ELIZABETH STOOD AT THE SEASHORE, LOOKING OUT AT the old lighthouse tower. The gray clouds in the sky hung low, threatening either snow or rain. By now she owned a warm coat, a loose gray cape that reminded her of the cloaks she’d worn long ago; wearing it was her acknowledgment that she had to walk in this world for as long as it endured.
Not much longer now.
She could feel the bridge growing stronger beneath her. Already so much was being pushed up from the muck. The earth beneath her feet was only a shell now, and in time the shell could be broken—but first, first, the bridge had to be completed.
Every stone in the bridge was made of suffering, of sorrow. Her work had created so much pain, and yet still the path was not clear.
Faster, she thought. I must work faster. Or else the One Beneath will begin to doubt me.
This was hard, given what Elizabeth had done for His sake. But that was what it meant to be the servant of the One Beneath. His rules were as harsh as His instruments. His followers were born and shaped by blood.
“Faster,” she whispered, holding her hand up to the sky. A flick of her fingers was enough to summon her crow. It alit upon her wrist, cobweb eyes unblinking.
Elizabeth curled her hand around it. She felt the brief flutter of its wings against her palm, and tried to remember what it had been like to feel afraid. The heart beat faster; that much she could recall. Even now the bird’s tiny heartbeat pattered against her fingertips.
Then she sliced in deep with her thumbnail, swiftly enough that she was able to touch the heart before it stopped beating.
Verlaine was in the hospital when it happened.
As much as she wanted to be there for Uncle Gary, she had come to hate the hospital the past few days. The smell of stale air and disinfectant seemed to have burned its way into her nose, and the fluorescent lights made everyone look as sick as the three people connected to life support in this room. She’d been trying to get comfortable in a plastic chair for hours, to no avail.
And yet she would live like this forever if it meant they hadn’t yet lost Uncle Gary.
She tucked her feet under her in the chair and adjusted herself yet again. Now she was angled to look out the window. The view wasn’t much—a bleak, gray sky over the parking lot—but at least it made a change.
Then the clouds . . . twisted.
The movement wasn’t gentle, like clouds stirred by the wind. Instead their shapes shrank and clenched as though they were being wrung out by unseen hands. From every tree and wire, countless black birds swirled up at once, darkening the sky so that the weak sunlight dimmed almost to dusk. Verlaine shuddered, knowing this was Elizabeth’s work.
But the horror only hit her when she heard Uncle Gary cry out.
It was a shout of pure mindless pain, and as she sprang from the chair to go to him, she saw his body begin to thrash. “A seizure!” she shouted. “Help, someone, he’s having a seizure!”
Then the other two patients in the room began seizing as well—and alarms sounded from up and down the hall. Verlaine realized every single person struck down by the dark magic was in agony, all of them at once.
She’s killing them, every one of them, right now, oh, God, I need Nadia and she’s gone, there’s nothing we can do—
“Somebody, help!” This time her voice was a scream.
The next hour was a blur of nurses running and CDC guys hovering and Uncle Dave dragging her out of the hospital room. She wanted to collapse in his arms, but he was crying so hard that she felt she had to hold him up. No time for her to fall. Verlaine had to be strong.
By the time a doctor came out to talk to the throngs in the waiting room, people were miserable and angry and wretched. Despite Verlaine’s worst fears, nobody had died; they’d all stabilized back to the same coma state as before. Whatever pain Elizabeth had inflicted on them hadn’t been fatal.
She’s keeping them, Verlaine realized. Like fireflies trapped in a jar. She’s keeping all those people so she can torture them again and again, to build her bridge for the One Beneath.
The only end to Uncle Gary’s pain would come when Elizabeth had made him hurt so much he couldn’t take any more, or when she’d brought about the end of the world.
Uncle Dave was staying behind, so she left. Numbly Verlaine walked out into the cold, not even bothering to fasten her coat. Misery knotted her up from the inside, so much that it felt odd to even stand up straight.
Still, she had to do something useful. Something helpful. Right now she couldn’t battle the One Beneath or Elizabeth, or even help Nadia, so that left getting something for her and Uncle Dave to eat. So Verlaine lined up at one of the CDC supply trucks to get their house’s rations. It wasn’t that long a line—most people had a few days’ worth of groceries to fall back on—but she and Uncle Dave hadn’t been shopping since Uncle Gary’s collapse. The only one in their house with food remaining was Smuckers, and even now Verlaine wasn’t miserable enough to start eating Meow Mix.
After she took the sack of food, she began trudging back home. Gas rationing had begun, which meant she couldn’t fill the land yacht up until tomorrow; she had to hoof it today.
Verlaine didn’t mind that—she felt as though she were beyond caring about anything—until a couple of guys fell into step behind her.
“Hey,” one of them said. “Hey.”
She tried to ignore this. In a town as small as Captive’s Sound, nobody was a total stranger, but these guys were unfamiliar. They worked down at the dock, she thought.
“Hey, gray-haired girl. Hey, come on, talk to us.”
“I’m busy,” Verlaine said without turning around.
“Those rations you got there? Government chow? It sucks, huh?”
It did suck. The food the CDC handed out was like the stuff she’d sometimes put aside for a church food drive, then take back because it seemed cruel to foist it off on poor people: brick cheese, rice, beans, pasta, and lots of canned food, usually food you didn’t even want when fresh, like beets. Verlaine figured it was better than nothing, but that was all it was better than.
“Hey, come on. You don’t want to talk with us?”
“By now I’d think that would be obvious,” she snapped.
Both of them just laughed, and the one who had been quiet up until now said, “You’re not gonna share? You’re not the only hungry person in the world, you know.”
What a relief to know they only wanted the food. If it came down to it, she could drop the sack and run as fast as her legs would carry her. These two wouldn’t come after her, because they’d be too busy scooping up this crappy canned food.
But then she and Uncle Dave wouldn’t have much to eat. She’d have to try to tough it out.
“Why are you being so stuck up?” the first guy said. “We’re trying to be friendly. You’re too good to talk to us, share what you’ve got to eat?”
Walk faster, she thought, but she couldn’t. Her body had burned through all its adrenaline at the hospital, and she had none left to match her fear. Exhaustion dragged at her, and she wondered whether she could run even if she had to.
The second guy, still quieter, said, “Why are you being such a bitch?”
Verlaine turned. “Why are you being such idiots? Listen. This is my food. Mine and my family’s. You want yours? Get in line like everyone else!” She dropped one of the bags at her feet, reached into her purse, and pulled out the pepper spray. “Things are screwed up in this town right now. But that doesn’t mean you can get away with anything you want. Now get the hell away from me before I burn your eyes out with this stuff, and don’t think I won’t.”
That wiped the smiles off their faces. As they slunk away, Verlaine let out a sigh. She doubted they’d follow her—they looked pretty shamefaced—but still, she thought she’d watch them go for a while before she turned her back.
Then she heard a soft laugh. “You’re more ferocious than I realized. I like that in a woman.”
“Asa.” Verlaine turned her head to see him standing off to the side, leaning against a parked car, utterly casual. “Wow, thanks for jumping in and saving me.”
“Demons aren’t big on saving people, as you might have guessed. Besides, you hardly seem to need rescuing.”
She’d had more than enough attitude for one day. “I’m going home,” Verlaine said. But even as she turned, she hesitated. She couldn’t shake the fear that the dock guys might yet decide to come after her and her stuff.
“You know, I was just thinking of taking a stroll,” Asa said, walking to her side. “I’d offer to carry your bags, but I’m afraid I’d burn through them.”
Being walked to her house was as much of a favor as she was ever likely to get from him. Verlaine decided to take it.
They went together side by side, through a town so still and shadowed that it might as well have been the middle of the night, though really it was only just after noon. Asa matched the speed of his steps to hers, and they were close enough that the unnatural heat of his skin warmed her slightly against the cold.
Verlaine knew she should thank him. Yet he remained a demon, and Elizabeth’s servant. She would thank no one working for the Sorceress who was even now torturing one of the people she loved most in the world.
When they reached the front step, Asa stood by her as she unlocked the door. It swung open, bathing them both in soft light; Uncle Dave must have left a lamp on. Verlaine was grateful for the illumination on this dark, weird day—until she saw Asa’s face looking down at her expectantly, and wished she hadn’t.
Because there was something about seeing him so . . . wistful, so eager, that turned her inside out.
“Help me put this stuff up,” she said. Was it rude, to just order him around? He didn’t seem to think so. Instead he just came inside and made himself busy beside her in the kitchen.
Wait. Should I not have done that? Is there something about not inviting demons inside your house? Or is that just vampires? Oh, crap, I hope there aren’t vampires. I have to ask Nadia about that. Also about asking in demons, but I’ve already done it, so—okay.
Smuckers came and twined himself around Asa’s legs, tail curling along his ankles and knees. Asa glanced over and saw Verlaine watching them. “Cats love demons,” he said.
“Why is that not even remotely surprising?”
He laughed. He had a beautiful laugh—nothing like Jeremy Prasad’s. Sometimes it was hard for Verlaine to remember that this was still Jeremy’s body; everything about Asa’s speech and laughter and movement was so different that he seemed to have transformed.
Asa wasn’t all bad. He couldn’t be. He deserved a chance. But could he be given one?
“Is there—” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Asa, is there any way to free you?”
His hand froze, still holding a bag of rice, halfway to the shelf. “. . . Free me?”
“From Elizabeth.”
“Only the One Beneath could do that. I serve at His pleasure.”
“Then, from the One Beneath.”
Asa turned to her then, his gaze impossibly sad. “Nothing any mortal could ever do.”
“It’s not fair, that you got—stolen into this. Kidnapped. Shanghaied.”
“Shanghaied. An old word. I like that.” Asa shook his head. “No. It’s not fair. But it’s the only existence I’ll ever have. I’ve accepted it.”
“Does that mean accepting everything that’s going to happen here? Everything that’s happening to my dad?”
“Don’t you know I’d change that if I could? Most of this world—this stupid, corrupt world—who gives a damn what becomes of it? But I’d save the lot if I could, just because you live here.”
It was too much. Verlaine stepped back from him. “You’re toying with me. Again.”
“I’m not. I wish you could believe that. Not that it makes any difference, I suppose. But we can’t help wishing, can we?”
Their eyes met, and once again Verlaine felt it—that unmistakable surety that she’d finally been seen, that one person in the world could really, truly look at her and see the truth. That had to be some kind of demonic magic, like the burning of his skin or the voodoo he’d worked on her besotted cat. And yet she couldn’t not revel in that unfamiliar feeling.
“Give me one thing,” she said. “One truth, and I’ll believe you.”
Asa blinked. “What?”
“Tell me one thing that will help us against Elizabeth. Anything real. Give me that.”
He stepped closer to her, until they were very nearly face-to-face. “All right,” he said. “One truth.”
“Say it,” she whispered.
“You know that Elizabeth’s responsible for the deaths of your parents,” he said. “For the fact that no one else can see you. But do you know why?”
She hadn’t expected his truth to be about her. Verlaine blinked, suddenly unsure. “No. I don’t know. I’ve never known.”
“Everyone in town loves Elizabeth, don’t they? They adore her. She’s only a dim shadow in their memories, a vague impression of the perfect girl.”
“Well, yeah. That’s her magic at work.”
“But what part of her magic?” Asa reached up and brushed a lock of Verlaine’s silvery hair from her cheek. “Elizabeth’s not that lovable on her own. So she steals the very ability to be loved. She steals it whenever she feels she needs more, and who do you think she steals it from? The very people who have the most. The ones whose hearts would be pure, whose joy in living could be unbounded, the ones who nearly every single person would find themselves drawn to as if by the gravitational pull of the stars. In other words, she stole it from you.”
Verlaine shook her head. “That’s not me.”
“It is you. Or, I should say, it ought to be. Who can feel joy when everyone else overlooks them? Whose heart can stay pure when they’re tormented by loneliness, and by jealousy for the simplest human connection? No one. Though you’ve come closer than anyone else I’ve ever heard of. There’s so much good in you, Verlaine—so much light, not even Elizabeth could take it all.”
“Stop,” she said, stepping back from him. “Please stop.”
“The theft is an illusion, really.” Asa’s voice was desperate now. “You still possess it, this ability to be loved, but the light shines on her instead. Like a candle that’s only visible in a mirror, do you understand?”
Verlaine shook her head. She was dangerously close to tears. “I don’t understand any of it. You have to stop.”
But Asa kept going. “The illusion doesn’t work on demons. I know you, Verlaine. No one else in the world does, but I do.”
“You could be making all of this up.”
“You know better.”
She did. But Verlaine had learned to deal with a hard world. She had learned to hold on to what she knew was true even when faced with hatred or indifference. She could hold on to it now, too.
“You’re a demon,” she said. “You’re helping the person who’s ruining my life. Whatever you feel doesn’t matter. Whatever I feel doesn’t matter. You’re here on this earth to do evil, and I’m here on this earth to stop you. So—that’s that.”
Asa straightened. He looked even sadder than she felt, and Verlaine had the absurd urge to comfort him.
Or maybe that was only the urge to put her arms around him.
“That’s that,” Asa said, and he turned and walked out into the cold. The door shut behind him, untouched.