“Keep up, New Guy.”
I have to admit I’m feeling a bit giddy. Before the heists and surveillances and petty crimes of the last year, this is what I did: sneak into the Afterlife and con information out of the Dead. I was born into this. I feel more like myself than I have since Dante died.
When we get to Pruitt’s address, we find a small white house with dormer windows and geraniums in the window boxes. I turn to Ezra, but his focus is elsewhere, so I follow his gaze. A giant brain hangs in the sky where a cloud should be.
“Oh, yeah, that happens sometimes.”
Ezra stares, gaping.
I push his chin back up, then give him a pat on the shoulder. “Why don’t you have a look around? Get used to this plane of existence. I’ve got this covered.”
He doesn’t respond, but I’m sure he’ll pull himself together in a minute.
I use the walk up the dirt path to the rickety front steps to get into character: a young Tangier resident who discovered a journal in a strange language, only to find herself chased by demons. I’ll say I found Alice’s information in my dead mother’s belongings. I went into the Afterlife to ask her about it, but the demons followed me. I’ll pound on the door asking for help, which will get me in the house. The trick is not giving your mark time to think.
The thing I’m most looking forward to? The Tangier Island accent. As a relatively isolated island, settled by Cornish immigrants, it’s a mixture of West Country, New England, and Southern and almost incomprehensible to outsiders. This, my friends, will be my greatest accent challenge to date.
I close my eyes and take a calming breath through my nose, but before I can let out a bloodcurdling scream, the door swings open.
On the other side stands a young woman with pale skin, light brown hair, and a long nose.
“I reckon you took your time,” she says. Then she pulls me into the house.
“Wh-what?”
She shuts the door and closes the curtains, then turns to face me, arms crossed.
“Well? You bring it?”
I stare at her, mouth hanging open. After a moment, I say, “Yes,” but it comes out a whisper.
Conning is like improv or samples at Costco. Always say yes.
But I’ve got to admit I have no clue what’s happening. She’s thrown me for a loop, and I’m scrambling to get my footing.
Alice holds out her hand expectantly.
There’s only one thing I have she could possibly want, so I slowly reach into my apron pocket and pull out the journal. She snatches it from me, then strides over to a rolltop desk in the corner.
I blink out of my stupor. “Hey!” I say, trailing after her.
“You want me to make sense of this or not?” she says.
“Uh, yes, please?”
“Don’t tell me you come all this way without ink?” she says, pulling out an inkpot and quill.
I numbly reach into my other pocket and produce a vial of ink, shocked that she’s anticipated eventhis. If Alice wrote the translation with her own ink, the writing wouldn’t appear when I took the book back to the Beforedeath. Because her ink doesn’t actually exist. So I brought my own. Any writing Alice does with it will still exist when I return with the book.
I had a whole thing planned involving sleight of hand, a teapot, and some well-timed sneezes.
“Go sit yourself down over yonder while I work,” Alice says firmly, pointing to her couch.
I stand frozen for a moment, trying to decide if I should ask her how she knew I was coming. Two steadfast rules are conflicting here.
Rule #41: Never admit you don’t know what’s going onand
Rule #42: Always know what’s going on.
