B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

The doors closed behind me, and the bus pulled away from the curb with a hiss of hydraulic breaks and the squealing-squeak of ancient machinery. I watched it go until it was nothing but a pair of tiny red dots in the distance. I thought I had felt alone at the bus stop.

Out of habit, I flipped my phone out my purse and checked the time. The screen was cold—was it dead, or just off? I didn’t care. If it had died, having the worried text messages and terrified voice mails at bay was a good thing.

The address took me to 516 Spruce Street. I looked up at the house as I approached, a little surprised. A smoke-gray little BMW coupe sat in the driveway, like it had just leaped out of a James Bond movie. I could imagine Daniel Craig in that thing, glaring into his rear view mirror while he bled from a gash over his eye. He was even making that little sexy pout in my daydream. I took a deep breath.

Down, girl. Really not the time. Anyway, Bond drove an Aston Martin.

I walked up to the doorway, under the eave, and rapped the wood with my knuckles. Three solid hits.

I felt nervous, and cold, don’t forget cold, but kind of light. Airy, almost. I think knowing that some of the Puck mystery was about to be revealed pumped a little helium into my balloon. I knocked again.

The door swung open, and I turned from my musings to say hello and to get my first glimpse of Puck’s granddaughter—down the gaping barrel of a giant black revolver.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

I held my hands up and staggered backward, tasting nothing but metal. I couldn’t make out the figure of the woman holding the gun, back-lit by the bright light in the doorway, but I could make out the gun just fine. And it brought to mind the little bald wannabe vato and his friends who had joked about raping me, and had settled on pumping a bullet into my stomach. The metal taste disappeared, replaced by the taste of bile and fear.

“Wait, please…”

“Stop moving, girl,” the voice said. It could have been a vulture with a bullhorn. That voice could cut glass.

The flood of memories made my legs tremble, but other than that I was a statue.

“There’s silver in here, girl, and I promise there’s enough.”

I didn’t miss it that time. She was putting on an act, I was sure of it. Granted, I had no idea what she was talking about with the silver, but her voice trembled. She might have been as afraid as I was. Maybe even more.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I just…I need your help.”

The expansive maw of the revolver barrel, floating a foot away from my forehead, dipped only slightly. It was enough.

A surge of uncontrollable anger blasted up from my stomach and into my chest, making my heart hammer and jive. My hand flicked, imperceptibly, just a little clench and unclench. The hot flood of energy burned through me, warming my skin, if only for a second before streaming out of me.

Something invisible and powerful ripped the revolver out of her hand. She barely had time to yelp before that same wave came back in and blasted her backward. Her butt landed on the entrance steps at the exact same moment that her revolver whumped softly into the grass behind me.

I could see her now, in the porch light. A frail-looking woman, somewhere in the vast gulf between fifty and sixty years old. Her huge eyes, wide in shock and terror, were crystal blue. Her graying, thinning hair was twisted up into a bun. A pair of sweatpants clung to her legs, and a simple white tank top hung from her thin shoulders.

The hot wave of anger, and energy, passed. I felt colder than ever.

“Not gonna hurt me, hmm?” The woman asked in her crone’s voice. It didn’t fit her. That voice would have been at home in some gnarled ninety-year-old. This woman might not have even qualified for a discount on her Grand Slam Breakfast yet.

“You had a gun on me.”

She shrugged.

“What did you mean about the silver?” I asked her. The idea made my mind itch. “I’m not exactly a werewolf.”

“You don’t know?”

I sighed. “If I knew I wouldn’t ask.”

She nodded at that, even smirked a little. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Well?”

“It’ll send your kind packing. At least for a little while. Force you into the Grey to rebuild. Well, as I understand it. I’ve never actually used it.”

There was enough in that sentence to keep me occupied for a while. Still, I didn’t have time for twenty questions. If she said silver could hurt me, I believed her. It could have been plausible—it hurt werewolves and vampires, right? Why not ghosts, too?

“I need to talk to your daughter, maybe granddaughter,” I said.

“Don’t have a granddaughter,” she said. “And Barbara isn’t in town. Sorry to disappoint.”

It didn’t take me long to put that one together. If this was Puck’s granddaughter…then Puck had to have a century or two under his belt. Wow, capital W.

“You’re Ophelia?” I asked, though I knew the answer easily enough.

“Yeah,” she said. Her face went from confused to angry in seconds. “Granpa sent you? Are you serious?”

I raised an eyebrow. She must know something all right. Either that or she thought having a living grandfather who might have fought in the Civil War was normal.

“Come inside,” she said, and sighed. “I guess we have talking to do. Mind picking up my gun on the way up?”

With that she disappeared inside the house. I grumbled, scooped the cold, heavy revolver out of the grass, and walked toward the house. As I did, I popped the chamber of the revolver open, thank you, Dad, and dumped the cartridges into my hand. One-two-three-four-five-six. I’d never seen a silver bullet before, but I’ll be damned if those weren’t them. The rounded tips gleamed with a sheen lead envied.

Unbelievable.

I followed her into the house and shut the door behind me.

The house was cozy, if a little cramped. Old-fashioned, elaborate ottomans and free-standing cabinets choked every hallway. I actually had to walk sideways into the living room to fit past all the shelves of knick-knacks. And though they were notable for their number, I couldn’t help but notice that almost all of them were coated with a blanket of dust. Many of them had been jostled out of their poses and left there—a few of the Hummels lay on their side, looking forlorn, or maybe just sleepy.

Ophelia stopped our little silent, awkward tour in the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee with unsteady hands. She didn’t offer me any. In fact, she went about the task in silence. It wasn’t until she stared into the sink drain for about thirty seconds without moving that I cleared my throat.

No response. I dropped the empty revolver on a little table next to the toaster. It landed beside the cordless phone with a prolific wham-crack .

“Christ!” Ophelia said. Half of her coffee slopped into the sink. She looked over her shoulder at me, under her drooping eyelids. “Forgot you were…never mind. Coffee?”

I shook my head and raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Knowing Puck, and I liked to think I did, even if only a little, this is not what I had expected from his granddaughter. Not in the slightest. Puck was a college professor. Puck knew sign language. Puck could be a gentleman when he wasn’t being a crazed lunatic. He ghosted class with every movement. Playful, irreverent class, but class unmistakably.

Not much time .

I took a deep breath. Ah, to hell with it.

“Puck sent me because—”

“Robin.”

I looked up at her. I’d intended on running right through the speech I’d been rehearsing on the walk over. The air I’d saved up sort of just…leaked out of my body.

“What…Robin?”