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.