the ground, phone shattering in his pocket. Hit his nose again. But he welcomed the pain. Ophelia was in pain; since Jimi couldn’t relieve it, the least he could do was share it.
He’d fallen into a dark, cavernous place where water dripped and footsteps echoed. The sort of place a bear would call home. Except humans lived here. An underground city enclosed within a mountain. Part natural, part constructed. An orderliness and symmetry in th
e archways, paths, and columnar buildings as tall as skyscrapers, which could only be accessed by flight.
Flutter of multicolored wings high overhead. People going about their business. Shopping. Visiting. Little kids playing ball. They wore trouser/skirt combos but were shirtless, like Jimi. Shoeless like Jimi, who’d lost yet another pair of Fred Perrys to whatever labor had borne him into this place. None of their eyes were stitched, but many wore long silky blindfolds that rippled as they flew. Like the men who’d abducted Jimi, the blindfolded ones had no problem navigating.
Instead of flying up to introduce himself, Jimi retreated into a tunnel to his left. Glowing eyes had been painted on the curved walls; they followed Jimi as he entered an open area.
Phosphorescent globules clung to the low ceiling like limpets and provided just enough light to keep Jimi from veering off the trails and into the mineral pools glittering to his right. A different cluster of lights dribbled a sickly glow onto a large spherical building made to resemble an eye. It was either fashioned entirely of eyeballs or the eyeballs had been used to decorate the exterior. Some of the eyes had been painted red and formed the iris, and the pupil was a black circular opening in the center of the building several feet above the ground.
“He’s come to us!”
Jimi’s bad day became even worse. He remembered the language. The voice. The stitched eyes. The tattoo had gone from his throat, but it was him. The winged man. The only one of his abductors who’d lived.
Between Jimi and the eyeball building lay a dozen people, prostrate on the cold rock. Indistinguishable from it until his former abductor’s cries caused them to lift their heads. To rise. To surround him.
All of their eyes had been stitched closed.
A woman darted forward, head tilted as she studied Jimi.
“Who’s come? Who is he?”
“Do you not smell him?” His abductor’s nose was in Jimi’s hair. The others began to copy him, sniffing Jimi.
“Lillane’s right. He has come.”
“Exactly like her. Our prayers have been answered!”
“Exactly like who?” Jimi said, speaking their language, letting it bubble up from some forgotten well within him. “Fiamma?”