“What’s this?” Livvy picked up the shining square. It was blank.
“Not sure.” Emma flicked through the wallet. Credit cards, driver’s license, about eleven dollars in cash that made her feel a little queasy. Taking evidence was one thing; taking cash was another.
Not that they could have returned it to Ava.
“No photos or anything?” Julian asked, looking over her shoulder.
“I don’t think people keep photos in their wallets except in movies,” Emma said. “Not since iPhones.”
“Speaking of movies.” Livvy furrowed her brow, looking briefly—as she did sometimes—like Ty. “This thing looks like the Golden Ticket. You know, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” She waved the shining piece of laminated paper.
“Let me see it.” Cristina held out her hand. Livvy gave it to her as the waitress returned with their food: grilled cheese for Ty, a turkey sandwich for Cristina, a BLT for Julian, waffles for Emma and Livvy, and Mark’s plate of strawberries.
Cristina took out her stele and scribbled, humming, on a corner of the gold paper. Mark, looking beatific, took the dispenser of maple syrup off the table and upended it over his strawberries. He picked one up and put it in his mouth, stem and all. Julian stared at him.
“What?” Mark said. “This is a perfectly normal thing to eat.”
“Sure it is,” said Julian. “If you’re a hummingbird.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Look,” Cristina said, and pushed the golden paper toward the middle of the table. It was no longer blank. Instead it featured the shimmering photo of a building, and beside it words in block letters.
THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN
INVITE YOU TO THE LOTTERY
THIS MONTH’S PERFORMANCE: AUGUST 11, 7 P.M.
THE MIDNIGHT THEATER
This ticket admits one group. Semiformal attire.
“The Lottery?” Julian echoed. “That’s the name of a famous horror story. Did they make it into a play or something?”
“It doesn’t sound like a play,” said Livvy. “It sounds creepy.”
“It could be a creepy play,” said Ty.
“It was a creepy story.” Julian picked up the ticket. There was paint under his fingernails, shimmering small crescents of blue. “And the creepiest thing about this is that this theater is shut down. I know the place; it’s up past Highland Park. It’s been been shut down for years.”
“Sixteen years,” said Ty. He had mastered the art of using his phone one-handed and was squinting at the screen. “Shut down after a fire and never rebuilt.”
“I’ve driven past it,” Emma said. “It’s all boarded up, isn’t it?”
Julian nodded. “I painted it once. I was painting abandoned buildings, places like the Murphy Ranch, closed businesses. I remember that one. It had a ghostly feel.”
“It’s interesting,” Mark said. “But does it have anything to do with the investigation? The murders?”
Everyone looked mildly surprised that Mark had asked something so practical. “I think it might,” Emma said. “I was at the Shadow Market last week—”
“I wish you’d quit going to the Shadow Market,” Julian muttered. “It’s dangerous there—”
“Oh, NO,” Emma said. “Not danger, Mr. I-Just-Almost-Bled-Out-in-My-Car.”
Julian sighed and reached for his soda. “I can’t believe I ever complained about ‘Jules’ as a nickname.”
“Maybe we should talk about the Shadow Market,” said Cristina hastily. “It is where Emma first heard information about the murders.”
“Well, you can imagine how happy the Marketers were to see me and Cameron—”
“You went with Cameron?” Julian said.
Livvy held up a hand. “In Emma’s defense, Cameron’s annoying, but he’s hot.” Julian gave her a look. “I mean, if you like guys who look like a redheaded Captain America, which I . . . don’t?”
“Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger,” said Cristina. “But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart.”
“We’re Nephilim,” said Julian. “We’re not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides,” he added, “Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.”
“Can I finish my story?” Emma demanded. “I was at the Market with Cameron, and I remember now, I saw a booth that had a placard up that said something like ‘Sign Up for the Lottery.’ So I think it’s something supernatural, not experimental theater or whatever.”
“I have no idea who the Avengers are,” observed Mark, who had finished his strawberries and was eating sugar out of a packet. Ty looked gratified—he had no time for superheroes. “But I agree with you. This is a lead. Someone murdered Stanley Wells, and now his girlfriend is dead too. Even if it is in a completely different way.”