Chapter Twenty-Three #2
The thing I’m most looking forward to? The Tangier Island accent. As a relatively isolated island, settled by Cornish immigrants, it’s a mixture of West Country, New England, and Southern and almost incomprehensible to outsiders. This, my friends, will be my greatest accent challenge to date.
I close my eyes and take a calming breath through my nose, but before I can let out a bloodcurdling scream, the door swings open.
On the other side stands a young woman with pale skin, light brown hair, and a long nose.
“I reckon you took your time,” she says. Then she pulls me into the house.
“Wh-what?”
She shuts the door and closes the curtains, then turns to face me, arms crossed.
“Well? You bring it?”
I stare at her, mouth hanging open. After a moment, I say, “Yes,” but it comes out a whisper.
Conning is like improv or samples at Costco. Always say yes.
But I’ve got to admit I have no clue what’s happening. She’s thrown me for a loop, and I’m scrambling to get my footing.
Alice holds out her hand expectantly.
There’s only one thing I have she could possibly want, so I slowly reach into my apron pocket and pull out the journal. She snatches it from me, then strides over to a rolltop desk in the corner.
I blink out of my stupor. “Hey!” I say, trailing after her.
“You want me to make sense of this or not?” she says.
“Uh, yes, please?”
“Don’t tell me you come all this way without ink?” she says, pulling out an inkpot and quill.
I numbly reach into my other pocket and produce a vial of ink, shocked that she’s anticipated even this.
If Alice wrote the translation with her own ink, the writing wouldn’t appear when I took the book back to the Beforedeath.
Because her ink doesn’t actually exist. So I brought my own.
Any writing Alice does with it will still exist when I return with the book.
I had a whole thing planned involving sleight of hand, a teapot, and some well-timed sneezes.
“Go sit yourself down over yonder while I work,” Alice says firmly, pointing to her couch.
I stand frozen for a moment, trying to decide if I should ask her how she knew I was coming. Two steadfast rules are conflicting here.
Rule #41: Never admit you don’t know what’s going on and
Rule #42: Always know what’s going on.
If I can’t ask her without giving away my ignorance, I’m going to have to figure this out myself.
I wander over to a wood-framed sofa, scanning the room as Alice scribbles away.
The house is dark. Dried herbs and flowers hang from the ceiling and what can only be described as a small cauldron sits on top of a wood-burning stove.
She’s clearly a witch, but I don’t know what type of magic she’d use to see me coming.
Augury is Ferrymen magic, and Alice is obviously not a Ferryman.
That doesn’t mean she doesn’t practice another form of divination.
There’s pyromancy, favomancy, cartomancy, osteomancy…
But no type of mancy gives answers as clear as “a girl is going to show up at your door asking you to translate an ancient code.”
At any rate, this is the easiest job I’ve ever done. All I had to do to get what I wanted was to show up. I should be elated, but my stomach sinks.
“I didn’t even get to use the accent,” I mutter.
The sound of Alice’s pen scraping against paper stops.
“Good,” she says, then goes back to translating.
There aren’t too many pages in the journal, but an hour in, Alice is still working. I’m bored out of my mind, but if I even breathe too loud, she snaps at me. I have no choice but to start skimming through the stack of Life magazines on the table.
It’s not until I’m halfway through an article about something called the Corn Palace creating a grain mural of Colonel Sanders and Maisie Williams that I realize I’m reading a current issue.
Which means Alice’s subconscious didn’t create these.
Someone brought her these from the Beforedeath. Recently.
That in and of itself isn’t cause for alarm, but, I don’t know, something feels off. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck, a knot in my gut that tells me to pay attention.
What if she didn’t use magic to sense me coming? What if someone tipped her off?
The syndicates must keep tabs on the descendants of the Cult of Persephone still in the Afterlife. They could have visited Alice and told her to look out for someone attempting to translate the codex. Except the syndicates think the Cult of Hades has the grimoire. At least, I thought they did.
Maybe I said something about the codex when Ezra rescued me. Maybe they know we have it. Maybe they told Alice to expect me.
But why translate the journal if she’s planning to hand me over?
Unless she’s trying to keep me here.
And then I realize the pen has gone silent.
I clear my throat and stand. “It’s getting late. I’d better go.”
Alice doesn’t turn from the desk, her posture stiff. “Ain’t through with it.”
“That’s fine,” I say, taking a few steps toward her. “I don’t need the whole thing translated.”
“It’s important,” she says.
I could take it and run. But maybe I need to question her first. And run where? What if the house is surrounded?
I’m halfway through an exit plan when the door bursts open.
I poise to fight, but it’s just Ezra. He looks between Alice and me, eyes wild.
“I, uh, I don’t know how to explain it, but—”
“Shit,” I mutter. I can tell from the look on Ezra’s face it’s a hellhound. Welp. Grab and run it is, then. I snatch the journal from Alice, her quill leaving a trail of ink across the pages.
“Thank you!” I call, seizing Ezra by the sleeve and hauling him out of the house.
Alice yells something after me, but I’m too focused on scanning our surroundings. There’s a gentle breeze rushing through the grass. Birds caw in the distance. Dozens of Dead are out and about, gardening in neighboring yards, strolling down the path, chatting over white picket fences.
Ezra whips around. “Maybe I was imagining it, but I don’t know, I just felt like…”
“Prey,” I finish for him.
Hellhounds shouldn’t be out this far. But paired with Alice’s weird behavior, this can’t be a coincidence.
“What did it look like?” I ask.
“Uh, he was, like, a fisherman. Like what you see in your head when you hear the word ‘fisherman.’ Big orange overall things. Flannel shirt. One of those knit hats.”
I search the Dead, but everyone’s dressed the same. “Care to narrow it down?” I snap.
Then I spot it among a group of men smoking at the end of the lane. It’s just like Ezra described. Waders and a wool hat. Carrying a fishing pole like a scythe.
“Let’s go,” I say, and start running.
My feet thud against the path, kicking up dirt. Ezra breathes harshly behind me, keeping pace. He can overtake me easily, but it’s like he’s trying to be a barrier between me and the hellhound.
What a gentleman.
What a dumbass.
“Go!” I urge just as he cries out.
I turn to find him slack-jawed, the fishing hook through his cheek. There’s a sudden tug, and Ezra’s gone.
No vanishing spirit, no orb of light.
Just gone.
I don’t pause, don’t think, just keep running. It’s too late for him, but maybe I can get to safety.
I try to pick up the pace, my feet slapping against the pavement, but because of that stupid chase through Times Square, I know I’m slower than Ezra, and since he was purposely running slower than me, I now can’t convince my metaphysical body to go any faster, no matter how hard I try.
I’m not surprised, then, when I feel a sharp pain in my left cheek.
I groan. “Well, fu—”