Before the Devil Breaks You

  Evie bolted from the room.

  “We didn’t know. I swear we didn’t know,” Will said again as the others filed out.

  As if that made any difference.

  Sam ran after Evie, calling her name. She sank to her knees on the museum’s damp yard. Sam scooped her up and held her to him. “Hey, hey, hey, Sheba. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Listen, you and me and the others. We’ll see this thing through. All right? C’mon, Baby Vamp. Shake your head if you hear me.”

  Evie turned her tearstained face to him. Her cheeks were splotchy, her eyes swollen. “I’m so angry, Sam. So, so angry. I want to punch at the world and keep punching, but what good would it do?” She hiccup-cried with rage.

  Sam cupped her face gently. “You. Me. All of us. No matter what.”

  Finally, Evie allowed a small nod, whether of agreement or defeat, Sam couldn’t be sure. But it was a start. He helped her to her feet. The others were in the yard now.

  “What do we do now?” Henry asked.

  “So far, our decisions have been made for us. It’s time we started taking back the power,” Memphis said.

  “We have to get Conor back,” Evie said.

  “What about the rest of it?” Ling asked. “How do we find out about the Eye?”

  “You think the man in the hat was telling us the truth about asking the ghosts for clues?” Henry said.

  Evie couldn’t rid her head of the image of the dead descending with open mouths on Luther Clayton. “It’s all we’ve got to work with. We hunt those things down. We make them tell us what ‘Follow the Eye’ means. And we ask about the King of Crows, too—what he wants and how to defeat him. We’ll use that knowledge to get Conor back, to find out about my brother, and to close the breach and fix what Will and Sister Walker and Marlowe started once and for all.”

  “What do we do with the ghosts once they tell us what we need to know?” Ling prompted.

  “We obliterate ’em. Every single one,” Sam said.

  “I don’t know,” Ling said. Hadn’t she spoken with ghosts in her dreams? Hadn’t they given her and others advice? Were there “good” ghosts and “bad” ghosts, the new breed Sister Walker and Will had mentioned? What if all the ghosts were connected somehow—and connected to the Diviners as well? “Seems shortsighted. After all, we don’t really understand what sort of energy they are or where that energy goes when we—”

  “I just want them gone,” Evie said firmly.

  “And it seems like it makes us stronger. We gotta build up our power if we’re gonna go up against what we saw last night,” Sam said, and Ling couldn’t argue with that.

  “What about those Shadow Men?” Henry said. “I’ve got the feeling they don’t want us around at all.”

  “Those bastards have my mother somewhere. I look forward to kicking in their teeth,” Sam said, and spat.

  “Memphis, what’ll those Shadow Men do to us?” Isaiah said.

  “Anybody wants to come after you, Ice Man, they gotta go through me first,” Memphis assured him, but Isaiah didn’t look comforted.

  “We need to make ourselves indispensable. It’s harder to disappear people who are seen,” Evie said, wiping away her tears. Theta handed her a handkerchief and Evie blew her nose. “I say we announce ourselves as the only choice to eliminate the city’s ghost troubles. I’ll call Woody, get him on the trolley, and ask people to call in to the News with any sightings. We’ll have ourselves splashed across the papers every day if we have to.”

  “Not me,” Memphis said. “Papa Charles and Owney Madden can’t see what I’m doing, or I’m a dead man myself.”

  “Gee, I don’t know. We say we’re chasing ghosts, we’ll be the laughingstock of New York,” Theta warned.

  “You seen the headlines? People are scared of the ghosts. We take care of ’em, we’ll be folk heroes,” Sam said.

  “I’m not worried about some ghosts scaring people,” Ling said. “I’m worried about what people do when they get scared.”

  Will and Sister Walker watched from the museum’s lighted window, gray silhouettes.

  “I can’t stay with the professor anymore,” Sam said, nodding over his shoulder.

  “You can bunk with Henry and me,” Theta said, and Henry nodded.

  “Second question: Where do we meet now that the museum’s not an option?” Henry asked.

  “The Hotsy Totsy?” Memphis suggested.

  Sam winced. “That cover charge is steep. Not that I can’t steal it, but that leaves the rest of you.”

  “It’s too hard for me to get there from Chinatown,” Ling said.

  “We could meet at the Winthrop,” Evie suggested.

  “White folks can meet at the Winthrop,” Memphis said tightly with a glance to Ling, who nodded.

  “Swell. We’re the only Diviner ghost service in town without a meeting place,” Sam said, tugging on the brim of his fisherman’s cap.

  “We can use the rehearsal room in the building on Twenty-eighth Street where David and I compose. It’s noisy, but it’s cheap,” Henry said.

  “This afternoon, we meet up in Tin Pan Alley, at Henry’s spot,” Evie said.

  “Memphis, I’m beat,” Isaiah said, stifling a yawn.

  “Just a minute, Ice Man.”

  Memphis trotted after Theta. “Theta,” he called, but she didn’t stop. Memphis held her arm gently. “Theta. Talk to me. Please?”

  He slipped his fingers through hers. “Careful,” she said, but Memphis held on.

  “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re not,” he insisted.

  “Now you know what’s inside me.”

  “Yeah. The girl I love.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So what? I don’t care about that.”

  “But you will. One day you’ll look at me and you won’t feel safe.”

  “No. I won’t. I love you. That won’t change.”

  Theta’s resolve was falling apart. If she told Memphis the truth about Roy, he’d want to stand up to Roy. And then Roy would hurt Memphis. Maybe more than hurt him. She had to end it decisively. Burn it all down. Make him hate her. That was the only way to keep him from coming back. That was the only way to keep him safe.

  Theta drew on every bit of her acting skills. “It ain’t that. It’s you and me. We live in different worlds.”

  “Hasn’t stopped us yet.”

  Theta forced a coldness into her voice. “Things have changed. I’ve got a contract with Vitagraph. I’m going to be a star. I can’t risk that on you. Sorry, Poet. We had a good run.”

  The hurt showed on Memphis’s face like a bruise, and Theta wanted to snatch back every word. She was breaking inside. “Theta? What are you saying?”

  “I think I’ve been clear. You and I are over. It’s been over for some time. I’m sure you could feel it. I… I just didn’t know how to tell you. Honestly, I’m glad it’s out now. It’s better this way.”

  Memphis turned his face up toward the sky, nodding slowly. The back of his throat ached with bitterness. He’d opened himself wide. He’d taken her as she was and asked no more. But none of that was enough. None of it was bigger than skin. Whoever said love conquers all was a fool.

  “You’ll love again,” Theta said, as if it were nothing.

  “Not like this.”

  “Memphis! I’m tired!” Isaiah called. He was nearly falling down with exhaustion. Once again, Memphis was caught between worlds—the living and the dead, his brother and his girl, duty and desire. Love. And hate. Above him, the stars were fading behind New York City’s perpetual hazy glow.

  Maybe he’d been wrong about Theta. Maybe she was a killer after all.

  “Memphis?” she said, soft and aching, and for just a minute Memphis wanted to believe that she still loved him. That this was a bad dream. But he was starting to wake up about the world, about real nightmares.

  He was still holding her hand, he realized. He dropped it now. “You know what? When I said you could never hurt me, I
was wrong.”

  When Roy would hit her, Theta’s mind sometimes allowed her to float away from the pain. But there was no getting away from the pain Theta felt as she watched Memphis walk away and take the protesting, weary Isaiah’s hand on their way to the train.

  “You copacetic?” Henry was beside her, his arm around her shoulders.

  “No.”

  “Yeah. Me, either.”

  The Diviners split apart like an atom. The last dregs of the night swallowed the energy and held its unstable breath. History placed its bets.

  In the brown sedan parked at the corner, the men in the dark suits kept watch.

  Sam walked Evie back to the Winthrop. “I could stay if you want me to,” he said.

  “I should go to bed,” Evie mumbled.

  “Oh, sure. Best thing, really. What happened back at the asylum, when you… and me… I mean I know you were possessed. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have… you know. And with such… enthusiasm.”

  Evie blushed. “Right. I-I wasn’t in control.”

  “Yeah. Just… ghosts.”

  “Ghosts,” Evie confirmed.

  “Thought so.” Sam managed a weak smile. “Well, there’s still a little time left in this miserable night, and I know a speakeasy on Fifty-second where the dames are happy to see you at this hour.”

  “Yes, wouldn’t want to disappoint your harem,” Evie grumbled.

  “You know…” Sam started. He threw up his hands in defeat. “Never mind. Strictly business. Diviners, Incorporated.”

  “Good night, Sam!” Evie growled.

  “Yeah, you, too!”

  “Dames. Who needs ’em?” Sam groused on his way up the street, one hand tracing the outline of his lips where her kiss had been.

  It was Mabel Evie called when she got back. Mabel who came to her side, even though it was very early in the morning. As they lay on Evie’s bed, she listened to an emotionally drained Evie spin out the whole fantastical, terrifying story.

  “Gee, that’s awful,” Mabel said. It felt like a stupid thing to say, but it was all she had. She knew her friends in the Secret Six wouldn’t understand any of this. Mabel wasn’t even sure that she did. She was no Diviner. She didn’t see into mysterious realms or talk to ghosts. Sometimes that made her feel removed from the threat because she only heard about it through the others. All she knew was that Evie had called her because, somehow, a thread still connected them. Because Mabel was Evie’s best friend, and being a good and reliable friend was pretty heroic when it came down to it.

  “I’ll help you,” Mabel said, squeezing Evie’s hand.

  “With what?”

  “With whatever it is that needs helping. We can’t let evil win, no matter what, no matter where. If it’s coming for one of us, then it’s coming for all of us.”

  Evie threw her arms around Mabel’s waist and kissed her cheek.

  “Mabel Rose, you are my North Star,” Evie said quietly. “I pos-i-tute-ly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d probably be in jail,” Mabel answered, but Evie was already sound asleep.

  BLIND JUSTICE

  Bill Johnson sat up on his cot. The house was quiet and still, no smell of bacon or coffee wafting out of Octavia’s kitchen. So, still night, then. He’d been dreaming of a time when his name was Guillaume and he was young and strong and working the cotton fields down south. He’d dreamed of Samson. How he’d loved that old plow horse. At night sometimes, Bill would sneak into the barn and rub Samson’s soft nose. Samson would nuzzle Bill’s calloused hands. “Ain’t got no sugar for you today, old boy,” Bill would chuckle. And then he’d put his forehead to Samson’s and twine his fingers in the horse’s dusty mane. Joined like this, Bill could hear the proud beast’s strong heartbeat roaring through his own body, syncing their rhythms, and the two of them would stand just for a minute in perfect harmony. As if they could sense Bill’s gentleness, the other animals would draw near. One by one, they’d settle. Sometimes, Bill would climb into the pen, lie down on the soft hay, and fall asleep beside Samson.

  That spring, there was a terrible flood. The waters rushed through the camp like an angry fist. The land was a grasping mud as far as anyone could see. The foreman, Mr. Burneside, shouted at everyone to save the crop. That was pure profit washing away out there. Then he saddled up Samson so he could ride out and enforce his order.

  Bill knew the horse was no match for all that mud. “Mr. Burneside, sir, I don’t believe poor Samson can manage all ’at mud.”

  “I’ll worry about the horse. You worry about my crops, boy, or you’ll be off my land.”

  The rains kept coming. Out in the field, Samson stepped into a hole that couldn’t be seen under so much angry water. With a terrible shriek, he fell, throwing Mr. Burneside into the raging flood. Bill ran to Samson, but he could see the horse’s leg had snapped clean in two, and when he put his hands on Samson, he could feel the horse’s heart galloping wildly with fear and pain. They’d put a bullet in him for sure. But how long before they could do that? How long would the poor animal have to suffer like this? Would the gunshot hurt? Would Samson be frightened?

  Bill would not leave his friend to suffer. “Shhh, shhh, boy. It’s just your old friend Bill come to see you. Don’t worry none. Shhh,” he soothed. He put his hands on the horse’s mangled leg and sang softly. The connection took. The horse stiffened for a count of two, then stilled as Bill ushered him gently into peaceful death.

  When Bill came out of his trance, tears ran down his face, and he was glad for the cover of rain. Mr. Burneside was screaming at him from a prickle berry bush where he’d washed up.

  “You damn fool! Get over here and he’p me up!”

  Bill’s anger was alive and ready to strike. He strode through the floodwater and stood over the foreman, casting a powerful shadow across the ravaged land. “Told you not to take Samson out.”

  “I’ll do what I like with my horse.”

  “Ain’t your horse no more. He’s free.”

  Tiny motes of electricity danced along the tips of Bill’s trembling fingers. The inside of his head roared like a storm.

  “I said he’p me up!” Mr. Burneside commanded.

  Bill didn’t move.

  “Goddamn it, you gone deaf, boy? I said he’p me up!”

  “Yes, sir.” Bill grabbed hold of Mr. Burneside’s hand, tightening his grip, the electricity flowing between them, and Bill couldn’t deny the pleasure he took in seeing the foreman’s eyes widen with fear and knowing.

  Mr. Burneside’s son called out: “Hey! Daddy? Daddy, where you at? Guillaume? Whatchoo doing? Hey! Hey!”

  Bill had run deep into the trees. Now that his anger had receded like the waters, he was frightened. The men would come for him soon, he knew. Come with their ropes and their brands and their guns and heaven knew what other cruelties. It was another sharecropper, Jed Robbins, who came for him first. “Guillaume, Mrs. Burneside is calling for you. You got to come back.”

  “And let ’em hang me from that old oak? No, sir.”

  “Ain’t like that. Young Mr. Burneside says he saw you pulling his daddy outta the water. Said you saved his daddy’s life. Say if it wadn’t for you, his daddy mighta died. Looks like he caught a stroke out there when he fell offa that horse.”

  Back at the house, Mr. Burneside lay on the cot. His face was slack. His eyes, though, found Bill’s. They were full of fear and accusation.

  Jed Robbins looked at him funny, too, and Bill wondered if his sin was out for all to see.

  “What you looking at?” Bill said.

  Jed pointed to Bill’s head. “You got a stripe a gray right down the middle of your head. Wadn’t there this morning.”

  Word got around. There was something of a shine to Guillaume “Bill” LeRoi Johnson, something from beyond. Word got all the way to the Department of Paranormal. Some folks came to ask him questions about his gifts, and Bill heard the word Diviner for the first time. The Shadow Men came after, and B
ill went with them. He let Margaret Walker poke and prod him. Test his powers. Then those Shadow Men asked him to do things he didn’t want to do.

  “We need you to help your country now, Mr. Johnson,” they said.

  He’d done it. It was a time of war. What choice did he have? Most of the men he’d killed were bad men, weren’t they? Men the world was better off without. That was what Bill told himself. But some of those men looked like Bill. Like maybe their only crime was wanting change. It all took a turn with prisoner number twelve.

  “What’d he do?” Bill had asked. He was afraid. Deep in his gut, he could tell this didn’t feel right. None of it felt right anymore. His body hurt all the time.

  “You don’t need to know that, Mr. Johnson,” the Shadow Man assured him.

  Bill took a step toward the man and faltered. “Yes, sir. Believe I do need to know.”

  “He’s one of those agitators. We caught him and his coconspirators plotting to blow up a mine in a country pertinent to our interests.”

  The man had been beaten. He didn’t seem any more dangerous than Samson. Bill couldn’t bring himself to move against the man. “No, sir.”

  The man in the suit sighed heavily. “Have you ever heard of blind justice, Mr. Johnson?”

  Bill nodded. The courthouse back home had a statue of the blindfolded lady. He’d seen it once on a trip to town.

  “We are the blind eye of justice. Justice that happens out of sight. We are the sword, swift and sure.”

  The beaten man at Bill’s feet didn’t speak English. He looked to Bill with a mix of weariness, fear, and contempt. The man spat at Bill’s feet.

  “You see?” the man in the suit said, as if that were all the proof needed.

  Bill took hold of the beaten man’s neck, and then a strange thing happened. It was as if Bill had been transported to a dream. He stood in a patch of land surrounded by a dark wood shrouded in mist. The trees didn’t look like any he knew. No Spanish moss or mesquite. These were giants with limbs thick as a working man’s arms that spread up and out into a tangled latticework of tinier branches clasped together like a prayerful man’s fingers. No leaves grew here that Bill could see. A snake slithered along a branch and plopped to the ground. Deep in the grainy mist, faces appeared—chalk-pale with deeply shadowed, unseeing eyes. Bill wanted to run, but where?