Jericho opened a desk drawer and shoved in the stacks of letters from the tax office informing Will that the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult needed to pay its back taxes or the entire place would be shut down for good in a little over two months, and a brand-new apartment building put up in its place. Jericho looked around with affection at the odd collections of occult ephemera. There would be so much to pack up when the taxman came for the place. Ever since the day Will Fitzgerald had marched into the hospital and adopted Jericho as his ward, making him an assistant curator, the museum had been Jericho’s only true home.
He hadn’t always believed in ghosts, of course. Not until the Pentacle Murders. Not until the night he and Evie had been trapped in John Hobbes’s haunted house and barely survived. Now he knew the truth: Everything in this museum was real. Evil was not an abstract idea; it was real, too. And no matter what Will and Sister Walker thought, Jericho knew that they were all just ordinary people when it came down to it, the Diviners included. How could ordinary people possibly stop such a threat? He hoped Will and Sister Walker knew what they were doing.
From his coat pocket, Jericho retrieved a small leather pouch. MARLOWE INDUSTRIES was stamped across the front. Inside was a vial of blue serum. That serum, developed by the great Jake Marlowe himself, kept the tubes and wires connected to Jericho’s damaged heart and lungs functioning. It kept him alive. For that, Jericho should’ve been grateful to Marlowe.
But now Marlowe had issued an ultimatum: Jericho should leave the museum—his home—and go to stay with Marlowe so that the great man could parade Jericho at his Future of America Exhibition. After all, Jericho was Marlowe’s greatest invention, and no one knew. No doubt that galled Marlowe. He liked all of his victories out in front. So far, Jericho had resisted. But what choice did he have? And why now, just when it seemed that Jericho might finally have a chance with Evie?
Jericho held one of the vials up to the light. Marlowe’s secret compound. Would Marlowe really cut Jericho off from his supply of lifesaving serum?
It was possible that Marlowe was bluffing and Jericho didn’t need his “vitamin tonic” at all. Still. That was a big chance to take. He’d seen what had happened to all the others in the Daedalus program. Jericho was the only one who’d survived. But why?
That, apparently, was what Marlowe wanted to know so desperately.
Jericho curled his fingers into a fist. Piece of cake. He was fine.
But without Marlowe, for how much longer?
Henry left the taxi idling by the curb outside the Tea House on Doyers Street. Steam clouded the front windows of the Chan family’s popular restaurant. Delicious smells wafted into the street, making Henry’s stomach gurgle.
“You could come in. My mother would plotz to feed you,” Ling said.
Henry laughed. “Plotz—did Sam teach you that word?”
“No. Mr. Gerstein up the block. Sam isn’t the only person who knows Yiddish.”
“Don’t tell Sam that,” Henry joked. “Another time. I’m late for the show.”
“You’re always late.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.” Henry handed over his watch. “Don’t lose it.”
Ling shot him an annoyed look. “I can go by myself tonight.”
“No, ma’am. We’re a team. More fun that way,” Henry said, and Ling fought her smile.
“Around one thirty, then?” Henry said, sliding back into the taxi.
“One thirty,” Ling agreed.
Twenty minutes later, Henry raced into the Shubert Theatre on Forty-fourth Street, nearly toppling an easel boasting a hand-lettered sign for THE GREENWICH FOLLIES REVUE! ALL NEW! In a corner by the coat check, Henry’s writing partner, David Cohn, paced, checking his watch.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Henry announced.
“Cutting it a bit close,” David said, helping Henry out of his coat. The audience was already piling into their seats. The trills of performers vocalizing scales wafted out from backstage.
“Sorry. Couldn’t be helped.” Henry smiled. “Spiffy suit, old boy.”
“Got it for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. Where were you?”
“A meeting at the Creepy Crawly.”
“Anything I should know?” David asked.
“The world is ending and evil is loose in the world?”
“Sounds like Friday night.”
Henry grinned, trying to put aside his misgivings. He’d told David about his and Ling’s dream walking, but the scary rest of it he’d kept to himself. He kept a lot to himself. It was called survival.
“You sure clean up nice,” Henry drawled, giving David an appreciative once-over. He was tall and slender, with a strong profile like a New Yorker cartoon, and soulful brown eyes that sometimes took Henry’s breath away. David nodded to the coatroom and Henry followed. There, in the deep recesses of mink, raccoon, and camel hair, David pulled Henry to him and kissed him, slipping his tongue between Henry’s lips.
“Missed you,” David whispered, smiling. He reached up to take off Henry’s boater hat.
Henry held fast to it with both hands. “You know I never play a show without this. It’s my lucky charm.”
David’s smile vanished. “When are you gonna let Louis go and give us a chance?”
“Aww, now, cher—”
“You only call me cher when you want to sweet-talk your way out of something—”
“Honey,” Henry said, batting his peepers. “Sugar? Sweet Man o’ Mine?”
David sighed and hung up Henry’s coat.
Henry tried to ignore the feeling in his gut that said he was being disloyal to the memory of his first love, Louis. It had only been a few weeks since Henry had spent his nights with Louis inside the dreamscape only to discover the tragic truth: Louis was dead and had been for some time. Maybe it wasn’t fair for Henry to let David love him when his heart wasn’t fully healed.
“We’ve got a great new song to play tonight, darlin’. Everybody loves it,” Henry said, a peace offering. “Between my music and your lyrics, we’ll be the next Rodgers and Hart.”
David shook his head and pecked Henry on the cheek. “It’s my heart I’m worried about. Come on. Curtain up.”
Inside the theater, Henry took his seat at the piano in the orchestra pit. The house lights dimmed. There was a storm coming. Henry and his friends had to meet it head-on. And he was still a little in love with a ghost named Louis.
David smiled at Henry from the wings, where the actors milled about, ready for their cues. The conductor raised his baton. The show had to go on.