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ong moment, I can’t move. I guess I’m waiting for something to creep out of the shadows.
But nothing happens.
And yet I get the sense that something’s happened here. Something dark. It sticks to my skin like dust, seeps into my pores, spreading unease. I should turn around and leave this place, but I can’t help thinking that this feeling is guiding me to my coin.
I take a deep breath and step into the dark, shutting the door behind me so that damned raven can’t follow.
As I come to the end of the steps, I find a light switch on the wall beside me. The buzz of electricity sounds overhead, but the lights don’t come on. Instead, I rely on the pocket of light my phone creates as I move forward. A pair of columns run along each side of the room. Between each column are metal shelves and a collection of glass jars. It isn’t until I move closer that I see something inside them. Brushing a thick layer of dirt from the glass, a dead crow stares back at me. My breath catches in my throat and I jump away from the shelves. Shining my light from this distance, I can tell the other jars are full of dead things, too.
And then I hear a familiar laugh.
It rushes into my ears like water and suffocates my lungs.
I twist toward the sound—that glorious baritone—and smell him.
Pipe tobacco.
Lifesavers.
Poppa.
And when I turn, he’s standing there at the center of this horrible basement amid all the dead things in his flannel shirt and high-waisted pants. He smiles at me, and his skin, thin like paper, crinkles.
This can’t be real. I close my eyes and open them. He’s still there.
“Poppa?”
He laughs again, then mimics taking off an invisible hat—a bowler, brown—and bows before shuffling his feet along in an odd dance he used to do to cheer me up. He would reach for my hands, hold them lightly in his own, and then we’d take a turn around the room while he hummed a tune. The nearer he comes, the more details I notice: the bottom pearl snap of his shirt is undone, like always. The faded tattoo of an anchor on his inner arm, overgrown with wild hair. The patch of fuzz on his chin he never seems to scrape with his razor. He reaches for me but doesn’t grab me. He waits for me to take his hands.
My heart races and my throat feels tight and there’s pressure in my eyes that might make me go blind.
I want him to be real.
I reach for him and when his hands clasp mine, they’re warm and the skin is rough.
“Poppa,” I say again, my voice is a half-whisper.
This time, Poppa smiles, but his lips pull back, revealing a set of jagged, sharp teeth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – SHY & THE TRACKER
I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Lily’s dead body hanging behind my eyelids. I can’t stop thinking about how similar her death was to Vera’s, how there’s a strong possibility Lily’s soul was exchanged with Vera’s. Exchanges are made with resurrection coins. Resurrection coins are souls captured by the Eurydice using the Thread of Fate and right now, I’m pretty freaking sure Anora is the Eurydice.
But is she capable of killing Lily?
A better question: is Anora in control of her power enough to execute something like an Exchange?
It’s a question only Anora can answer.
I grab my tablet and find myself looking through photos. I’m realizing now I’m lucky Mom liked to take so many pictures of me and my friends growing up. I have a timeline of my friendship with Lily, Jacobi, Nat...even Thane. There are photos of all five of us outside Rayon Elementary. My eyes linger longest on Lily who is smiling so big, her eyes are closed. When we entered our Freshman year, we all transferred to Nacoma Knight Academy for training. Mom made us take the same photo, but outside Emerson Hall. Lily has the same smile.
I have photos from birthday parties, dances, and school. I finally choose a photo of me and Lily to set as the background image on my tablet. It was taken the night I got my Jeep. Once Dad gave me the keys, I drove to Lily’s to show her. She hopped in the passenger seat, leaned over the console and snapped this photo before we went backroading.
She never judged me for wanting to do more and more ‘human’ things.
“Hey.” I look up to find Mom standing in the doorway. “What are you smiling at?”
I turn the tablet around so she can see. She smiles, too, but it’s sad. Mom’s mourned Lily’s death just as much as me. She’s used to my friends coming over unannounced, hanging out for hours at a time. They’re just as much her kids as I am.
