Chapter Five
Five
I was six the first time my parents took me to the Afterlife.
That may seem young to be introduced to death, but the whole process is easier to accept when you’re a kid.
To a six-year-old, it was almost like dreaming.
I would fall asleep and wake in a world with magic.
And if that wasn’t enough to get me excited about fake dying, I also got to take that magic back with me when I woke up.
When you first start going to the Afterlife, the magic that sticks to you is minimal.
Maybe you find parking spots more easily or water boils faster or you win a few bucks playing scratch-off.
Nothing that can’t be chalked up to luck.
But the more your soul absorbs in the Afterlife, the more you, yourself, become magic.
There are two ways to get magic from the Afterlife.
You can inherit it from a Titan ancestor, blessed with magic from birth but cursed to only be able to do one type of magic (like in CJ’s case: telempathy), or you can get the magic from the Afterlife yourself and just develop your talents.
Not everyone is good at every type of magic.
Just like not everyone is good at every sport or can play every instrument.
From the ages of six to fourteen, I was in and out of the Afterlife, doing jobs with my parents and brother several times a week. So you would think I’d have a lot of magic.
You would be wrong.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t manage even the most basic spell. I’ve only ever done magic successfully once, and even that didn’t turn out as intended.
So when a strange boy appears in my house late at night, my only defenses are what few physical resources I have on hand.
I hurl the lit candle at him.
By some miracle, it hits him, and he curses in shock. As the candle thunks at his feet, he briefly looks down, and I use the distraction to tackle him.
For a second, he doesn’t fight back, and I think this is going to be easy.
He’s wearing a three-piece suit that’s obviously been tailored to him specifically.
He’s tall but thin, with porcelain skin and dark, perfect hair.
I mean…What I’m saying is I doubt this guy has done much brawling in his life.
But then he pushes me off, and I realize he’s stronger than he looks.
Before he can attack, I take him out at the knees, then scramble to keep him pinned down.
“What are you doing?” he snaps, as though he can’t believe someone would dare touch him.
“What am I doing?” I cry, climbing on top of him and restraining his hands. “This is my house. What are you doing?”
I feel his abs clench under me, and suddenly I’m tumbling ass over head as he does this weird backflip thing, sending me flying.
“If you’d stop attacking me, I’d tell you!”
I’ve landed near a pile of junk destined for Goodwill with a Swiffer WetJet on top. I grab it and hold it out in front of me like a sword. And before you ask: Yes, I’m aware that the candle has caught the floor on fire, but I’ll take care of that in a minute. Priorities and all that.
The stranger smirks, a single eyebrow raising, and I’m going to be honest, it’s a look he pulls off pretty well.
I dart forward and jam the end of the handle into his abs.
He oofs and doubles over. The next time I attack, I go for the back of his head, but this time he takes me out at the knees. I manage to grab on to the back of his jacket and yank it over his head as we go down. As he struggles to get out of it, I grab random things and start throwing.
Old encyclopedia.
Rusted candlestick.
Paperweight.
He lets out a little “ow” as each one hits him, and by the time he’s pulled his head and arms out of his jacket, his hair is no longer perfect and his face is red.
“Will you stop attacking me?” he yells through labored breaths. “I’m trying to hire you for a job, you unholy terror!”
I pause, a muffin tin in my hand, cocked and ready to fly. “What?”
“A job. You are a heaven hopper, aren’t you?”
I lower the tin warily. “Who’s asking?”
He lets out a long breath, as though he’s relieved, but I haven’t ruled out beaming him in the forehead with the tin.
“My name is Rook Crawford.” His chest is still heaving, and his three-piece suit is now one and a half pieces. “And I’m here to—” He cuts off into a coughing fit. The guy—Rook, I guess—frowns. “Are you going to do something about that?”
I should mention the house is now fully on fire.
“I’ll get to that,” I say, projecting confidence I don’t feel. There is a chance I’m about to let my ancestral home burn to the ground, all so I can maintain the upper hand with this guy. “First, why don’t you tell me what you were doing waiting for me in my house, in the dark.”
“Have you been outside? It’s freezing.” He seems to notice the fishnets. “It appears you’ve acclimated to this weather quite well.”
I won’t give him the satisfaction of blushing, so I take off my jacket, revealing a flowy backless top.
He clears his throat, but apparently the fire is a bit more distracting than my outfit, because he rolls up his sleeves, mumbles something under his breath, and claps his hands.
The crackle of magic permeates the air, and then it starts raining. Inside my living room. Cold droplets spatter my skin.
Rook rolls his hands around as though he’s twirling a ball and then flicks one hand out, flinging the magic away. The rain starts falling in pressurized arcs, like a fire sprinkler system.
It doesn’t surprise me that he has magic.
Most people who hire heaven hoppers have either been to the Afterlife themselves or inherited magic from an ancestor who had.
What does surprise me is the type of magic.
I’ve never seen anything like it. Water out of thin air, shaped into arcs.
And the spell keeps going, even though he’s now returned his focus to me.
“My sister is dead.”
I stare at him. My clothes grow heavy with water. Rook’s white dress shirt is already soaked through.
He clears his throat. “She died about a month ago. I need to get her soul back, but no one will take the job. An associate gave me this address. They said…they said if anyone could help, it would be you.”
“One,” I say, raising my pointer finger, “I’m sorry for your loss.
Two”—I raise another finger—“no one under fifty has associates, and you can’t be more than twenty, so you should stop using that word.
And three”—this time, I leave only the middle finger up—“if you’ve been looking into it, you know that you can’t bring anything back from the Afterlife that you didn’t take with you, least of all a soul. So why are you really here?”
“I wouldn’t have come all the way here if I didn’t know it was possible.”
“Oh, okay,” I say sarcastically. “So, how exactly am I supposed to bring back a soul? And then what? You just want your sister to be an untethered soul? Or do you have some way to put her back into her dead body?”
Rook opens his mouth to respond, but a strident screech pierces the air, followed by a series of clicks as the undead crow from earlier soars through the open front door. She dive-bombs Rook, wings furiously flapping.
“Late as usual,” I mumble.
Rook curls in on himself, hands shielding his head, as the crow continues to attack, all claws and beak and wings. I let her go on for a few more seconds than necessary.
“Alright, that’s enough.”
The undead crow immediately retreats to the corner to settle on two interlocking crutches, holding each other up to form a makeshift perch.
Half the bird’s feathers are missing, revealing desiccated skin and exposed bone.
Her beak is cracked, and one eye is milky white, the other shining with an otherworldly glow.
When she spreads her wings, she forms a tattered silhouette against the night.
This is:
Crowlene
My familiar and the one piece of magic I have ever done successfully. Well. Successfulish. Familiars are usually still alive, but I’m not picky.
Crowlene ruffles what feathers she has against the deluge of water, keeping her one good eye locked on Rook, who pushes himself up with a groan. With a snap of his fingers, the rain stops. The candle is now a smoldering mess on the hardwood, and a shadow of soot and ash climb up the wall.
“Have you heard of the Voynich manuscript?” he asks, breathing hard.
“Yes.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
Rook leans heavily against the wall. “Then you’re familiar with what it contains.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The rumor that it holds the secret to resurrection? That might mean something if it were translatable.”
He bends over and picks up his jacket, hanging it off one finger and smoothing it out. “Just because it hasn’t been translated doesn’t mean it can’t be.”
I bark out a laugh, kicking my makeshift weapons back into the junk pile. “So you want me to…what? Steal the Voynich manuscript, translate it, then break into the Afterlife, steal your sister’s soul, and resurrect her?”
Rook shrugs on his jacket over his drenched button-down and torn checkered vest. “That’s exactly what I want.”
I squeeze out as much water from my shirt as I can. The heat from the fire is all but gone, and I have to bite my tongue to keep my teeth from chattering. Tonight is going to be rough if I can’t find something to burn in the fireplace.
“I don’t take jobs I can’t do,” I say. “I’d say ask your associates for another name, but no one is going to take this job.”
Rook smirks. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who admits there are things she can’t do.”
I narrow my eyes, watching him for a moment. Water still drips from his hairline down his sharp cheekbones. There’s a tension in his jaw, and he’s standing unnaturally still, like he’s holding his breath.
“Leave your number,” I say, but don’t tell him I’ll take the job.
I mean for him to write it down, but he steps forward, so close he towers over me, and I can see flecks of gold in his eyes. He gently takes my phone out of the front pocket of my cutoffs, not breaking eye contact. His fingers don’t touch me, but the moment feels entirely too intimate.
He raises the phone to my face to unlock it, and I blink at the sudden bright light. He continues to hold my gaze as he types in his number. When he’s done, he slides my phone back in my pocket just as gently. I can’t help it when my lips part right before he moves away.
Oh, he’s good.
He walks to the door, hands in his pockets.
“I look forward to our next altercation,” he says.
I almost let him go on that ridiculous exit line, but there’s one thing I have to know before I inevitably take this job.
“That magic. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Rook freezes in the open doorway, limned in moonlight.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice wavering enough that I can tell he hasn’t had much practice lying.
“Try again.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Yes, it’s different.” His voice is almost a whisper.
“What is it?”
Rook hesitates. It’s possible he has some sort of spell on him that prevents him from saying. But finally, he looks over his shoulder, his profile cutting sharp lines against the starry sky.
“A curse,” he says.
And that’s the exit line I let him leave on.