Deadgirl (32 page)

“Will I heal…faster?”

“Than us chickens?”

“Well, yeah.”

Ophelia shrugged, “Probably. To be honest, I don’t get how they’re still broken.”

I shook my head, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, “if your body is just…energy, or whatever, can’t you just…not have broken fingers anymore?”

It sounded like a possibility. She stepped away from me for a moment, and I did my best Jedi/Shaolin monk concentration on my bandaged hands. But after five minutes of trying to will my fingers unbroken, I was left with only a deep blush. I shook my head, and Ophelia shrugged.

“Worth a shot,” she said, and slapped my shoulder. “Looks like you’re as good as…well…better than…well…you’re bandaged, anyway.”

I nodded and hopped off of the kitchen table.

“So are you gonna help me?” I asked her.

“Haven’t I already?”

“You know what I mean.”

Ophelia didn’t look at me as she tucked her medical supplies away into a little black bag. Her face looked as soft as concrete, and just as forgiving. She fumbled with a roll of gauze—the flesh of the hand I’d been gripping was pallid, gray, with a ring of bruised flesh encircling her wrist. It didn’t look as bad as Kent Miller’s frost-burned forearm, but then again, I hadn’t taken real memories from Ophelia. I’d lifted her impression of a journal she’d read. I wondered if she’d still remember it, or if she would have to read it again to get it back. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how it worked, which made me all the more dangerous, didn’t it?

“I can’t help you,” she whispered.

I closed my eyes. “Why? My friends are—”

I stopped. I covered my mouth and tried to remember how to breathe. It wasn’t easy.

“I can’t,” Ophelia whispered. “I’m old, and tired, and I don’t want to die. Maybe that makes me a coward, but maybe I don’t give a right goddamn about that.”

“I can’t do it alone,” I said. I still hadn’t gotten the hang of breathing without my voice hitching and crawling. “Please.”

Ophelia growled something, low in her chest, and it sounded like ripping canvas.

“I’ll tell you how to do it,” she said, finally. “How to wake them up.”

Breathe
. Oxygen. My chest heaved, and I felt a light-headed wave of giddiness scrape up my spine.

“Thank you,” I said. I wanted to hug her, but I had the feeling that would be a really bad idea.

“And then I never want to see you again,” she hissed. “Ever.”

I had to ask. I had to.

“What about Puck?”

“My grandfather’s dead,” she said.

“And so am I, right?” I whispered.

“Right,” she said. Ophelia snapped the black bag closed, ran her fingers through her iron gray hair, and turned those watery, cold eyes up to mine. “Pay attention now.”

I nodded. I listened to her explain medically-induced comas like my friend’s lives depended on it.

When she was finished, she scooped a long black trench coat from a hook on the wall and handed it to me. It had gray lapels and gray cuffs, and was about fifty times more stylish than any clothing I’d expect her to own. I slipped it on. I wish I’d been surprised when it fit perfectly.

“What’s this?” I said.

“It’s cold,” Ophelia snapped. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Getting all soft on me?”

She squawked her horrible laugh, her face twisting in a sneer.

“Not quite,” she said. “But I don’t need a fifteen-year-old’s death on my conscience.”

I shook my head, squeezed the wrist of my broken hand, and sighed. I headed for the door without another look back. As I opened the front door, I noticed Ophelia’s little black revolver. Right where I left it, on the entrance way table. I ran a hand over the gun and shivered.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Someone else has my death on their conscience.”

I stopped, and looked back over my shoulder.

“Who’s Lucy?” I asked. It was a long shot.

“Grampa's first daughter,” Ophelia said, her voice drifting out of the kitchen. “Daughter of his first wife Miri. Miri died giving birth to her. Lucy died a year later. Diphtheria.”

I shook my head, unable to ignore the swell. I dragged tears out of my eyes and took long, harsh breaths. I looked down at the revolver, still lying on the entry table, and closed my eyes.

I left without another word.

I walked. I walked with purpose, and with speed, but I walked. Whatever was going to happen at that hospital, however it ended, I wasn’t ready. I needed to think, I needed to plan, and I needed to not vomit from pure, stupid fear.

With Puck’s story behind me, and my own careening toward me at unsafe velocities, I felt the tidal tug of fate sucking at my arms and legs. Did Abraham know I was coming? I think he did. Even without his handy-dandy Phantom-Detector, I think he knew. It had been his plan, of course—hold my friends until I showed up. Which I would, of course.

I guess it was a classic for a reason.

I thought about Puck’s story on the way there. It hadn’t been nearly as helpful as I would have hoped. Then again, what exactly had I been expecting?

“Hey, Lucy, when battling your Mors, remember to use the #3 wooden stake and to sing ‘Mary Mary Quite Contrary’ when you stab him. This combined with the cough drop you ate should be enough to kill him.”

No such animal. I guess Puck had only done it once, and mostly by accident.

What
had
been the situation? Puck, in some animal state, had attacked his wife and drained her of essence. Isabelle, his Mors, had shown up to collect him or eat him or whatever the hell it was they did to us. He’d been angry, full of rage. And full of essence, too. Was that it? Did I just need to fill up the tank and Hulk-out?

Maybe. But with the arctic chill streaking up my body, the kind that sank into my bones and my teeth, my tank was on E. And rage? Not quite. I shook with abject fear and worry, definitely, but nothing even approaching anger. Well great, Lucy Day. Zero for two in the first inning. Bases loaded. And the Man-In-White steps up to the plate…

I found myself at St. Elias’ Hospital in less than an hour. The very same hospital I’d come to visit Mr. Miller, the man who would have hit me with his car if I wasn’t the Incredible Ghost Girl. The same hospital Abraham had led me to last time. The very same damn trap.

“Unbelievable,” I said, to myself. “He’s already tried to lead me here.”

I felt in the pocket of my coat for two things—one was the stun gun my dad had made sure I carried. The other thing I wasn’t sure I really needed. I patted the heavy lump to make sure it hadn’t slipped in flight. All there. All ready for the stupid plan I’d concocted.

What time was it? I’d have to turn my phone on to check. I could only imagine the explosion of text messages, missed calls, and voicemails I was going to get the instant it came to life. And that reminded me of my parents, once again terrified out of their minds, wondering if their daughter had been kidnapped or eaten by wild dogs.

I put my intact hand against my forehead and looked down at the asphalt of the parking lot. I had no doubt in my mind—I was a terrible daughter. Mom and Dad would be a mess now—it’d only been a week ago when I’d disappeared the first time. Which meant the police and everyone else who cared to comment would be telling them I’d run away. My first story had been fishy, and with the addition of a second disappearance I would look like what…the rebel? The run-off-to-the-circus girl? The criminal, even?

I glanced around the parking lot—it occurred to me that my mother’s car would be there. Or at least, it must have been earlier. Back in the Grey Meadows, inside of Morgan’s train, I’d seen my mom around her bed. I tried not to remember her look of anguish.

I promised her something, in that moment, and I sent it along via brainwave—
I’ll make it up to you, Mom
. I vibed the feeling in her spiritual direction. But right then, I had friends to save, didn’t I? Time to be the Big Dead Hero.

I thought about my phone—I had to. I’m not a cat, and I’m already dead, so I decided a little curiosity couldn’t hurt. I fired off a quick prayer of mercy toward the sky and turned my phone on. I’d just opened the welcome screen when it vibrated and tweeted out its obnoxious 8-bit ring tone. I jammed on the END button until all the pop-ups and notifications and text-message warnings disappeared. I glanced down, and saw a little yellow envelope on the screen with the number “43” next to it in little glowing letters.
Holy shit, man.
It made me feel loved in a horrible, guilty, I’m-an-abominable-human-being kind of way.

I ran through the texts, not opening any of them, looking for anything from my mysterious benefactor. None of them were. I took a deep breath, brought the number up from my call log, and punched it into my phone. I sent my mystery-texter this:

Thanks for your help last time.

Any good advice for me now?

I waited, but not for very long. My phone buzzed, and I opened the message.

Try Your Best To Not Die.

I rolled my eyes. Cute. My mystery guy-or-girl was a real comedian. My phone vibrated again.

Oh, and Don’t Let Him Grab You.

Yeah, That’s It. Good Luck, Luce.

I put my phone away and sighed.

I dug in my coat, both hands in both pockets. My splinted-hand, still shooting off its dull throb, felt the smooth plastic and the two little metal teeth. The stun gun. My other hand felt the cold metal of the other object, the one I really hoped I wouldn’t have to use.

Was I doing this?

I looked out at the empty parking lot, wrapped in darkness. A soft but cold breeze played out against my already icy skin. The cold made me feel more alone, I realized. Weaker.

Deep breaths, Lucy Day. You’re a superhero right?
You’ve got some twisted ghost-version—Phantom-version—of the Force, and a stun gun. Just add a cape and some eff-me boots and we’re good to go. You could be Electro-Bitch or The Phantasm. I laughed at that, but the column of frost that poured out of my mouth stopped me short. I swallowed the last of the giggles.

I ducked next to a car and looked into the side-view mirror. My lips were ice-blue, and dark circles outlined my sunken eyes. The irises had lost their color entirely, transformed into two black dimes. A spider web of blue veins pressed up against the translucent, paper-thin skin of my sallow cheeks. I appeared, for lack of a less-painful word, dead. I realized I’d never looked at myself when the bone-chilling cold swept over me. I wrapped my arms over my chest and looked away.

How long did I have? I’d been colder, the last time at the hospital, when I’d watched in horror as my legs and arms ceased to be. But I wasn’t far off from that. Closer, I knew, if I burned energy for any of my little Phantom tricks.

Which meant I had to…feed? Was that the best word for what I did? Or what I took?

I shook out my worries and touched the stun gun in my pocket to give me strength.
Okay Luce. Let’s go.

I took three steps across the blacktop before a hand clawed into my shoulder and squeezed with such force that I barely managed a choking scream. I twisted, trying to free myself, and tumbled to the ground.
Naturally
, I landed on my broken hand. I squawked out another animal scream of torment. I tried to turn, to face my attacker. He had me. Had me while I was in my own stupid brain again. Thanks, Luce. Thanks for not being able to—

“Lucy?”

I spun and looked up. If it had been possible, my face would have drained of even more color.

“...Dad.”

My father stood over me, or rather, some version of him that I didn’t know. Normally tan and handsome, his sharp green eyes glinting with an almost dangerous level of mischief and intelligence, my dad had an intense, lively aura. But not now. His black hair stuck out in the front, as if he’d been running his hands over his forehead. His skin looked chalky, pale, and his sharp green eyes were dull and sunken. In fact, the circles under his eyes looked as bad as mine. He was wearing a t-shirt, and despite the chill in the air, was soaked with a dark ring of sweat around his neck.

“Lucy…what—?”

I held my good hand up, and as if on cue, my stomach hit the eject button. I rolled over on my side and vomited long strings of bile onto the asphalt. My dad moved with incredible speed, and I couldn’t believe it—he gathered my hair into his hands and held it out of the line of fire. When I’d finished, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing. Like I was eight years old again.

He set me on my feet, but his hands dug into my upper arms.

“Dad, that hurts—”

“Lucy. Where the hell have you been?”

“Dad, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?”

His voice flickered with two battling emotions. One of those voices wanted to bellow at me until I broke down into tears—which I would—while the other wanted to gather me up with gentle words and stronger arms and
make everything better
. Maybe it’s a universal Dad Voice—in fact, I’m sure of it.

“It’s not what you think—”

“What do I think, L-Lucy?” His voice cracked, and my throat choked. My vision went blurry with tears. “Tell me? Tell me how your mother and I feel. Tell us what we think, Lucy.”

I shook my head, and hot tears burned trails down my frozen cheeks. I looked into my dad’s haunted face, contorted to inhuman dimensions in anguish, and I knew something right away. He would never forgive me for this—not really. We might be okay someday—God I hoped there was a
someday
to look forward to—but this pain I’d inflicted would never go away. It might echo in him forever.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, you don’t understand—”

“Then explain it,” he shouted, and the hands on my arms rocked me with the force of his rage. “Explain why you would do this to us again. You know we thought you were dead the first time? Do you understand that at all? Do you even care?”

I didn’t have words. There weren’t words, were there? His heart had been torn apart in his chest, by me. What could I say to that? I’m sorry? I wish it had never happened? The words were true, but they weren’t enough. I felt that weight again, the sure knowledge that I would never make this up to him, or my mother. I’d broken something, irreparably, and even if it healed, it would never set right. For lack of a better metaphor, our relationship would always have a telling limp.