“You give up pretty easy.”
He shakes his head, defeat and exhaustion written in the slump of his shoulders. “What’s the point in fighting an impossible fight? You might feel different once you’re sober and not in shock.”
And I do feel weirdly numb and dreamy. And yet like anything is possible.
“So what now?” I say.
“Now you go to sleep and start healing.”
“And what about tomorrow?”
“It’s already tomorrow, Dovey.”
“What about today?”
“Today’s the first day of the rest of your life without the tip of your pinkie,” he says.
“You’re not funny,” I say. “And that cat piss is definitely wearing off.”
I flex my hand, and my pinkie burns, like the skin is being pulled too tight and the blood doesn’t know where to go.
“I can always give you more,” he says gently, pushing down my hand and waggling the whiskey bottle, but I shake my head. I don’t want to feel that shit coming back up. I pull my hand under the blankets and roll over onto my side.
Isaac kicks off his boots and lies down on the couch across from mine, pulling a raggedy blanket over himself. It’s the kind of blanket old ladies use on their laps, and it’s got a big cross on it. It’s strange, to think about him at college, studying religion.
The other couch is shaped to fit him, and I wonder how many times he’s spent the night awake on it, reading or thinking. If it were me, I’d rather spend every day figuring out how to beat the demons and get my life back. I couldn’t hide away in a carriage house, waiting for bad things to happen.
As if he can tell what I’m thinking, Isaac says, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in dealing with demons, it’s that sometimes you have to let things go.”
“I told you,” I say. “I’m half lawyer. I never learned how to let go.”
15
I’M DREAMING AGAIN. THIS TIME the light is warm on my face, and the familiar smell is comforting. I’m in a parlor that I know intimately but have never actually set foot in. Carly’s grandmother never let us past the line where the nice carpet began. She didn’t want us to mess up the vacuum marks.
The old damask couch is stiff and scratchy under my jean shorts, the carpet thick and soft under my feet. A huge slice of chocolate cake and a cup of sweet tea sit on the coffee table in front of me, each centered perfectly on a doily.
“You ain’t eating.”
I look up to find Gigi staring at me, her eyes as sharp as a razor blade dripping with lemonade. I haven’t seen her since Carly’s funeral, when I stood with her and Miz Ray at the coffin. She’s looked a hundred years old for the past ten years, the smile lines around her eyes in sharp contrast to the harsh frown lines of her mouth. She’s wearing pink sweatpants and a matching sweater with kittens on it that Carly and I gave her for Mother’s Day when we were ten, but her proud carriage still makes her look queenly.
“Last time I ate in a dream, it went poorly,” I answer. I poke the cake with the polished silver fork, testing to see if it’s going to turn into grave dirt. Or worse.
She laughs, looking crafty.
“Gigi’s magic is all good, sugar. Go on and eat. I’ll wait.”
And I know her ways, so I eat the cake and sip the tea, and it’s just as good as I remember. Her mangy old cat struts through the door and twines around my ankles. Gigi watches me all the while, hands clasped over her old-lady belly, and legs crossed at the ankle above her house slippers. When I’m done, she nods, her lips pursed.
“I want you to do something for me, Billie Dove.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
She leans forward. “You come see me. We got to talk.”
“I’m here now.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“But you’re—”
She wiggles in her seat like she’s holding on to a good joke.
“I’m what, sugar?” she says with a self-satisfied smirk.
And I suddenly realize that I haven’t thought about Gigi since Carly’s funeral. I haven’t heard of her, seen her, heard her name spoken. It’s like the old lady just slid right out of memory like water off a duck’s back. If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have told you she was dead. But I don’t remember her dying.
“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper.
“You remember how to find Weatherwood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl. You come find me, then. Don’t tell nobody. Not unless you trust ’em with your life. And mine. Lot of darkness in the world these days.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her head cocks, her face wrinkling up.
“You say anything but ‘yes, ma’am,’ or those demons got you rolling, belly-up?”
I raise my head to glare at her. “I don’t roll belly-up for anyone, Gigi.”
She leans back, nodding, arms crossed again.
“That’s cuz you’re Virginia’s girl, Billie Dove. And don’t you forget it.”
I was scratching her cat under the chin, but the second I hear that name, my head snaps up.
“What about my nana?”
But Gigi’s gone. I’m alone in the parlor with a bony cat and a plate scattered with cake crumbs. As I reach again to stroke the cat’s gray fur, it spins and hisses, sinks crooked teeth into my thumb.
I jolt awake, clutching my stinging hand to my chest. It’s dark, and I can barely see Isaac’s outline on the couch across the room. His breathing is deep and slow and comfortable, and I gently ease back down under the blankets. He put another one on me, I notice. Whether it’s the whiskey still in my blood, the exhaustion from the day’s and night’s events, or the fact that my dream gave me strength and purpose, it’s easier than I expect to fall back asleep.
I refuse to believe it’s Isaac’s presence that gives me comfort. And I won’t tell him about my dream.
16
ISAAC WAKES ME UP IN the morning before he’s due to report at the inn’s front desk.
“Instant coffee’s all I’ve got,” he says with a sleep-rumpled grin, and I take the chipped mug happily. My stomach is wobbling but not in complete revolt; apparently, Gigi’s dream cake can stop a hangover but not cure normal hunger. I’ll be home soon enough, and there should be some leftovers. My dad will be asleep, and my mom will be at work, and that means I’ll have at least a little peace before they notice my missing pinkie and freak out.
“So you really think I should just go on with life and lie low?” I say.
“That’s a loaded question.”
He must have taken a shower somewhere while I was asleep, because the blood and grime are gone from his hair and face, and he looks respectable and pleasant. Just the kind of college-age kid you would expect to be working at a quaint historic inn. The bad boy in the leather jacket and the gentleman in the bowler are faraway memories by the light of day.
“So what?” I say. “All questions are loaded questions. Answer it anyway.”
I take a sip and wait for his answer while he zips up his boots.
“I think you need to stay safe,” he finally says. “This isn’t a game. It’s not a play. I watched a demon bite off your finger last night. And she can do a lot worse. You’re on Kitty’s radar now.”
“I was on her radar before. She was at the Liberty Theater, watching me.”
“She was probably checking up on Old Murph,” he says. “He’s a lesser demon—one of her minions, and the Liberty is on her turf. She probably wasn’t watching you in particular then, but she will be now. And she has lots of servants and spies.”
“So I just need a disguise.”
He exhales and stands. Angry Isaac is back, his black eyes furious.
“Dovey. Listen to me. This is not Scooby-Doo. There is no mystery to solve. They killed your best friend. Not because of who she was or something she did—just because it was easy and they could use her. They kill a lot of people. You can’t stop them. Don’t you think I’ve be
en trying? Don’t you see all these books?”
I shrug. His books don’t impress me.
He picks one up off the desk. “I read constantly, trying to find some loophole, some hint of how to get rid of the demons. I may be half evil by nature, but this is my town too, and I want them gone.”
Part of me is relieved to see that he’s at least fighting them, or thinking about fighting them. But it’s not enough. “If you hate them so much, why are you working for them? Why do you drug people at that restaurant?”
“Because they can make me do much worse. For a while I thought it would be easy enough to work for them, that I should just do what came naturally to me. But then Kitty made me do . . .”
“Do what?”
He sits down on the couch, head in his hands. He cracks his neck and looks up at me.
“She forced me to do something I didn’t want to do. And that decided it for me. I want out. But I’ve seen their power. I’ve seen Josephine. And the best thing I can do right now is lie low, let them think I’m on their side, while I research ways to destroy them, and try to help people as best I can on my own time.”
“Wait. Josephine is a person? A demon?”
He leans back against the couch and chuckles, but there’s no humor there. Just darkness.
“If you think Kitty’s bad, you’d better hope you never meet Josephine.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“That again.” I roll my eyes so hard, it hurts.
“You don’t go to Josephine. Josephine comes to you, and if you’re lucky, you live through it and pray you never see her again.”
“More riddles? Give me something solid, boy.”
He exhales, raises an eyebrow. “If the Crusades can’t conquer a demon, how am I going to pull it off? I’ve emailed shamans all over the world. I’ve contacted experts on Katrina and Hugo and all the other natural disasters that are really just festering pits of demonic activity. And I haven’t found any evidence that it’s possible to kill a major demon like Josephine unless you’re another major demon, and even then it’s tough.”
“There’s got to be someone who can help. What about the other cambions?”
“You’re funny.”
“Are there lots of you?”
“There’s only one me, darlin’.”
His grim but honey-warm smile doesn’t derail me a bit.
“I mean other cambions.”
“Dammit, Dovey. Let it go. I already told you. They’re all evil. We’re supposed to be evil!”
“Dammit yourself, Isaac. You’re not evil. And we can fight this.”
He walks over and kneels in front of me, looking right into my eyes. His irises melt into blue and draw me in sweetly, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Billie Dove,” he says softly, pausing between each word. His hands find my hands, the touch electric. We’re missing opposite pinkies, and I can feel the air where those fingertips would meet if they were there. But they’ll never meet now.
He leans close, avid and earnest, his eyes soft as velvet. My breath catches, and I’m drawn toward him, barely a whisper between our faces, just a breath between our lips. “Dovey. Listen to me and mark my words. Your life is in danger. They can kill you anytime now, steal your soul and use your body. You can’t save Carly. You can’t save me. You need to live the longest, happiest life possible. If that means taking the pills or moving away from Savannah, then do it. But you don’t want to tangle with Kitty and Josephine.”
“I don’t,” I say, and my voice sounds high and innocent, like a child.
“Good.” He leans away with a relieved smile. “Good. I can’t watch them hurt you anymore.”
I break the stare, unlocking my eyes painfully from his and growling, realizing he was trying to influence me with his annoyingly persuasive cambion powers.
“I don’t want to tangle with them,” I say, my voice back to normal strength and getting louder. “But I will if I have to. Whether you’ll help me or not, I will find a way. And if you’re too scared to fight with me, I’ll by God find someone else who will.”
I flip the blankets off my legs and stand, my knees quivering. After tossing the rest of the coffee down in one hot jab, I shove the mug at him and dig around in my pocket with my good hand until I find first the pink bead, then my keys.
“Dovey, don’t,” he says, standing and towering over me. “Please.”
“Don’t you ‘Dovey, don’t’ me,” I say. “I told you from the start that I wasn’t going to give up on Carly. And I meant it.”
He breathes out through his nose like a bull about to charge. “Goddamn. I have tried everything in my power to stop you, and you won’t listen to reason.” He grabs me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine, his lips twisted in a snarl that only makes him hotter. “And now she owns you. Kitty owns you! The one person I was trying to protect you from. And you still won’t quit. And you won’t listen. You are the most bullheaded girl I have ever met.”
“I like you better when you’re angry,” I say, stealing a quick glance at his lips.
“And I liked you better with ten whole fingers.” He turns away and sighs, the anger draining away to resignation. “I’m late for work. You can let yourself out. I’ll be around if you want to be reasonable.” He hands me another business card, this one with a phone number written on the back. “You can call or text if you need me. Demons can’t do technology, so it’s safe. Just stay off the landline.”
“Is this card going to disappear?”
He grins. “Only if you want it to. I like having someone else to talk to about everything, even if you make me want to rip all my hair out. It’s lonely being one of the only people who can see what’s going on.” With a cute little wave, he’s gone.
But he’s wrong. I don’t think I’m going to be any lonelier than I was before, isolated by the numb fuzz. Thanks to my dream, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have at least one other person to talk to, and she might have better answers. And, hell, I might even have two people, if I can work it just right.
I wait a minute to make sure he’s not coming back, then go to the tiny little kitchen. The cabinets just have salt, pepper, and a few sad pans—no demon drinks, but he said he had brought some home. I open the dorm fridge and rummage around. Besides some nasty leftover take-out stuff and a half gallon of milk, there are two glass bottles stoppered with corks. One is almost full of clear, iridescent liquid that swirls independently and looks nothing like water. And the other one is full of bright red liquid that looks like Kool-Aid. According to Isaac, that’s the one that will help you see more. I wish I knew how long it lasted or what the dose is, but I guess I’ll figure it out as I go along. I need backup, and Isaac says he’s out. I’ll have to see if Baker really meant what he said about never giving up on a friend.
I find an empty Chinese food delivery bag on the counter and put in the red bottle. Then, on second thought, I add the clear one too.
I duck into the bathroom next, curious if I’ll find a brown bottle of pills or more demon stuff, but it’s just a typical messy bathroom that smells like boy deodorant. My mouth tastes rancid, but I’m not about to try his toothbrush, and I don’t like the cinnamon toothpaste curled neatly on the sink. I look into the mirror, frightened of what I’ll see. Last night’s makeup is smeared with sweat and tears, and I find a clean towel and wipe it all off, the cold water sharp against my still-hot cheeks. I half expect my eyes to look different, and I sigh in relief to find them the same honey-gold hazel as ever. Before leaving, I borrow a convenient scarf and arrange it to cover the blood stains on my hoodie.
Stepping through the door into the bright sun is bizarre and overwhelming, the colors superbright and dizzying. I walk down the peeling wood steps and into the garden behind the Catbird Inn. I’ve never been in one of the old carriage houses downtown, but I always thought they looked interesting. Under the current circumstances I feel a little ashamed, like if someo
ne saw me sneaking out from Isaac’s apartment, they would assume I’d been up to no good. I don’t know which is worse, looking like the sort of girl who sneaks out of an older guy’s apartment alone or knowing that I was dumb enough to get my finger bitten off by a demon. Fortunately, the garden is empty of all but some robins and mockingbirds pecking around in the dead grass.
I let myself out the garden gate and walk to my car, which is thankfully unmolested after an entire night parked downtown. It’s after eleven in the morning, and I’m exhausted. My pinkie throbs at my side, and I want nothing more than to curl up in my bed in the dark and have a good, cathartic cry. Still, there’s a lot to do today, and I’m not going to let pain, sleepiness, and amputation stop me. It must be so much easier for Isaac, without school to worry about, living on his own. Or at least it would be easier for him, if he wanted to actually do something about his predicament instead of just sitting behind the desk of a hotel doing research. It doesn’t feel like enough to me.
I drive home and push open the unlocked front door, which is weird, because we always lock our door. The smell of good things in the oven makes my stomach clench, and I fight not to drool as I lock the door behind me.
“That you, Dovey?” my mom calls from the couch.
“What’s in the oven? And why are you home?” I ask, forgetting again to act stupid.
“You’re late for your pill.”
“Slept in,” I mutter. “Headache. Sorry.”
She sighs, and the lines of her face soften, like I’m a stupid puppy she just can’t stay mad at.
“Larry decided to close the office. The whole city’s off for the memorial. I figured I would make Nana’s lunch spread for the occasion. Did you have a good time?” I just shrug, and she smiles like that’s the exact right answer.
“That’s nice, for Nikki to invite you over again.”
“Yeah.”
“You have play rehearsal after lunch, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” she says. “I made all your favorites. Macaroni’s almost done. Daddy should be awake soon. And you’ll come home right after rehearsal, right?”