Deadgirl (28 page)

“Your parents?” I asked.

He nodded.

Morgan glided to one of the windows and laid her hand on the glass.

“It’s warm,” she said. “This is you? Are we
in
you?”

Zack shrugged. “I think so.”

“You’re in the hospital,” I said.

He nodded.

“What do you expect?” Morgan asked. “Benny probably came outside and found me and you laying on the grass, totally passed out, horking drool out of our mouths. What would you have done?”

“I guess,” Zack said. “You think your train looks the same?”

Morgan nodded.

“With better decorations,” I said, and Morgan turned and flashed me a grin.

Puck, who had been waiting in the doorway, watching us, finally stepped into the train car. He moved around the windows, his finger’s trailing the glass like Morgan. He took his time, pausing at every window, turning his head this way, then that way. He looked just like an art aficionado at a gallery showing. We all watched him make the rounds in silence. Finally at the last window, he leaned forward and rapped it with one knobby fist. It made a hollow chunking sound.

Puck turned to Morgan. She crossed her arms.

“Sign it,” she said. “I don’t want to be your Kermit the Frog anymore.”

Puck rolled his eyes and flashed through a long string of gestures. Morgan sighed.

“What?” I asked.

“He called me a wuss,” Morgan said.

When I turned back to him, Puck’s face morphed into his Robin Goodfellow grin. He popped another, much longer, string of gestures in his hands and waved at Morgan, as if to say,
you have the floor
. He plopped down on one of the seats, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap.

Zack and I turned to Morgan. She looked down at the floor thoughtfully, then back at us. She tucked the stray bits of her corn silk hair back into her ponytail and sat on the edge of one of the booth-like tables. She took a heavy breath.

“We are in comas,” Morgan said. “That’s why the train won’t go.”

I frowned and turned to Puck. He made the
go on
gesture to Morgan.

“Puck says we shouldn’t be in comas,” she said. “He doesn’t know why we are.”

I stood up then, feeling something itch in the back of my mind. This time I circled the room slowly, mimicking Puck, taking a good long look at every window. After a second pass, I shook my head.

“Can we go look at Morgan’s train?”

Everyone agreed. We left Zack’s train and crossed the tracks to Morgan’s. I laughed when we walked inside—her chairs were much nicer, and the carpet was a lush red color instead of the green-and-blue hotel pattern Zack had. Zack grumbled something about me being “
super hilarious
.”

Morgan’s windows were similar, but not identical. That she was in a hospital room was obvious, but it also appeared to be a different room. I recognized everyone. Morgan’s mom, Cheryl, her face thin and drawn. Her boyfriend, Andy, sat in a chair behind her, his face lit by the glow of his iPhone. Two other people were in the room, and either one of them would have made my heart stop.

My mom stood across from Cheryl, on the opposite side of Morgan’s bed. Mom looked terrible—the make-up around her eyes was smudged, and she talked into her own cell phone with quick, clipped words. Her other hand tangled itself in her hair.

I moved closer to the window, my throat catching. Morgan’s hand touched the small of my back, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t have the strength. If I turned around and saw the pity in her face, I don’t think I could keep it together.

“Your poor parents,” Zack said, softly. “They must be losing it.”

“Shut up, Zack,” I said, without turning around. My voice, watery and broken, didn’t hold the anger very well.

“I’m sorry,” Zack said. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

Guilt hit me instantly, but anger and shame kept me from apologizing. I stared at my mother, knowing my father would be combing the streets or riding with the police. I thought about Officer Sykes, boyish knight that he was. He’d probably be out there, too, or at least I imagined he was. All looking for little Lucy, the stupid girl who couldn’t stay out of trouble. Maybe dead in a ditch somewhere, eh? Maybe she ran off. Her second attempt, this one successful. Maybe she jumped off a bridge because she couldn’t handle the rat race anymore.

I touched my forehead against the window and sucked in a sharp breath, a little shocked by the warmth of the glass. I let myself stew in misery, if nothing else than to let it all out. No tears came, thankfully, but in retrospect I might have been in shock. After another few, long minutes, I composed myself.

That’s when I saw the second figure. The one I’d seen in Zack’s train but hadn’t recognized. The doctor, floating around the room, doing whatever it is doctors do. He had a thin face and long, black hair. A beakish nose poked out between those wide, expressive eyes.

Abraham.

I thunked my finger against the image of his face in the window.

“Oh my god,” Morgan said. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Zack said, his voice weak. “That’s the guy that attacked you, right?”

I nodded. My finger didn’t move from the center of his face.

Puck signed something so furiously into his own palm that it made a loud smacking noise. He even winced a little.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“‘Shit!’” Morgan quoted and plopped into one of her cushy train seats. Her fingers slid over her eyes.

“Oh,” I said, softly.

Abraham had recovered quickly after being shunted out of the Grey by me and Puck—he’d followed Benny to the hospital, disguised himself as a nurse or a doctor—the second time, I realized…he must have a thing for docs—and had used either his preternaturally persuasive voice or something more sinister to force a doctor to drug Morgan and Zack. I told them as much.

“How do you know all this?” Morgan asked.

“The first time I ran into him was at a hospital. He knew I’d visit…”

…the man I tried to kill? I took a breath.

“...someone I’d hurt,” I said. My throat clicked, but I fought it.

“He was waiting for you?” Morgan asked.

I nodded. “Dressed as a doctor.”

“Oh,” Morgan said. “You think he feels comfortable there, at the hospital?”

I shrugged.

“It’s the death,” Morgan said. “Hospitals are filled with death, and death is Abraham’s...workplace?”

Puck made the see-saw gesture I loved so much.

It wasn’t hard to figure out from there. I’d suspected as much, considering his dogged pursuit of me. Abraham wasn’t after me for fun or evil or anything like that—he seemed desperate. Like he had to catch me. Had to—well, had to do whatever it was he was planning on doing to me. Killing seemed like the wrong word. Devouring was almost correct, but too creepy.
Removing
, perhaps.

“‘Reaping’,” Morgan said, reading Puck’s hands. “He says the word you’re looking for is ‘reaping,’ Lucy.”

I rubbed my temples. Of course
reaping
. My own personal little Grim Death. The man whose job it was to kill me again.

“I don’t know that word,” Morgan said to Puck. “Spell it. Just spell it.”

I glanced over. Puck’s signing was clearly falling on deaf…eyes? He parsed through it slowly the third time, forming each of the letters with delicate care.

“‘Thanatus,’” Morgan said. “‘Abraham is your Mors.’”

“Sickle?” I asked.

Puck made the see-saw gesture.

“Greek,” Zack said. “Right? Thanatos…god of Death.”

Puck laughed soundlessly and nodded. He signed again.

“‘Thanatos is Greek, Thanatus is Latin,’” Morgan said these slowly, clearly having trouble following his thought process. “‘Mors is Roman.’”

“Does it matter?” I snapped.

Puck’s smile faded, and he shook his head. His outstretched hands offered an apology. I looked away, toward Zack. If I knew Zack, and I like to think I did, he was strategizing. The other stuff would come later. The words, and the implications. Questions, too. About me, about what had happened.

Zack made a
hmmph
sound and leaned back. Here we go.

“What?”

Zack turned to Puck, “This Abraham…why isn’t he after you?”

Puck looked at Morgan again, but she shook her head. Puck sighed and fired off a couple of staccato signs at her.

“‘I killed mine,’” Morgan said, and shook her head. “Wait, what?”

Puck sighed softly. He narrowed his eyes at Morgan. She growled and popped a fist into her open hand. The breath that puffed out of her reminded me of a balloon deflating. She dropped her head back against the glass, her face pointing up.

When she spoke, it came out in that flat monotone Puck voice.

“The Mors are the Yin to our Yang, the balance. We break nature, they preserve it. If they win, then we are consumed and they return to wherever it is they come from. If we destroy our Mors, then it’s over, too. There’s no second Mors, just as there’s no second soul to replace your first. Everything comes in pairs.”

“That’s great,” Zack said. “How did you kill it?”

Puck rubbed his chin and sighed.

“It took me a long time,” Puck sent. “And I was full of essence. More than I ever had been, or more then I will be ever again. And the price was steep.”

What did that mean? Part of me loved Puck for saving me, and part of me despised everything he was. Was he deliberately coy, trying to protect me again? Or was it a stupid old man wringing every last drop out of a good story?

“Then what are we supposed to do?” I asked, between my teeth.

Puck shook his head and cradled his cheeks with his long delicate fingers. An old man with scraggly hair and a wrinkled tweed jacket—part college professor, part hobo. My new mentor, source of as many questions as answers. Would I end up like him, someday—so entrenched in death and dreams I could no longer even relate to normal people?

There were a number of hurdles to clear before Morgan and Zack could return. Something was keeping them in comas—and somehow, Abraham knew how to do it. My Mors, my Thanatus, liked to play doctor. Had he been one in his previous life? I think so.

All of our parents were at that hospital, and the likelihood of police officers being there was also high. Considering my previous adventure on the milk carton, the cops would have my description.

And yet I couldn’t stay in the Grey to protect Morgan and Zack while Puck went ahead—I didn’t have the power or the control that he did. My
abilities
were underdeveloped.

“Ophelia,” Morgan said in her Puck’s voice.

“Huh?” Zack asked.

“‘Ophelia could help us,’” Morgan/Puck said. Puck turned to the windows of the train.

“Ophelia like…from Hamlet?” I asked.

“The crazy one,” Morgan said.

Puck nodded and turned around. He crossed his thin arms over his chest and nodded to Morgan.

“My granddaughter’s name is Ophelia,” Puck said through Morgan. “She’s a nurse.”

“A nurse…” Zack said. He thumped his fist on the window when he saw Abraham move through the room again.

“A nurse who knows something about induced comas?” I asked.

Puck nodded.

“Wait, induced?” Morgan asked. “Wouldn’t the doctors have caught that?”

I shook my head. It was a good point, one I had no answer to.

“Not if he’s pulling his whammy,” Zack said. He walked over to one of the windows of Morgan’s train and pointed at Abraham as he moved around the room. “Notice how he keeps moving between our two rooms? Maybe he has to keep doing the whammy.”

Morgan’s brow crinkled, “Stop saying that. What do you mean ‘the whammy?’”

“He’s…
fascinating
,” I said. “The first time I ran into him. He put it on two people so they couldn’t see me.

Puck nodded at me and Zack—clearly he approved of the theory.

“So what do we do now?” Morgan asked.

It didn’t take long to formulate a plan. Puck explained that his granddaughter, this Ophelia, wouldn’t need much convincing. He didn’t say why, and avoided the question on further pressing. Still, the plan was simple and to the point—I’d shift over by myself. From there, I’d talk to Ophelia, and she’d come with me to the hospital. We’d sneak in, and I’d lead Abraham off while Ophelia undid whatever Abraham had done. Sounded easy.

For James Bond. Or maybe Batman.

I had no real way of pulling it off—Puck told me I’d have to trust my instincts. He actually said that, like I was some monk apprentice from a bad Kung Fu movie. With much better hair. And ovaries.
And dead
. No, maybe not dead.
Strike that.

I had no use for speculation. Not when confronted with the all too real, all too frightening journey in front of me. I didn’t want to think of what could happen if I failed, if I just wasn’t good enough. I’d be
Reapered. Reaped
?
Anyway.
Abraham would take me God knows where—I almost laughed at that, considering He probably did indeed know—and if my mysterious texter was to be believed, I wasn’t going where All Dogs Go.

Best not to think about that, though it was hard not to. Why wouldn’t I be able to hop the Pearly Gates? I knew I wasn’t religious, not in the Sunday-school way, but I had always thought that that stuff wasn’t
all
that counted. That God looked for a good person first. I’d been a good person. I
am
a good person, I thought.

Then again, could my texter be believed? I’d almost blamed it on Abraham, some crafty trick of his, before I realized that the texter had actually saved me from Abraham twice. But who could have sent me those messages? Everyone involved hip-deep in my fiasco would have told me. They would have copped to it. So who was my savior?

I massaged my temples. Too many things to consider.

One thing at a time, Lucy Day.
Shift over. Find Ophelia—another piece of the puzzle that filled me with curiosity—and convince her to help. Go to the hospital. Play human-bait with Abraham. Save friends. Avoid being shunted off to Hell.

And maybe, just maybe, make it to Winter Formal with a head on my shoulders.