Tricks for Free (InCryptid #7)

“Somehow, not helping,” said Cylia.

“I need to ask someone a question, and it probably isn’t you,” I said. “Are you cool with dead people?”

“You mean ghosts?” Cylia shrugged. “I guess. One of my second cousins stuck around being a ghost for a few years before he went off to do whatever comes after ghosting. He was a pretty chill guy. Used to help me sneak into the movies.”

“Great.” I clapped my hands, chanting, “Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse.”

“How many times do I need to tell you, that’s borderline offensive and not a good way to summon a ghooooo . . .” Mary trailed-off mid-word, suddenly realizing that she was in an unfamiliar kitchen, standing in front of a total stranger. “Uh.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Mary,” I said. “Cylia’s from my roller derby league.”

“Technically, no, but what’s a little intrastate rivalry between friends?” Cylia offered Mary a bright smile that was only slightly strained around the edges. “I didn’t know I was going to be hosting a party today. I would have done some cleaning up if I had.”

“I don’t care if she’s from your roller derby league, pumpkin. Being a derby girl doesn’t make somebody cool with the dead.” Mary glanced at Sam, only now seeming to see his furry condition. She frowned. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”

“That’s a really long story and I promise you’ll get the whole thing, probably with footnotes and I may need to draw some flowcharts to make sure I understand it, but can you please do me a huge favor?” I flashed my brightest, most hopeful smile in her direction. “Can you see if you can find Aunt Rose?”

“Why?” Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Antimony Timpani Price, you will tell me what’s going on right now, or so help me—”

“Something stole all of Sam’s luck and something different is sapping my magic, which is why I can’t set anything on fire, and when I touched him after his luck was gone, the thing that’s been stealing my magic stole his . . . whatever the fuck it is that therianthropes use when they transform, so he’s currently stuck all monkeyed-out, which means we can’t go anywhere and he nearly got caught on camera by Lowry Security, so I need to talk to Aunt Rose and find out whether a routewitch could do any of this, because it’s going to make a difference for what happens next.”

The words poured out of me in a messy rush. Mary stared at me. So did Sam and Cylia. I shrugged, spreading my hands helplessly, and said nothing.

Mary turned her eyes heavenward. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t move on,” she muttered, and vanished.

“All right, before the dead woman comes back to my apartment and what the hell is this day even doing, I want you to explain,” snapped Cylia. “Now.”

“Mary is a crossroads ghost,” I said. “She always knows where her family is, and she’s been with us for three generations now. She has a vested interest in me staying alive.”

“Well, that’s just dandy. Invite the crossroads over for coffee. Sounds great to me.”

I shook my head. “She’s a ghost, not a guardian. She doesn’t set up the deals. She speaks on behalf of the person trying to make them, and tries to minimize the damage, if she’s allowed. No member of my family has gone to the crossroads to make a deal since my grandfather.” What had happened to Grandpa Thomas had been enough to make every member of the family since listened when Mary told us to be careful. We liked this dimension. We wanted to stay in it.

“Okay,” said Cylia slowly. “And Rose is . . . ?”

“Rose Marshall.”

Sam turned to stare at me. “Rose Marshall.”

I nodded.

“The girl in the diner.”

“They call her that in some places, sure.”

“The girl in the green silk gown.”

“I think that one’s a little more common on the coasts these days. We don’t have as many diners. But yes, that’s her.”

“The phantom—”

“—prom date,” finished a new voice, as my Aunt Rose appeared in the middle of the kitchen, hands shoved into the back pockets of her faded jeans, head canted at a hard angle. Aunt Mary was a silent presence behind her, watching as Rose said, “Wow, Annie, you went and found a fellow who knew all the stories. Impressive. Did you notice the part where he’s a monkey? Because I don’t know about you, but that would make a bit of a difference for me.”

“You’re dating your car,” I said, and smiled in sweet relief. “Hi, Aunt Rose.”

“Hi, yourself,” she said, and smiled back.

Like Mary, Rose died young. A lot of ghosts did, or at least look like they did: since their appearance is malleable, the dead tend to settle at whatever age they felt most comfortable when they were alive. A ghost who looks sixteen might have died at sixteen, or might have died at sixty-five. It’s hard to say. But they can’t look older than they were when they died, because they never wore that face, never lived inside that skin. For Rose and Mary both, the clock stopped before high school ended, and they’ll never look old enough to drink.

Unlike Mary, with her long white hair and her empty highway eyes, Rose still looks like the kind of girl you might see down at the corner store, drinking a soda and sticking her thumb out for a ride. She usually wears whatever’s “in” with people who actually are the age she appears to be, cycling effortlessly through the fashion spectrum, coming back time and time again to a sort of Bruce Springsteen greaser chic, in jeans, white tank top, and sneakers. And jacket, of course. Rose is a hitchhiking ghost, eternally wandering the highways and byways of America, looking for the ride that will get her where she needs to go. She’ll never find it—that ride doesn’t exist—but she’ll have a good time while she tries.

They call her the girl in the green silk gown because she died on her way to the prom, back in the 1950s, and when things get bad, she appears in the dress she was wearing when her car ran off the road. Seeing her in jeans meant things weren’t as bad as they could be.

Rose has no obligation to help our family. But she’s an honorary aunt for a reason, and she does what she can to keep us out of trouble, when we call. Which isn’t often, by mutual agreement. She’ll always try to come. She’ll always do her best. And we’ll always remember that when we call her away from the road, we’re calling her away from an afterlife that doesn’t have anything to do with us—not yet—where she’s needed, and valued, and has shit to do.

“Aunt Rose, this my friend Cylia Mackie, and my . . .” I hesitated. Was I ready to take this step with a family member? More importantly, with a family member who didn’t share Mary’s inclination toward keeping her cards close to her chest? If Mary was a lockbox, Rose was a loudspeaker, and anything I told her today would wind up getting broadcast to the rest of the family as soon as she saw them.

Good. Maybe they’d feel better if they knew I wasn’t all by myself, and Sam looked somewhere between wary and miserable, like he’d been waiting for me to repudiate him since the moment he’d realized he could no longer pass for human. Fuck. That.

“This is my boyfriend, Sam Taylor,” I said firmly. “He’s a fūri.”

“Half,” said Sam. “Uh, hi, second dead aunt.”

Rose stuck her pinky in her ear and swiveled it exaggeratedly around. “I’m sorry. I could have sworn you just said ‘my boyfriend,’ which would imply that you, Annie, have a boyfriend, and means a bunch of people have probably lost bets.”

“Shut up,” I said genially.

Sam frowned. “Is this because I’m not human, or . . . ?”

“Oh, no, honey, I don’t give two shakes of a dead dog’s dick about that, and neither will anyone else worth knowing,” said Rose. “We have all sorts of people in the family, living and dead. You’ll fit right in. It’s mostly the idea of Annie dating at all. She always said it was a waste of time.”