Poppy shrugs. “I trust you.”
The lie hangs in the air between us, but she did the favor of ignoring my deflection earlier, so I’ll let this one slide.
“When do we start?” Poppy asks.
I hand her the extra plane ticket CJ got for my return flight. “How are the next few weeks looking for you?”
Eight
Most people don’t know about the Afterlife. I mean, lots of peoplebelievein it. But for the vast majority of humans, the Afterlife is just that—a belief. A hope.
Those whoknow, those who have been there and returned, generally fall into one of three categories.
In the first group are the syndicates. The Nightshades, the Phantoms, the Ferrymen, the Coven, and the Reapers. Though, really, only members of thefamilyare in the know. A good chunk of the lower-level members just think they’re part of your garden-variety Mafia.
In the second group are heaven hoppers, like me. This is a stupid name and a bit of a misnomer. (The Afterlife isn’t heaven, and we don’t really hop. What can I say? People like alliteration.) Unlike syndicate members, we’re free agents. Sure, some have the whole Robin Hood thing going on—stick it to the man, stand up for the little guy—but most of us are just trying to make a buck.
In the third group are tourists.
Seeing as I didn’t make CJ come recruit Poppy with me, I assumed they owed it to me to talk to Tolliver themself. But I learned I assumed wrong when they handed me a wad of cash and told me to take the bus. So, it’s well after midnight, and I’m standing outside, alone, in line for a nightclub in New Haven called Styx. The night air is cold enough to be called bracing and smells like weed andtequila. The bass of the music inside thumps hypnotically, and every once in a while, a car will drive past, splashing water up on the sidewalk.
I’m in the shortest skirt I own and a sheer top showing off a lace bralette under my leather jacket. My makeup is heavy enough I’m nearly unrecognizable, and my hair is held in place with enough hair spray, I should avoid open flames.
I make it to the front of the line and hand over my ID to the bouncer. Well, not my actual ID. Tonight, I’m twenty-one-year-old Ava Harper from San Antonio.
The bouncer gives me a once-over, lingering a little too long on my breasts. Which, on principle, I should be mad at but in actuality keeps the bouncer from looking too closely at how Ava Harper is fifty pounds lighter and blond.
He leers as he hands me back the ID and lets me past the rope.
“Thank ya kindly,” I say in my best Texan accent.
The nightclub is a hyper-colored world of madness. The bass rhythm that was muffled outside is now shaking my bones. A crowd of scantily dressed people writhes on the dance floor, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and alcohol. I make a beeline to the back where a VIP room is hidden by a velvet curtain. Another bouncer waits next to it.
“VIPs only,” he says as I approach.
I give him a winning smile. “Lucky for me, I’m theV-est ofP’s. I’m here to see Tolliver.”
The bouncer doesn’t even look at me. “Don’t know him.”
“I’ll wait,” I say, taking a coin out of my pocket.
I don’t let him see it before placing it in his hand, knowing he’ll recognize the weight and feel.
An obol.
A Phantoms obol, to be exact, this one decorated with a goat-headed devil.
I know I said the only real obol I have is the Ferryman one, and that’s true. This one is CJ’s.
Every once in a while, CJ will use their Melinas name or their stash of Phantoms obols to get us access to places. I don’t know how many obols they’ve got left, but they’re bound to run out eventually, considering they can’t go back to their family for more.
The bouncer pockets the obol and nods, opening the door for me. “Fourth door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I say, stumbling a little on my heels as I pass.
He catches me and puts me back on my feet.
I giggle. “Oops, sorry.”
