Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Tangier, Virginia, is a tiny island slowly sinking into Chesapeake Bay, home to just over four hundred residents in the Beforedeath—and who knows how many souls in the Afterlife, one of whom just happens to know the language of the codex.
I spent the better part of last year searching for someone who could translate the grimoire and eventually tracked down an early sixteenth-century Cornish peasant rumored to be part of the Cult of Persephone.
Her name is only known to history because she wrote an herbal medicine guide and was promptly burned at the stake.
Some sources say that after her execution, the townspeople found writings in a “strange demonic language” in her hut.
Ancestry records show that she had a many-times-great-granddaughter, Alice Pruitt, who lived on Tangier Island in the early twentieth century.
She was known for writing in code, then died under mysterious circumstances after having a loud dispute with another woman.
Locals say they were arguing about members of the Greek pantheon.
She was found stabbed to death in her bed the next morning.
This is our translator.
The plan is simple: I’ll slip into the Afterlife and con Pruitt into translating the journal.
I’ll pretend to be a descendant of one of her friends, say I found the journal in my attic along with some letters addressed to her.
Maybe it’s my mom’s dying request that the journal be translated.
I’ll turn on the waterworks. Wobbly bottom lip.
Something to really pull the heartstrings.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Ezra says from where he lies on a thin blue couch under a collage of artwork with a distinct nautical theme.
There are a surprising number of Airbnbs for an island that’s a half square mile.
This one is owned by a real estate investor who’s never set foot on Tangier.
We conveniently arrived just as the cleaning crew was leaving.
One quick lie about being maintenance and we have the place to ourselves until the next guests arrive in a few hours.
“This was your idea,” I say from a seafoam love seat next to a lamp made out of seashells. “I did very little talking.”
Ezra lifts his head as Tolliver hooks him up to the monitor. “Yeah, but I know how you work. You get into people’s heads and convince them to do your bidding.”
I put a hand to my heart. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
It’s just me, Ezra, and Tolliver this trip. Tolliver to administer Miracle Max, me to get the information from Pruitt, and Ezra because he’s curious.
“You don’t have to do this, dude,” Tolliver says as he sets up the equipment.
“And have gotten on that boat for nothing?”
Ezra did not do well on the ferry. He spent most of the ride with his head between his knees.
Tolliver grunts as he snaps some tubing into place, then connects a vial of Miracle Max to a vaporizer. We’re running on bare-bones equipment here, only what we could get on the plane.
We had a bit of a moment at the airport going through security.
Tolliver had all the mist ingredients in his liquids bag labeled as things like shampoo and moisturizer.
I guess it was a little suspicious, as some of the components are solids and one looks a bit like weed.
The TSA agent opened the tiny jar labeled sunscreen and sniffed it.
Tolliver was starting to look panicked, so I stepped in.
I gave the clean-cut agent my most winning grin. “It’s an organic sunscreen that you have to triturate right before using. It’s very eco-friendly. Negative carbon footprint, in fact. Do you want to try some of our natural deodorant? It’s made from bacteria-fed fungi.”
We were waved through pretty quickly after that.
“Okay, so go over this again?” Ezra says, breathing heavily.
“Relax,” I say. “Tolliver will do me first.”
Tolliver blushes. Okay, that was a bad way to put that.
I clear my throat and point to the monitor. “You’ll be able to see my vitals here. If anything goes wrong, Tollie gets alerted and will bring me back.”
I don’t tell him that the vitals Tolliver is reading aren’t things like heartbeat and brain waves. What he’s really tracking is the magical connection between body and soul. But maybe if Ezra is more focused on the monitor, he won’t notice that I have no pulse and my skin has gone cold.
“Also, the book will disappear this time.” I hold up the journal, which I already doused in Soul Attaché.
Ezra tugs on his ear. “And this…potion is safe? It’s been tested?”
“Like a million times,” Tolliver says. “Safest Kykeon mist there is.”
I gasp, sitting up and pulling down my mask. “Ooh! Tell him about Force Ghost!”
“I don’t think that’s a good—”
“So, about ten years ago, someone came up with a mist that was supposed to be the next big thing, basically make Miracle Max obsolete, but when they tested it, the soul left the body but never arrived in the Afterlife. It was just stuck in limbo. Forever.”
Ezra’s eyes widen.
“Oh, and I need to tell you about hellhounds!”
“No you don’t,” Tolliver says, laughing nervously as he gently pushes me back down. He turns to Ezra. “They never come out this far from a city.”
“They’re shape-shifters,” I say.
“Dude, that’s not helping,” Tolliver mutters.
One thing I’ve learned about Ezra is that the more freaked out he is, the more likely he is to follow through. I got him on the ferry by telling him how many shipwreck sites we were going to pass. It’s a weird quirk, and I can’t decide if it’s healthy or if we should find him a therapist ASAP.
“Helping? No.” I pull my mask back up. “But manipulation is my love language.”
Maybe we all need therapy.
Tolliver shakes his head as he snaps the final tube into place. “Ready?”
“Freddy,” I say. It’s go time.
Tolliver counts down from three before turning the valve and releasing the mist. The process is always the same. The world fades, replaced by the realization of utter insignificance in a vast galaxy. I go toward the light, blah blah blah, and then…
Here I am.
Right where I was, in a seaside-themed Airbnb on Tangier Island.
Everything is just as I remember it, though not exactly as it really is.
I’m not familiar enough with the house for my subconscious to re-create it accurately—I’m sure I’m missing some shabby chic wall art with an ocean-related pun—but once Ezra is here, it’ll help.
And enough people on the island must have been here to keep the psychic re-creation stable, which is really all that matters.
The journal is in my hands, Poppy’s watch on my wrist. If Ezra isn’t here by the first beep, I’ll do this job on my own. But if he chickens out, I’ll eat my metaphorical hat. Or bonnet, I guess.
To make Alice feel more comfortable, Ezra and I are dressed in 1910s garb.
Alice died in the forties, but people usually feel most comfortable with the culture of their youth.
I’m in a high-necked cotton blouse and long woolen skirt.
A knit shawl and apron shows I’m a hardworking salt-of-the-earth type, and I’ve added sturdy lace-up boots and a floral bonnet for good measure.
Ezra arrives just as my alarm goes off.
One moment, he’s not there, and then the next, he is, ripping off his mask and immediately vomiting onto the sea-glass-colored rug.
I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve never seen anyone throw up in the Afterlife before.”
“Am I puking in real life?” Ezra gasps.
I pause, thinking. “Probably not. But don’t worry, Tolliver won’t let you choke to death.”
After a few more dry heaves, I help him to his feet.
“And this is real life,” I say. “Or real…death? Anyway, actions have consequences here. Remember that.”
Ezra stretches his arms out in front of him and gapes at his slightly transparent hands. “Weird.”
The seashell wallpaper turns to wood paneling and then back again.
“Focus,” I call over my shoulder as I head out the door. “We don’t want to wander into any black holes or get eaten by a pterodactyl-size swallow.”
“Can that happen?” Ezra asks, scurrying after me.
I don’t answer as I lead him to the nearest dirt path.
The Tangier Island of the Afterlife is bigger and busier than the one of the Beforedeath. A few Dead are out in their yards, hanging clothes or mending fishing nets. Houses stand close together, raised up on stilts or brick piers. The lanes are lined with sand, the scent of brine on the breeze.
“It’s so realistic,” Ezra marvels.
I head down the path toward Alice’s house.
“Keep up, New Guy.”
I have to admit I’m feeling a bit giddy. Before the heists and surveillances and petty crimes of the last year, this is what I did: sneak into the Afterlife and con information out of the Dead. I was born into this. I feel more like myself than I have since Dante died.
When we get to Pruitt’s address, we find a small white house with dormer windows and geraniums in the window boxes. I turn to Ezra, but his focus is elsewhere, so I follow his gaze. A giant brain hangs in the sky where a cloud should be.
“Oh, yeah, that happens sometimes.”
Ezra stares, gaping.
I push his chin back up, then give him a pat on the shoulder. “Why don’t you have a look around? Get used to this plane of existence. I’ve got this covered.”
He doesn’t respond, but I’m sure he’ll pull himself together in a minute.
I use the walk up the dirt path to the rickety front steps to get into character: a young Tangier resident who discovered a journal in a strange language, only to find herself chased by demons.
I’ll say I found Alice’s information in my dead mother’s belongings.
I went into the Afterlife to ask her about it, but the demons followed me.
I’ll pound on the door asking for help, which will get me in the house.
The trick is not giving your mark time to think.