Servants of the Storm (6 page)

I hear the rasp of sneakers on chain link, and as I round a corner, she jumps down on the other side of the fence. My fingers curl into the mesh. As I climb, she looks back at me, and I’m struck again by her eyes—it’s like no one is home. Part of me wants to drive back to my house and hug my mom and hide under the covers, but the stronger part of me is determined to finish what I started and find Carly, even if I have to chase some freak girl through dirty alleys until I get answers.

I ignore the pain of the rusted wire and drag myself over the top of the fence. By the time I land on my feet on the other side, she’s skidding around the corner at the end of the alley. I’m hot on
her heels, panting from my first real exercise in months. My lungs burn, my heart’s going to explode, I’m terrified of what I saw in her eyes, and I won’t stop running. Not until she does.

I round the corner. She’s pelting down a dark sidewalk into a bad neighborhood, one I would normally avoid. All the streetlights are out, the windows are boarded up, and the flood line is still marked on the crumbling walls. My boots crush old newspapers and branches as I run, furious and panting in her wake. Night finally descends completely, as heavy as a blanket.

When she ducks into another alley, I follow. To hell with it. If she can go there, so can I. It smells even worse back here, dank and dark, like dead rats. But I’m getting closer. I’m just a few yards behind now. I don’t know where we are, but everything is trashed and gutted, like Josephine struck just yesterday instead of nearly a year ago A single light shines up ahead, but the street is oddly empty. Still, it feels like someone’s hunkered down behind the boarded-over windows, watching me.

The girl flings herself through a door on the left, and I skid to a stop under a tree with sharp, empty branches. The only sign of life on the entire street is the naked red lightbulb beside the still trembling door in a building straight out of a different century. The glass windows are painted black, and the tall wooden door stands ajar. I walk over, hugging myself and shivering, to read the sign under the light.
CHARNEL HOUSE RESTAURANT
. Underneath it, in carefully hand-painted words, it says
Real Savannah BBQ for Those of Persnickety Taste
.

I don’t want to go in, but I’ve got the girl cornered. I push the door open.

It’s dark inside, even for a restaurant. The only sound is me, panting. There’s no hostess, no sign, and no customers. All the tables are covered in long, white tablecloths, and all of them are empty. I feel like I’ve walked into 1850. I head for the door that has “Employees Only” painted on it in old-fashioned script, but it’s locked. I bang on it with my fist, but nothing happens. I set my forehead against the pitted wood and try not to cry.

“You look like you need a drink.”

I startle and turn, but this guy would be surprising under any circumstances. How did I not see him when I ran in? The bar is lit by old-timey lamps, and he’s posing behind the long, wooden counter, dark-eyed and gorgeous and wearing a bowler hat over shoulder-length blond hair. Lots of guys in Savannah look ridiculous in the historic uniforms their jobs insist upon, but he makes suspenders look good. His hands are braced on the bar, and his smile invites confidence. I can’t tell how old he is, but I have this embarrassing hope that he’s younger than he seems. My heart stops slamming against my chest with anger and fear and exertion and begins to thump slowly, steadily, with the cadence of swinging hips.

“I can’t drink. I’m underage,” I say, but he bows and gestures to a row of bar stools carved to look like skeletal hands. I shake my head. “I don’t want to sit down. I just want answers.”

“You’re exhausted. Sit down first. Catch your breath. Then we’ll talk.”

The bar stools creep me out, but I suddenly realize that I’m about to fall over on my feet. I walk right up and plunk myself down, letting the shiny, wooden bones cup the burning muscles of my butt. As I stare at the array of bottles on the mirrored wall, the bartender slides something down the bar.

It lands in front of me, and I look down. It’s a Shirley Temple, hot-pink and fizzing in a fancy glass. I can already smell the cherry sweetness, and I have never in my life been so thirsty.

His smile is dazzling. “Drink.”

“Thanks.” I smile back and bend the straw to sip. The rush of sugary syrup and bubbles is calming.

As I drink, I search the dark corners of the room, desperate to find the girl from Paper Moon. The guy steps in front of me, and I have to stare at him instead. His smile is hypnotizing, and it reminds me of this video I saw once of a cobra dancing in front of a mongoose.

“What brings you to Charnel House?” he asks.

“I’m looking for someone.”

I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re so dark, I expect them to pour onto the table and leave little burn marks, like chocolate lava. I blink, and they’re suddenly clear blue. There’s something strange about that, but I don’t know what it is.

“I haven’t seen a single person all day,” he says. “But if you’re hungry, I recommend the special. Best pulled pork you’ll ever have.”

“I don’t have any money. I left my bag in my trunk.”

The words fall out of my mouth before I’ve even thought
them. There’s a humming in my ears, and for just a second I wonder what in God’s name the meds were doing to me that I feel this way without them. Then I wonder what’s so wrong with me that I needed such seriously heavy medication to start out with. At least I’ve caught my breath again after that run, although my heart is still stuttering like crazy.

“That girl. I swear I saw her come in here—”

“Dinner’s on me,” he says with a wink. “I’m Isaac, by the way. What’s your name?”

“They call me Dovey.”

“Nice to meet you, Dovey.”

He holds out a hand over the bar, and I take it, and it’s cold and smooth and hard. I can’t make myself let go, but he just chuckles and manages to untangle my fingers.

“You look like you’re having a rough night,” he says. “Let me get you a plate. Keep sipping, okay?”

I remember my Shirley Temple and take a long drink. There’s a plastic sword perched on the side, and I slide the maraschino cherry off with my teeth. I’m swinging the sword and making chopping noises when he turns around, even better-looking than I remember, carrying a platter heaping with barbecue and macaroni and cheese and green beans. I’m salivating before the smell hits me, and by the time he sets it on the bar in front of me, I’m already reaching to grab a handful with my fingers.

“Whoa, girl. Wait for a fork. Let’s not be savages,” he says playfully, and I grin along with him.

“I haven’t eaten in years,” I say, unrolling the napkin of silverware he handed me and digging in to stuff my face.

“It’s food for what ails you,” he says, but the corner of his mouth tips down, and for just a second his eyes look sad. Or is it guilty? But once the food hits my lips, it doesn’t matter anymore. This food is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, better even than Carly’s mama’s dinner or my grandmother’s Sunday lunch. What have I been eating for the last year? Charcoal and sawdust. I eat forkful after forkful, gulping it down with sips of the Shirley Temple, which always seems full even though I never see him refill it. Isaac watches me, shines glasses, hands me paper napkins, and gives me another tiny sword with three cherries on it this time.

I eat those, too.

When I finally hear the sound of metal scrape on porcelain, my stomach twists with the sharp sting of regret.

“Seconds?” I say hopefully.

“Sorry.” Isaac gives me another dimpled grin. “It’s all you
may
eat, not all you
can
eat.”

He whisks the platter away, and I console myself with a slurp of Shirley Temple. Then that, too, comes up empty. I take one last, loud suck with my straw and concede defeat.

“We’re about to close, you know,” he says. “Do you need me to walk you back to your car?”

“I don’t know where I am.” And even though I’ve lived in this city my entire life, I realize that I have no idea how I came here or how to get back where I belong. “I followed . . .”

“You followed your nose, Dovey,” he says, leaning over to look deeply into my eyes. I gasp. I can’t look away. His eyes are so bright and blue and pulling that I grab the bar, trying not to get sucked in. This must be what it feels like to jump out of an airplane and fall into a cloudless sky.

“It just smelled so good,” I say, practically pleading.

“Yes, it did. And you know how to get home.”

“I know how to get home.”

“Good.”

“Can I come back?”

“I hope you won’t. Good-bye, Billie Dove.”

“Good-bye.”

He hands me another plastic sword with three cherries dripping shiny red juice onto the bar. I pop them into my mouth and hand him the sword. Against my will I push off from the bar and stand. My feet feel like they’re twenty feet away, like I’m on stilts. I wobble toward the door like I’ve been shoved. Pressing my hands against the wood, I turn to thank Isaac, but he’s already gone. The bar is empty. The lamps all go out at once, and I hurry out the door to escape the palpable menace of the empty room.

Back on the street nothing is familiar, but I’m already moving. I walk, step after step, down sidewalks haunted by shadows, past skeletal trees and lumps that could be bums or monsters or worse. The wind rips past me, ruffling my hair, and I hunch against it. I can’t quite remember what I was doing. Looking for someone? It’s
like trying to remember a dream. But my feet know where to go, so I let them take me there.

I turn a corner into a pitch-black alley, and someone knocks into me so hard that I almost fall over. Heavy hands fall on my shoulders. I flail around, screeching and clawing at the air and wishing I had my pepper spray, or my keys at the ready, or something in my hands. I should know better.

“Jesus, Dovey, where were you?” Baker says, his fingers gently squeezing my shoulders like he’s not sure I’m real. “I was freaking out!”

I wrench out of his grasp feeling shaken and irritated.

“I told you I had to go somewhere.” It comes out overly prissy, but I can only hope he won’t press for further details that I can’t provide because I don’t know them myself. I’m sure of only one thing: there was something I needed to do, some reason I left rehearsal. But I can’t remember where I’ve been or why, nothing since I walked out the door of the Liberty.

“Oh, yeah. Your secret quest.” He grins and slings an arm around my shoulder. “Getting me a present, I hope.”

“Your birthday’s not until May,” I grouch, and he laughs.

“My unbirthday, then.”

“I’ll put that on my uncalendar.”

He’s closer than he should be, and his arm feels strange on my shoulders. He should have let go by now. With his Caliban makeup still on and his hair full of twigs, he looks otherworldly, and the too bright way he’s looking at me makes the world spin
slightly off balance. I shrug away, and he mutters “Cool” and slouches around to his side of the car. We both get in, and his fingers flicker restlessly against the dash.

“So what happened in rehearsal?” he asks. His voice is deeper than I remember.

I have to think for a minute before it comes back to me.

“Oh. Mrs. Rosewater got all bajiggity, asking me if I was on my meds. So I got mad and stormed out. End of story.”

“Where’d you go?”

Rattled at my fuzzy memories, I exhale through my nose. “Went for a walk to cool off.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything else. As I drive the quiet streets, he watches me thoughtfully in the dark spaces between streetlights. Soon I’m pulling up to his house, just a few streets over from my own. I’m on autopilot again. Just a little numb. But deeply bothered by something I can’t quite recall.

“Hey, Dovey? Can I tell you something?”

I turn to face him, and he’s just as intent, just as wild as he was in the little hall at the Liberty. The details are coming back to me: his blueberry-bright eyes, the magic in the air, Tamika’s kindness, Jasmine’s dig, my too small leotard, the fox-hat girl, Mrs. Rosewater’s hand on my shoulder, something about Old Murph. But I’m still a little dazed.

“Sure,” I say.

“Whatever you’re doing differently, keep doing it. Okay?”

I snort. “Yeah, I’ll keep tripping on togas and storming offstage
during dress rehearsal. That’ll be great for the play.” I’m glad he can’t see me blushing in the dark.

“I’m just saying . . . I mean . . .”

Baker turns away, and I stare at his profile. The bones of his face are more defined, the baby fat almost gone. His half-monster Caliban makeup highlights the sharpness of his cheeks and chin, the furrow in his brow. I’ve never seen him look so serious, so adult. In my mind he’s a perpetual little boy, always pudgy, always laughing, filled with sass but so earnest. What I see there, in my memory—it’s not real. He’s someone else now.

He turns back to me with a fierce light in his eyes and says, “Look, it was hard as hell losing Carly. And then I lost you, too. It’s just good to have you back, to see you being yourself again. And if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” I know he wants me to say more, but I can’t.

He waits, watching me. But that’s all I’ve got. I shrug. He nods in good-natured defeat and slides out of the car. Before he shuts the door, he leans in and says, “Thanks for the ride.”

I need to say something, but I don’t know what.

“Baker, wait.”

“Yeah?”

He’s hopeful and tense, and he leans in farther than he should, and I blurt out, “I’m not Carly.”

With a little snort of laughter, he swings back out of the car, and as the door squeals shut, I hear him say, “I know.”

I watch him unlock his front door and disappear into the
warm glow of his too small house, where his mom will have some horrible casserole on the table that his dad will complain about while his three younger sisters toss dolls and stuffed animals all over the place. I miss feeling at home there, sitting on the squashy couch next to Carly, with Baker on my other side as we watched movies. It’s another haven I’ve lost and then forgotten, and now it’s like losing it all over again, because everything has changed and I can’t go back.