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The boy jacked a jaguar, slipping into its sleek body and sending its simple feline mind to sleep. He owned the beast now. Its flesh was his. Muscular magic in a compact four-legged frame, perfectly designed for running, stalking, and killing.
He had taken on the name “Jix”—one of the many Mayan words for “jaguar”—due to his inclination toward great cats, and he furjacked one every chance he got. He preferred wild jaguars, living in the jungles of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula—creatures that hadn’t lost their will to hunt.
Reconnaissance was Jix’s specialty: tracking and spying on Afterlights who His Excellency the King believed to be a threat. Afterlights such as the Eastern Witch—the one they called Mary Hightower.
His Excellency had created a barrier of wind upon the Mississippi River to keep her and other intruders out, but the Eastern Witch was shrewd and relentless. With the help of her own skinjackers, she had destroyed a living-world bridge, causing it to cross into Everlost. Then with a train full of followers and slaves, she rode a powerful locomotive across the river.
At least that was the story.
Others said that she never made the journey herself—that something strange and mysterious happened to her, but no one could agree as to what it was. She flew off into the sky. She melted. She turned to stone. She turned to flesh. Each rumor was more outlandish than the last, and no one knew for sure if any of them were true.
Jix was called in for closer surveillance. Discover their numbers, discover their intent, then report back to the king. If these trespassing Afterlights were truly a threat, they would be dealt with quickly, and would never see the light of day again. It all depended on Jix’s report.
“You should skinjack the pilot of a flying machine,” His Excellency had suggested to Jix, “for speed in this matter would greatly please us.”
Jix, however, had resisted. “But sir, my skill to stalk comes from the jaguar gods. If I make my journey impure, they will be angered, and take the skill away.”
His Excellency had then waved his hand dismissively. “Do as you will—as long as you bring us the results We require.” The king always said “us” and “we,” even when there was no one else but him in the room.
So, on a bright autumn day, Jix set out in the borrowed body of a jaguar, and within that speedy beast, he forged over mountains and rivers, resting when he had to, but never for long. When he came near human villages he heard many languages. Remnants of ancient tongues, Spanish, and finally English. Once he heard English, and saw signs written in that language, he knew he was getting close, yet never once was he spotted, for he had the best of both species now: the keen senses of the jaguar, and the full faculties of a human mind.
The ghost train had crossed the bridge in Memphis, so this was his destination. He was certain to pick up a scent of the supernatural there, and track them down. As he drew nearer, he could feel the thrill of the hunt filling him. The intruders wouldn’t stand a chance.
CHAPTER 2
Figureheads
The one positive thing Allie Johnson could say about being tied to the front of a train was that the view was spectacular. The sunsets were particularly stunning. Even in Everlost, where the colors and textures of the living world appeared faded and muted, dramatic skies lost none of their majesty, and painted the turning November leaves of every tree, living and dead, into shades of fire, before the sunset dissolved into dusk. It made Allie wonder if the clouds, the stars, and the sun existed in both Everlost and the living world equally. Certainly the moon was the same to the living and the dead.
No, not dead, Allie had to remind herself. Caught between life and death . . . although Allie was closer to life than most others in Everlost. It made her valuable, it made her dangerous—and that was why she was tied to the front end of a ghost train.
Right now Allie didn’t have much of a view. All she could see were the front doors of a white clapboard church. It would have been very picturesque if it wasn’t a foot in front of her nose.
The train had been stopped at the church for hours, while Milos, Speedo, and a handful of Mary Hightower’s best and brightest kids pondered what to do.
Mary herself was not available for comment.
Speedo, who was perpetually dripping wet in the ridiculous bathing suit he died in, always offered the most labor-intensive, solutions to obstacles in their path.
“We could backtrack again,” Speedo suggested, “then find another dead track and take it,” for a ghost train could travel only on rails that no longer existed in the living world.
Milos, their leader in Mary’s “absence,” shook his head. “It took very long to find a track that was not a dead end. What chance is there of finding another?” He spoke in slightly stilted English and a faint Russian accent that Allie had once found charming.
“Why don’t you just give up,” suggested Allie, who was in the perfect position to heckle them. “After all, Milos, you should be used to failure by now—and you’re so good at it!”
He glared at her. “Maybe we should crash right through it,” Milos suggested, “using your face as the battering ram.”
Allie shrugged. “Fine with me,” she said, knowing that it was impossible for her to be hurt in Everlost. “I just want to see the look on your face when the train derails and sinks to the center of the earth.”
Milos just grunted, knowing she was right. One would think that ramming a wooden building would just shatter it, and the train would chug on through—but Everlost was not the living world. The church had crossed into Everlost, and things that cross into Everlost are permanent. They can’t be broken, unless it was their purpose to break. They can’t be destroyed unless destruction is what they were designed for. So crashing into the church was likely to derail the train, since the church’s memory of staying put was probably more powerful than a speeding locomotive.
“How did it even get here?” Speedo asked, fuming. As the engineer, he had a singular mission: get the train moving. Anything other than forward momentum was his own failure as far as he was concerned. Typical for a thirteen-year-old. Milos, who had crossed into Everlost at sixteen, was a bit more calm about it. Still, Allie secretly relished the fact that every problem they came across made Milos look less competent in his role. Charisma went only so far.
“It got here,” Milos calmly explained, “because it was built and torn down before the tracks were.”
“So,” said Speedo, impatient as ever, “why is it in our way?”
Milos sighed, and Allie chimed in her response. “Because, genius, if the living world tears two things down in the same place, and both cross into Everlost, we’re stuck with both of them.”
