In the back bedroom they shared, Memphis watched his sleeping brother’s narrow chest rise and fall. Memphis was worried now: What if the testing was wearing his little brother out and making him worse instead of better? Isaiah had kicked his quilt to the bottom of the bed. Memphis tucked it neatly around Isaiah again. Then, unable to keep his eyes open another minute, he crawled into his own bed.
He fell into rough dreams. Dark storm clouds stampeded across the electric sky. The wind roared, rent leaves from the trees. Memphis needed to take shelter immediately, but Isaiah was nowhere to be found. The dread overflowed the dream, and Memphis whimpered in his sleep. A stroke of strange blue light cracked the roiling sky, and Memphis saw Isaiah standing at the top of a hill, lost.
“Isaiah!” Memphis shouted into the howling wind.
Lightning clawed at the clouds’ rounded gray bellies with animal ferocity. The sky slashed open. The hungry dead spilled out from the rip, their ragged edges flickering with a radium glow—an army of the dead on the march.
And there was Isaiah on the hill, shivering like a lamb, unaware.
“Isaiah! Isaiah!” Memphis shouted, wild with fear. His feet would not move. It was as if he’d been nailed to the spot.
“Brother…”
The familiar voice whispered up Memphis’s neck and made his skin crawl. He whipped his head to the right.
“Gabe,” Memphis said, for his murdered best friend was beside him, glowing just like the things that had emerged from the ruptured sky. Gabe’s eyes were gone. Flies collected in the empty sockets. The embalmer’s thread still stretched across the brutal wound of Gabe’s mouth where John Hobbes’s knife had done its demonic work. Beetles pushed their shiny heads against the frayed crisscrossed hatching at his lips and crawled out from the darkness inside, down Gabe’s gray neck.
Gabe’s raspy whisper seeped between the Xs of thread. “We are coming for you, brother. For you—and your friends. He is here. His work has begun. We will never let you stop us.”
The last of the funereal thread popped free. The ragged hole in Gabriel’s face opened. Inside were two rows of serrated teeth. Gabe screamed into the storm.
The hungry dead answered in kind.
DEAD DAISIES
The next morning, Jericho woke before dawn. He packed a small suitcase—a few clothes, more than a few books, and his leather pouch—and left a note for Will on the kitchen table beside the war figurines Jericho had painted the past several years. The note read:
DEAR WILL,
THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. I AM SORRY THAT I HAVE TO LEAVE. SOMEDAY I WILL EXPLAIN. NO MATTER WHAT YOU MAY HEAR, PLEASE KNOW THAT I WILL ALWAYS HOLD YOU IN THE HIGHEST ESTEEM.
REGARDS,
JERICHO JONES
He stood in the old Bennington flat with its grandmotherly furniture, the slightly leaky kitchen faucet, and the hat rack by the front door where Will hung his trusty umbrella, and tried to memorize every smudge on the walls, every play of light across the floor. This was the place he had lived ever since Will brought him home from the hospital and the failed Daedalus program under Jake’s orders. Jericho had been abandoned. Now he was the one abandoning Will.
He left before he could change his mind.
Theta also woke before dawn. It had been a bad dream that had stolen her sleep. She scarcely remembered it now, something about fire. She padded past Henry’s empty room. He hadn’t come home yet, and she remembered that he and David were staying up late to work on new music. An envelope addressed to Theta had been shoved under her door. She rarely got mail at home. When you were an orphan, there were no newsy letters or complaints from relatives. She tore open the envelope. Tucked inside was a photograph of Theta and Mrs. Bowers in front of the Novelty Vaudeville Theater in Topeka. On the back, someone had written, The truth has found you out, Betty. Meet me Thursday. Midnight. Come alone.
There was a Bowery address printed at the bottom.
The edges of the photograph smoked between her fingers, and Theta dropped it quickly. She felt dizzy with panic. Whoever was sending these threatening notes knew where she lived! And now they wanted to meet with her. Alone. Theta wished Henry were home. She needed to talk to somebody, but who? Evie would listen, but when Evie got blotto, she had a habit of blurting out secrets. No, not Evie. If she told Memphis, he’d surely want to go with her—Henry, too. She couldn’t risk it. Besides, it was four thirty in the morning. She’d have to wait. Oh, she’d lose her mind before then. She had to get out, go for a walk. But now even that seemed nerve-racking. It wasn’t just the gossip reporters paying doormen and neighbors to keep tabs on Theta and reveal her every, possibly scandalous, move. Clearly, somebody far more sinister was watching her, too. She wasn’t even safe in her own home.
But they were all looking for Theta Knight, Follies star. What if she didn’t look anything like that? After all, what good was being an actress if you couldn’t play a character? Quickly, Theta went to Henry’s closet, riffling through his clothes till she found what she was after. She slipped into a pair of his trousers and one of his pullover sweaters. Last, she snugged a hat down low on her head so she’d look less like prey. Less like a girl.
“Thanks for the loaner, Hen,” she said to the empty room.
Out on the rain-slicked streets, Theta shoved her hands in her pockets, hunched her shoulders forward, and adjusted her gait. She slipped right past the hungry gossip jackals yawning in their parked cars with their cameras resting beside thermoses of coffee. They barely even glanced her way, and for a minute, she let herself enjoy the ease of that. It was like having a pocket full of money to spend any way she liked. Right now she could do things she never could as Theta, like walk confidently down a nighttime street, alone and unbothered. What freedom in that. Theta crossed the bumpy street and headed into the sheltering park to think.
There was a sharpness to this time of day, just before the city woke up and lurched into its frantic pace. Like the world was holding its breath. It helped her make a plan: She’d go meet her blackmailer and, hopefully, talk her way out of this mess. She’d pretend she didn’t know what they were talking about. Betty Sue Who? You must have me mistaken for someone else; I’m Theta Knight. I only came because I was curious! Honestly, I figured it was a prank played by one of my pals. Yes. She’d talk—and act—her way out of it. She could do that. Theta Knight could do that.
Theta breathed in the early-morning air. The earthen footpath welcomed her. A couple of thin squirrels skittered across the grass, no doubt in search of whatever acorns they’d buried months before. She imagined that they welcomed her, too. She came to the old wooden bridge that spanned the lake. The bridge welcomed her. This was her park, her town. The lake, littered with new petals, welcomed her. The air welcomed her. The sky welcomed her.
The ghost welcomed her.