Baker holds Isaac’s knife out like he’s disgusted with it.
“How many have you taken?” Baker asks, and every trace of the boy I knew is gone.
“None. Because then they would serve me.” Isaac’s voice is raspy, and he looks down, rubs between his eyes. “But I’ve led people to Kitty, held them down. Demons have ways of forcing you to do things you don’t want to do. Dovey was on my list, if that means anything. For the last year. But I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let you become a distal servant. I traded a favor in exchange for Dovey, and Kitty called it in for tonight.”
Baker takes a step forward, his hands in fists at his sides. I step between them as it sinks in, what Isaac’s saying. I would have lost my pinkie a year ago, would have been a future distal servant, just like Carly. If not for Isaac. He traded a little piece of his freedom to keep me alive. I look deep into his eyes, black to black, and I can’t honestly say if I would do the same for him.
“Keep the knife, Baker. You’re going to need it. Let’s just go back to the Liberty and kick some demon ass,” I say, the rage sitting heavy in my chest.
Isaac catches my wrist, and I yank it away and stare daggers at him. “Dovey, you seriously don’t get it. They will kill you. Whatever protection you had—it’s over if I don’t show tonight. Kitty, her minions, even Old Murph—any one of them will end you if they can. And then you’ll be a servant too. We’ve got to be smart about this. If you want to save Carly, if you want to save yourself, we’ve got to find the dybbuk cabinet. If we go to the Liberty right now, you’ll be dead-eyed and holding down your screaming neighbors within the hour.”
“Okay. Fine. So we need to find Stanford Engravers, right? And I can’t find the captain. So let’s ask the historic foundation.”
Isaac and Baker look at me like I’m an idiot.
“You’re the idiots,” I mutter. “Come on.”
I jog back to Bay Street with the boys hot on my heels. Our school brings us out to the historic museum every couple of years, and they tour us around and tell us not to touch things as they recite the most boring parts of history. But the old biddies know everything there is to know about Savannah, past and present. I’m out of breath when I burst through the door, making the bell jingle madly. The old woman sitting and reading a hardcover behind the counter lowers her glasses and glares at me like I’m carrying a can of spray paint and a gun. She’s half-right.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Stanford Engravers,” I pant.
She shakes her head. “Josephine destroyed their storefront, and they sold out to the hotel. I’m afraid it’s gone. Used to be a beautiful old building.”
My hopes fall, but I’m not quitting yet. “Okay. Then do you know a carriage driver who looks like a pirate?”
She stands with an indignant wobble and puts down her book. “Young lady, we are an historic foundation that focuses on education and preservation, not a phone book. I do believe this is what your Internet is for. Now unless you’d like to pay for a tour, y’all had best take your business elsewhere.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Baker mutters, and we shuffle out the door, still panting.
“Shit,” Isaac says once the door is closed.
“Now what?” I say.
The door opens with a jingle, and a blond girl in hoopskirts and a volunteer badge slips out, maybe a little younger than me. The book under her arm is one I’ve read before. It’s about demon hunters, but it’s nothing like reality. Too bad I can’t tell her that.
“I was listening in,” she says. “You guys seem lost.”
I snort. “You could say that. We just keep looking for shit that doesn’t exist.”
She takes a long, slow, careful look at us. “Maybe I can help. I’m a volunteer for the Keeper Society. Have you heard of us?” We all shake our heads. “Okay, so have you guys ever been on a tour of Savannah?”
Baker can’t help laughing, and I snort. “We’re all natives.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I give her the same appraising glance she’s just given us. Her eyes are bright gray, her fingers are all whole, and her hands are covered in fading henna. She taps short, brightly painted nails on her book and smirks at me like she’s in on a joke I haven’t heard.
Watching her carefully, I say, “I’m probably going to regret asking this, but do you know the captain?”
Her smirk twitches just a little. “That crazy old guy with the parrot? I haven’t seen him around tonight. But he sometimes hangs out at the Buccaneer Tavern. It’s the oldest building in Savannah, you know.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Baker says. “I’m not going to that tourist trap.”
“It’s either that or the Liberty,” Isaac mutters.
And Baker cries, “Give me Liberty, or give me death! By pirates!”
“He’s cute. Is he yours?” the girl asks me, and I pull him back by the collar of his puffer vest, fully aware that he knows exactly how cute he is.
“Thanks anyway,” I say.
“And you guys might want to avoid the Liberty tonight.” She glances down at Baker’s hands, meets my eyes with a meaningful nod, and slips back into the historic society museum without a word. What the hell does that girl know? And why does she know it? And why don’t I have more time to find out?
“You jealous yet, Dovey?” Baker says, looping his arm through mine.
I snort. “Got any more red stuff?” I ask Isaac. “I think we’re losing him.”
“I’m not a walking bar,” Isaac snaps. “And he’s fine. He just hasn’t lost a pinkie or killed a demon, so it’s not real for him yet. He still thinks this is a video game. And for the record, I think this pirate crap is totally ridiculous and that girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Still, he doesn’t hesitate to follow me when I start moving.
The walk to the Buccaneer Tavern feels longer than it is, like we’re racing the sun as it sets. A chill wind blows, carrying the smell of rot, and I’m grateful for the puddle of warmth around the weathered gray building once we get there. Usually there’s a line outside around dinnertime, but I don’t see a soul. I drop Baker’s arm and hop up the porch and in through the front door, with the boys just behind.
A girl dressed like a wench meets us with a big, fake smile. “Welcome to the Buccaneer Tavern, y’all. Do you have a reservation?” And older guy in a tricorn clears his throat, and she frowns. “I mean, do you have a reservation, arrrr?”
“I think we’re on the right track,” I whisper to Isaac, shifting the shotgun under my jacket and still kind of amazed that no one has noticed it. Maybe it’s like the eyes and missing pinkie—people only see what the demons want them to see, and cambions with weapons are not on that list. But the girl is still staring at us like we’re freaks, so I say, “We’re looking for the captain.”
She giggles behind her hand. “Of course. Right this way.”
I follow her wide, swishing skirt past a goofy pirate mannequin and tons of souvenirs. Her costume barely fits up the narrow stairs labeled THE CAPTAIN’S ROOM, and I take the opportunity to switch the shotgun to my other arm.
“This is the last place he was seen,” she says, gesturing to an open doorway. Through it I see a weathered bar that looks like it’s the oldest thing in the city, and a couple of bare tables. The room is otherwise empty, and I turn to ask her why she brought us here when it’s obvious that the room is entirely lacking a crazy pirate guy with a talking parrot. But she’s already hurrying downstairs, probably anxious, like the carriage driver, to find paying customers instead of messing with weirdo kids.
“Another dead end.” I turn around to look at the boys, to make sure they can see in my face exactly how I feel. No sass. No bravado. “I’m really sorry, guys.”
“What for?” Baker looks over my shoulder, and he can’t be faking his confusion. “Is that not the crazy pirate you’re looking for?”
I turn to see where he’s pointing, and a man in a
long pirate coat is sitting down at the other end of the bar, which makes no sense, because I didn’t hear him come in. It’s not the captain I know, though. This guy is thinner, paler, more sedate. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his sagging shoulders. And he doesn’t have a parrot.
“You were looking for the captain?” he asks in a low, cultured voice.
“Yes, but . . . a different one,” I say. “A carriage driver. With a pet parrot.”
The man all but looks through me and shakes his head sadly. “I haven’t seen a parrot since my days on the sloop. And we had to eat that one when the monsoon came up. Always a storm.”
“Do you know where Stanford Engravers is, sir?” Isaac asks, his voice soft and respectful. His posture is strange, alert and sharp, and I wish I knew why he’s acting so formal.
“Not anymore,” the man says. “Savannah has grown so large that I can hardly remember where anything is these days. The tunnel is as far as I go.”
“The tunnel? There aren’t any tunnels in Savannah.”
“But, my lad, surely you know of the tunnels under our fair city? The sailors use them to shanghai their drunken victims to the riverside ships, but good men do business there as well. Barrels of wine and rum, coal, jewelry, and treasure. Even our furniture is delivered under privacy and darkness, safe from villains and the muck of the roads. For my wife only the best by the best will do.”
My head jerks up, and I remember Carly’s voice in my dream. “Best? What do you mean, only the best?”
“Best Furnishings, on Bull Street, my dear. Made famous by the underground workshop, the finest in the city. Surely your master shops there?”
Baker whistles, and my mouth drops open.
“My what now?” I ask.
I take a step closer, fuming, and the man looks straight through me. But not like I’m trash or chattel. Like I’m not even there.
“Let it go, Dovey,” Isaac says gently. His arm locks around my shoulders as he guides me from the room. I turn in the doorway just in time to watch the man stand up and walk through the wall.
27
MY BLOOD RUNS COLD STRAIGHT down into my feet, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up, making me shiver. Isaac whips out his smartphone and starts typing. I need to get out of the building and away from the ghost, so I hurry down the stairs, nearly dropping the gun and falling flat on my face in the process.
As I hit the last step, I hear Isaac say, “Holy crap!” But I don’t stop until I’m on the porch and breathing again. I can’t believe I just saw a ghost. A real ghost. Demons, and now ghosts. I guess when Gigi said we might have to talk to a ghost, she meant it. I can’t believe how long it took for me to notice that that captain wasn’t a flesh-and-blood person. I shudder to think what would have happened if Isaac hadn’t held me back just then. I guess there’s always been someone nearby to keep my anger in check, to help me stay out of the fights I’d love to start.
Isaac and Baker land outside moments later, and Isaac is wearing the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. It looks damn good on him too.
“Guess where Best Furnishings was located?” He pauses dramatically, and I just shake my head. I’m done with guessing, and I’m also done pretending I don’t need him.
“The Liberty Theater!” Baker says. “The workshop was in the basement. So let’s go.”
I snort as we start walking. “Seriously, Isaac. Is demon crap always this snarled up?”
“Everything’s related. It makes sense. It must be Kitty’s home base, since she was here before Josephine. Who knows how long she’s been there?”
Baker turns around and walks backward, facing us. “I didn’t even know it had a basement. I thought there weren’t any basements in Savannah. This place is one big, festering pit of secrets.”
I shake my head. Best. Even dead, Carly is clever as hell.
As we near the Liberty Theater, we see a crowd. People are lined up out front in the fading light, waiting to get inside the unchained glass doors even though it’s way too early. I scan the faces for Carly, for any distal servants, but I don’t see them. They must stay hidden until the crowd is more drugged, like the kids were at Riverfest. I shiver when I realize that if I end up dead tonight, I’ll be one of them.
As we pass the old antiques store, I can’t help noticing that most of the stuff has been cleared out and replaced with a TV on a cart facing row after row of white folding chairs. They remind me of the ones the funeral parlor had to rent in those too-busy weeks after Josephine. Looks like Kitty is expecting a bigger crowd than the Liberty can handle. It’s strange, seeing the store’s dusty windows without that old woman staring suspiciously, and for the first time I have to wonder if she was really a woman at all, or some other demonic creature, always watching us come and go.
I dart into the alley, and the boys follow me without question. The sun is almost down, which means it’s nearly curtain call, which means that we don’t have much time to find the dybbuk cabinet that I’m desperately hoping is hidden somewhere under what used to be my favorite theater. We stop outside the door. We’re all panting, and my hand is sweaty on the shotgun.
“What’s the plan, Dovey?” Baker asks.
“Get to Old Murph’s office and demand answers at gunpoint,” I say. If I can take down Mr. Hathaway, Old Murph should be no problem. I hope. “Then find the basement.”
Baker’s face is set, determined. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Isaac meets my gaze and nods but says nothing, his eyes black and fathomless, his jaw tight. He opens the door, and with one last glance up and down the alley, I step inside. I’m swamped in the familiar stench of the green hallway, recognizing the demon stink for what it is now. The hall is oddly empty, without a demon or a distal servant in sight, much less a bunch of frantic kids in togas. Mrs. Rosewater erupts from the girls’ dressing room, sees me, and rushes over with steam coming out of her ears.
“I give you a lead role, and this is how you repay me? By being late on opening night? In costume. Now! Everyone’s in place and the mayor is here, for heaven’s sake.” She sees Baker trying to hide behind Isaac and sticks her finger in his face. “You, too, Joshua.”
The way she’s staring at us makes me think that saying no might cause exactly the sort of scene we don’t want, so I shrug and push through the door into the dressing room. At least we’ll blend in if we’re in costume.
“Hurry,” Isaac says nervously behind me, and I hear Rosewater start to yell at him with her usual hatred of non-cast members backstage where they don’t belong. Hopefully his soothing cambion powers will work to calm her down.
The dressing room is empty and messy, heartbreakingly familiar. I lean the shotgun against the wall and drape my peacoat over it in case anyone comes in. After slipping into my costume, I swipe some glitter over my eyes, a pathetic attempt at Nikki’s usual artistry. My hair is a tragedy, but I’m not actually going onstage, so I don’t even know why I’m bothering. Habit, I guess. As I slip my boots back on, the door opens, and I spin with a growl. It’s Mrs. Rosewater’s assistant, some freshman whose name I never bothered to learn.
“You have to hurry,” she says dully. “It’s time.”
This kid is usually having a jittery freak-out, so I look closely at her eyes. The pupils are wide, and she’s staring off into space, drugged. I’m afraid to ignore her and have her raise the alarm, but I’m also not willing to hurt her. At least she still has both of her pinkies.
I link my arm through hers. “I’m having trouble with my costume. Can you help me?”
I lead her a few feet over to the bathroom and shove her inside. “Hey!” she says, but it’s a feeble protest. I slide a chair under the dented doorknob, and she scratches at the door as I bolt out of the room.
Baker is standing right outside, still in his normal clothes.
“You actually got in costume?” He looks me up and down appreciatively.
I’m about to give him an earful about where his e
yes should go, when Isaac whispers, “Get with the program, Scrappy-Doo. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have much time. Old Murph’s office is down this hall.”
He opens a door labeled NO TRESPASSING. I’ve watched Old Murph disappear through it a hundred times, and the stench smacks me in the face.
“Dovey? It’s past curtain time!”
I spin around and see Mrs. Rosewater rushing toward me, her face flushed hot pink. Behind her in the hallway stands a distal servant, his eyes black and dumb. It’s Logan in his costume. I can’t stop staring as someone yanks me backward by my toga, and I fall on my butt in the dark as Isaac slams the door in Mrs. Rosewater’s face.
Baker helps me up and takes my hand as we move down the hallway. Behind us Mrs. Rosewater yells and beats on the solid door before going suddenly silent. I feel like a cow in a chute being herded toward something unavoidably horrible. It’s darker and feels smaller than the other hallway, and even though it’s colder, the demon stink clings to the brick walls. We pass two other doorframes on the way, both clumsily bricked in. The air is dead and still, and warm light shines from a few bare bulbs and under the final door. A sign reads MANAGEMENT: STAY OUT. And I wish I could.
Isaac pulls the gun out of his jeans, and Baker flicks open his knife. That’s when I realize that my hands are empty. My shotgun is still under my peacoat back in the dressing room. “Shit! My gun!”
I turn to go back out into the now welcome green hallway, and Isaac whispers, “No. Too late. We can’t go back.”
I swallow hard and nod, my hands curling into fists. Then I remember something. Even if he’s on my side, his aim sucks.
“Give me my daddy’s gun,” I say softly, and Isaac’s eyes go a shade blacker as he slips it into my hand and steps aside.
Baker puts his hand on the knob and looks at me. I get into shooting stance, arms taut and trembling just the tiniest bit, and I nod.
He opens the door.
28
OLD MURPH LOOKS UP FROM his desk and snarls. I want to shoot him like I did Mr. Hathaway, but I can’t. He’s got one hand on Jasmine, who’s sitting on the desk, facing him with her back to us. I can’t tell if she’s drugged or not, but her shoulders are shaking with what looks like sobbing, and her toga is torn at the shoulder, and chunks of her beautifully curled hair have been ripped out. As much as I want to slap her most of the time, I definitely don’t want to risk shooting her.