B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

Zack made a hmmph sound and leaned back. Here we go.

“What?”

Zack turned to Puck, “This Abraham…why isn’t he after you?”

Puck looked at Morgan again, but she shook her head. Puck sighed and fired off a couple of staccato signs at her.

“‘I killed mine,’” Morgan said, and shook her head. “Wait, what?”

Puck sighed softly. He narrowed his eyes at Morgan. She growled and popped a fist into her open hand. The breath that puffed out of her reminded me of a balloon deflating. She dropped her head back against the glass, her face pointing up.

When she spoke, it came out in that flat monotone Puck voice.

“The Mors are the Yin to our Yang, the balance. We break nature, they preserve it. If they win, then we are consumed and they return to wherever it is they come from. If we destroy our Mors, then it’s over, too. There’s no second Mors, just as there’s no second soul to replace your first. Everything comes in pairs.”

“That’s great,” Zack said. “How did you kill it?”

Puck rubbed his chin and sighed.

“It took me a long time,” Puck sent. “And I was full of essence. More than I ever had been, or more then I will be ever again. And the price was steep.”

What did that mean? Part of me loved Puck for saving me, and part of me despised everything he was. Was he deliberately coy, trying to protect me again? Or was it a stupid old man wringing every last drop out of a good story?

“Then what are we supposed to do?” I asked, between my teeth.

Puck shook his head and cradled his cheeks with his long delicate fingers. An old man with scraggly hair and a wrinkled tweed jacket—part college professor, part hobo. My new mentor, source of as many questions as answers. Would I end up like him, someday—so entrenched in death and dreams I could no longer even relate to normal people?

There were a number of hurdles to clear before Morgan and Zack could return. Something was keeping them in comas—and somehow, Abraham knew how to do it. My Mors, my Thanatus, liked to play doctor. Had he been one in his previous life? I think so.

All of our parents were at that hospital, and the likelihood of police officers being there was also high. Considering my previous adventure on the milk carton, the cops would have my description.

And yet I couldn’t stay in the Grey to protect Morgan and Zack while Puck went ahead—I didn’t have the power or the control that he did. My abilities were underdeveloped.

“Ophelia,” Morgan said in her Puck’s voice.

“Huh?” Zack asked.

“‘Ophelia could help us,’” Morgan/Puck said. Puck turned to the windows of the train.

“Ophelia like…from Hamlet?” I asked.

“The crazy one,” Morgan said.

Puck nodded and turned around. He crossed his thin arms over his chest and nodded to Morgan.

“My granddaughter’s name is Ophelia,” Puck said through Morgan. “She’s a nurse.”

“A nurse…” Zack said. He thumped his fist on the window when he saw Abraham move through the room again.

“A nurse who knows something about induced comas?” I asked.

Puck nodded.

“Wait, induced?” Morgan asked. “Wouldn’t the doctors have caught that?”

I shook my head. It was a good point, one I had no answer to.

“Not if he’s pulling his whammy,” Zack said. He walked over to one of the windows of Morgan’s train and pointed at Abraham as he moved around the room. “Notice how he keeps moving between our two rooms? Maybe he has to keep doing the whammy.”

Morgan’s brow crinkled, “Stop saying that. What do you mean ‘the whammy?’”

“He’s… fascinating ,” I said. “The first time I ran into him. He put it on two people so they couldn’t see me.

Puck nodded at me and Zack—clearly he approved of the theory.

“So what do we do now?” Morgan asked.

It didn’t take long to formulate a plan. Puck explained that his granddaughter, this Ophelia, wouldn’t need much convincing. He didn’t say why, and avoided the question on further pressing. Still, the plan was simple and to the point—I’d shift over by myself. From there, I’d talk to Ophelia, and she’d come with me to the hospital. We’d sneak in, and I’d lead Abraham off while Ophelia undid whatever Abraham had done. Sounded easy.

For James Bond. Or maybe Batman.

I had no real way of pulling it off—Puck told me I’d have to trust my instincts. He actually said that, like I was some monk apprentice from a bad Kung Fu movie. With much better hair. And ovaries. And dead . No, maybe not dead. Strike that.

I had no use for speculation. Not when confronted with the all too real, all too frightening journey in front of me. I didn’t want to think of what could happen if I failed, if I just wasn’t good enough. I’d be Reapered. Reaped ? Anyway. Abraham would take me God knows where—I almost laughed at that, considering He probably did indeed know—and if my mysterious texter was to be believed, I wasn’t going where All Dogs Go.

Best not to think about that, though it was hard not to. Why wouldn’t I be able to hop the Pearly Gates? I knew I wasn’t religious, not in the Sunday-school way, but I had always thought that that stuff wasn’t all that counted. That God looked for a good person first. I’d been a good person. I am a good person, I thought.

Then again, could my texter be believed? I’d almost blamed it on Abraham, some crafty trick of his, before I realized that the texter had actually saved me from Abraham twice. But who could have sent me those messages? Everyone involved hip-deep in my fiasco would have told me. They would have copped to it. So who was my savior?

I massaged my temples. Too many things to consider.

One thing at a time, Lucy Day. Shift over. Find Ophelia—another piece of the puzzle that filled me with curiosity—and convince her to help. Go to the hospital. Play human-bait with Abraham. Save friends. Avoid being shunted off to Hell.

And maybe, just maybe, make it to Winter Formal with a head on my shoulders.

Here’s hoping.

“Lucy,” Morgan said.

I woke up from my musings.

“I’m ready,” I said. I tucked my purse against my side, stood up straight, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “How do I look?”

“Terrified,” Morgan said. She ran forward and pulled me into her arms. For a long while, I wondered what it would be like to be crushed to death by a fifteen-year-old volleyball player. When she let go, I felt my lungs cry out in relief.

“Beautiful,” Zack said. I barely turned around before he pulled me into his arms.

“You honey-tongued devil,” I said, in my atrocious southern accent.

I could almost feel Morgan and Puck turning away to pretend other parts of the train were extremely fascinating. In another time and place, I might have been embarrassed. Right then, with horrible danger staring me in the face, I couldn’t give a damn.

Zack leaned down to kiss me. I put two fingers over his lips.

“Wait,” I whispered. “I could hurt you. I will hurt you.”

His speech was muffled by the fingers against his mouth. What should have been, “why would you hurt me?” came out as, “why wrrrd you hrrrmmeee?”

I grinned at that. Then I shook my head and dropped my fingers.

“I can’t help it. That high you felt the last time I kissed you wasn’t just my incredible technique. I could hurt…I could make you forget everything you’ve ever…just, no, okay? Not until I figure it out?”

He slid his arms around my waist, and I laid my head against his chest. My eyes closed, and I enjoyed the moment, listening to the rustling thump of his heartbeat through his shirt. After not-enough-time, I took a breath and stepped back.