“I know that better than most,” Memphis snapped.
“You do, huh? It’s you who needs to find your way home, Memphis. Walk with your ancestors. See. Feel. Know. Let me give you some protection at least.”
“Your protection didn’t work very well for my mother,” Memphis said, angry.
“How do you know it didn’t? There’s all kinds of magic in the world.”
“Why do you want to help me?”
Seraphina shrugged. “I like your smile.”
She laughed then—a big, powerful guffaw that brought out Memphis’s smile against his will.
“You see there? Powerful. There is something of the Oungan in you. I sense it. You shouldn’t turn your back on it. Encourage it. Let it grow. Let it be in the world. And stop being afraid of spirits. Now. Wait here for me.”
Memphis did as he was told. A while later, Seraphina arrived with a small leather bag on a cord. “Here. Keep this with you. A connection to all that has come before, to the lwas, to your ancestors, to your birthright in this world. It will protect you.”
“How?” Memphis asked, tucking it into a pocket of his coat.
“That, I can’t see. But you’ll know when the time comes.”
Madame Seraphina saw Memphis to the door. “Why you run around with that old blind man?” she asked rather suddenly, catching Memphis off guard.
“Mr. Johnson? He’s my auntie’s boarder. He’s nice enough.”
Seraphina said nothing. Memphis felt the need to defend Bill against judgments unsaid. “He’s been awfully good to Isaiah. In fact, he’s saved Isaiah’s life a few times. Every time Isaiah has one of his seizures, it’s Mr. Johnson who’s been there.”
Even as Memphis said it aloud, something stirred in his gut. Something with teeth.
Seraphina’s brow furrowed. “There’s something left-handed about that man.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” Memphis said. He was feeling defensive now. And worried about what he’d done, telling Papa’s secrets to his competition. That was a stupid mistake, and it chilled him.
“Maybe not. Your brother keeps having fits? He should come to me. I will help him.”
And suddenly, it all made sense to Memphis. It was a saleswoman’s pitch to get them to come back. He felt that he’d been had. He had half a mind to toss the gris gris bag back to Seraphina and tell her to keep her magic. “I look after my brother just fine.”
“As you say. But I would be careful around Mr. Guillaume Johnson.”
Memphis startled at the name. “What did you call him?”
“Guillaume,” Seraphina said innocently. “Guillaume, William, Bill. It’s all the same name.” Seraphina’s eyebrows furrowed. “Now you really do look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Memphis reeled away from Seraphina’s place and down the street, lost in his thoughts. Guillaume. No. It couldn’t possibly be the same person! That was ridiculous. Guillaume Johnson, if he were still alive, would be, what? Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, maybe? And he’d sounded like a big, powerful man. Blind Bill Johnson was a broken-down bluesman, stooped, with a lined face and gray hair. He was not a powerful Diviner who could steal the life from things.
“Impossible,” Memphis muttered to himself. “Impossible.”
Behind him, he heard somebody’s sharp whistle. It was answered with another whistle, and another. One by one, Dutch Schultz’s men showed themselves from their hiding places. They looked ready for a fight. Shit, Memphis thought. He looked over his shoulder. Two more of Dutch’s men were on the sidewalk. One of them carried a nasty-looking lead pipe.
Memphis walked faster. The whistling bounced back and forth between the men, a signal, a game. Memphis broke into a run, but by the time he reached the next street, Dutch’s men had him cornered. Memphis counted five of them in all, and who knew how many more might be hiding in the shadows?
“Well, if it ain’t one of Papa Charles’s boys,” the man with the lead pipe said. He had a football player’s build and a quick meanness about him that Memphis had seen before. The kind that could turn on a dime. Maybe that was how the fella had gotten the burn scar down one side of his face. Memphis knew this one was as dangerous as any hungry ghost.
“We hear Papa Charles has been dealing with Owney Madden, plotting against Dutch. Dutch don’t like that. And you’re gonna tell us exactly what your boss is up to.” The man smacked the pipe against his open palm to get the message across.
“Roy, Boss don’t wanna start a war,” one of the others said nervously.
“Boss ain’t here!” the one named Roy barked. Even his smile was mean. He held up the pipe. “He said to get answers. And that’s what I aim to do.”
Memphis put out his hands in a peacemaking gesture. “Listen, fellas, I don’t want any trouble.…”
“That’s a shame. Looks like you found it.”
Roy reared back for a hit when out of nowhere, the crow dove down and pecked at his face, drawing blood. With a cry, he covered his eyes. The lead pipe clattered to the ground, and Memphis picked it up, swinging it in a circle. Blood ran over the gangster’s fingers as the crow kept pecking. The crow leaped to the second man’s head, digging into his skin with its pointed claws and beak until he fell to his knees, screaming.
The third man drew his gun, but Memphis knocked it away with the pipe. The crow flitted in front of the fourth man, threatening.
“Shoo! Shoo, you crazy bird!” the fourth man said, backing away.
Memphis didn’t wait. He took off running, slowing only when he reached an alley and saw that he was not being followed. He dropped the pipe and sagged against the bricks, panting heavily. A minute later, the crow found him. It settled onto a window ledge and made a soft, whirring sound that was a cross between a gentle coo and a sad cry. Memphis’s mind stretched nearly to its breaking point as he tried to make sense of it all:
Messengers of the dead. Move between worlds. Promised she’d watch over you from beyond.
For a price.
“Berenice?” Memphis said, and it felt as if the world had narrowed to just him and the bird blinking at him from the ledge. “No. Can’t be.”
But then he held out his hand. “Mama?” he whispered.
The bird hopped onto his open palm and nuzzled its head against his skin, leaving small streaks of the gangsters’ blood.
“I’m gonna heal you, Mama.” He put his hand on the bird and it squawked away with a great ruffling of feathers. The bird moved its beak back and forth, as if shaking its head. “Okay. Okay, Mama. I’m sorry.”
The bird hopped back onto Memphis’s open hand.
“But I promise you this: I’m going to free you, Mama. I will free you.”
But first he was going to free his brother.
“Mama, I need to know—is there something not right about Blind Bill? Is he hurting Isaiah? Tap the ledge twice for yes.”
The crow blinked at him. Memphis felt ridiculous talking to a bird. He’d hit a new low. But then, very deliberately, it tapped its beak against the stone—once, twice.
THE VOICE OF TOMORROW