Servants of the Storm Read online

  It moves again, and I see the barest outline of a body. Smallish, folded over another lump. Another person? Two kids about to get it on? But the thing on the bottom isn’t moving. And the one on top is jerky, intent, and shaped wrong.

  I swear it’s a person with fox ears. She leans forward, just barely out of the shadow, and I see a slim girl wearing an orange knitted hat shaped like a fox head, with black-tipped orange ears and long ties that hang down. Her mouth is drawn back in a snarl with red smears over pale skin and sharp teeth. All the hairs rise up on my arms, and I suddenly know how a rabbit feels seconds before claws settle into the skin of its neck. I gulp, my throat dry. I try to look away, but I can’t. She stands and takes a step into the aisle. There’s a flash, something shiny in her hand, winking in the houselights. I lean out a little farther from behind the mushroom, trying to make it out. Then the kid playing Stephano walks right into me, and we fall over in a tangle.

  “Cut!” Mrs. Rosewater yells. “Dovey, what happened?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “But there’s someone watching us. Isn’t this a closed rehearsal?”

  Mrs. Rosewater follows my pointing finger, squinting into the corner of the balcony with her hands on her hips. The only thing that makes her angrier than a mess onstage is people breaking her rules offstage.

  “Who’s up there? Come down here immediately!” she yells.

  We wait, but nothing happens. The girl in the fox hat doesn’t appear. I manage to disentangle my sandals from Stephano’s toga and stand, shielding my eyes. Mrs. Rosewater shoves her assistant toward the stairs, and the girl jogs up them, around the pit, and up the house stairs and disappears. She shows up on the balcony and ducks behind the seats. My heart seizes as I wonder what sort of lunatic I’ve just sent her to find. I can’t forget the wink of metal, the slash of blood, that feeling of being hunted.

  “There’s no one here,” the girl says, emerging from the shadows with a shrug.

  Mrs. Rosewater turns the full weight of her stare on me. I’m speechless.

  “I saw her,” I say, my voice firm. “I’m sure of it. A girl in a fox hat.”

  Cocking her head at me, Mrs. Rosewater sighs and heaves herself up the pit stairs. She walks to where I’m standing onstage and puts a meaty arm around my shoulders. Contrary to her name, she smells like chalk, not roses.

  “Dovey, have you been taking your medicine?” she says, so low that I can barely hear her. “Maybe you need to go home and rest.”

  I jerk out from under her arm and storm off the stage without a word. Along with my feelings, my pride is back, big-time. I may have been crazy, I may have been drugged, but I’ve never been a liar.

  Well, until this morning.

  I duck through the wings. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I know what they must be thinking. The crazy girl is losing it again. But I don’t have the tools to deal with it, don’t know how to tell them I’m fine, without sounding even crazier. I feel like I’ve just woken up, like the sleep’s still in my eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit the meds cold turkey. Maybe I should have tapered off, should have given myself more time to return to normal.

  Too late now.

  At least skipping out on rehearsal means I can start looking for Carly earlier.

  I kick over a prop chair, and it’s exhilarating. I feel like me again. My current rage, my rush of fear, my wounded pride—they feel good. I fling open the door to the hall and almost run into Old Murph when I turn the corner.

  “Watch it, girly,” he says gruffly.

  “Was there a girl here?” I ask, moving to block him as he tries to edge around me.

  “Lots of girls here,” he says, but he looks cagey, his rheumy eyes narrowing at me.

  “In the balcony. Up in the corner. In a fox hat.”

  “What kind of girl would wear a fox hat?” he grumbles.

  “Anyone with ten dollars,” I shoot back. “Who was she?”

  “You need to let sleeping dogs lie, girl. You look into the shadows long enough, something’s gonna start looking back.” He shifts from foot to foot and won’t meet my eyes.

  “Was there someone there or not?”

  “Theater’s closed. Doors are chained. If something else gets in, ain’t my fault.”

  I block his path again. “What do you mean, ‘if something else gets in’?”

  The old man looks at me, and a creepy smile spreads across his face, making waves in the wrinkles. He leans up against the peeling wall, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s holding it up or it’s holding him up.

  “Wait,” he says with a chuckle. “You’re the crazy girl, ain’t you? I heard about you.”

  “I’m not crazy,” I snap.

  “Keep taking your pills, girly,” he says. “Or they’re gonna lock you up. I heard what you did.”

  “Excuse me?” I draw up to my full height and channel my mother’s aggressive lawyer anger.

  “I remember your best little girlfriend. Carly.” At the sound of her name, I can no longer breathe. “When she passed on, you went plum crazy. Pulled a knife on somebody, I heard. And they locked you away for a while.” He looks me up and down with a lazy grin. “Looks like they let you out too soon. You give me any trouble, they’ll send you back where you came from.”

  I draw a shaky breath.

  “I didn’t pull a knife on anyone,” I say, but my voice wavers and kind of turns the words into a question. There are holes in my memory, but that’s a big piece to forget. Surely I would remember something like that. No one would let me back in school if I had done that. Right?

  Old Murph pushes away from the wall and winks at me.

  “You just watch yourself, sugar,” he says as he shuffles down the hall. I’ve never noticed before, but his back is hunched, and he has a slight limp. I guess I’ve never really looked at him; I just have this mental image of a creepy old guy. But there’s something about him that bothers me. Do I imagine that his hair is moving, the greasy gray strands waving like feelers?

  Shuddering, I slip into the girls’ dressing room and lock the door behind me. My headache still hasn’t gone away, and I’m starting to regret flushing my pills. I’m seeing things that aren’t there, and Tamika said I went psycho at Carly’s funeral, and now the old man says I pulled a knife on somebody. Maybe I was crazy.

  Maybe I am crazy.

  And maybe I’ll go home and confess to my mom and ask her to buy a new bottle of pills. Maybe it’s better to be fuzzy and numb than to see things that aren’t there. Scary things that I’d rather not see. But the whole reason I got out of the fog was to go back to the Paper Moon Coffee Shop and look for signs of Carly. When I saw her last week, I was on my pills.

  Without them what will I see tonight?

  6

  AFTER CHANGING INTO MY REGULAR clothes, I Make sure the hall is empty before I head out the door. I don’t want to see Old Murph, and I don’t want to see the fox-hat girl. The long, green passage is as dark and empty as ever, but it has lost the veil of comfort that used to hide its faults. I can see the flaking paint, the fissures in the brick underneath. Everything is a little too crooked, like part of a fun house. I hurry out the side door and shut it gently behind me.

  It’s late afternoon, and concrete-gray clouds are slowly turning lavender. The air has some bite to it, and I huddle inside my hoodie. Rehearsal should go on for another hour, so I have time to hit the Paper Moon without Baker, which is how I wanted it anyway. I text him to say that I’ll swing back by to pick him up when I’m done.

  As I stow my backpack in my trunk and slam it closed, I hear a shifting shuffle farther down the alley. Probably another mangy and forgotten pet displaced by the hurricane. The city had to round up and euthanize a bunch of dogs that went feral and mauled some kid in the streets last year. I hurry back out to the sidewalk, where the antiques store lady glares at me again. I meet her eyes as I walk past, and she doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Like she’s just another old statue, rotting in
place as the city crumbles.

  I move through downtown as the natives do, eyes down, arms close, huddled over. Everything about me says, Not a target, because anyone walking alone in this area is most definitely a target now that the people on the street are more desperate than ever. My fingers find the pink plastic bead in the pocket of my jeans, and I roll it back and forth like a prayer.

  Keeping to the safer sidewalks, I pass mansions and crack houses and museums and bars. Sometimes the only difference between them is a fresh coat of paint or a busted-up lock. The sun’s going down fast, the tall buildings cutting what little light is left into blocks of shadow. Only half the streetlights work anymore. I hurry, anxious for the warmth of my favorite place downtown.

  I push through the glass doors into the softly glowing Paper Moon Coffee Shop. Christmas lights twinkle around the sky-blue tin ceiling year round, and lanterns bob at varying heights, keeping the shadows outside at bay. The bare brick walls are snug and steady, complemented by big paintings that look like honeycombs. My hunched shoulders relax, and I shake out my hair and take my hands out of my pockets. Despite the fact that I’m excited and scared and possibly seeing things, I can’t help feeling comforted.

  “Usual?” Rudy calls from behind the counter, and I nod with a grateful smile. Of all the places I’ve purposefully avoided since losing Carly, this is one place I couldn’t give up.

  I sit in the same place I was sitting last week when I saw her. I was supposed to be studying but was mostly zoned out, and I just so happened to look up as the back door opened. And I saw her. Half in the darkness of the alley and half in the light of the café, it was Carly. My best friend, the girl who’d been like a sister to me since we were babies. Her profile was unmistakable, from the carefully tended braids to the exact slope of her nose to her favorite jacket. Although I couldn’t completely see her eyes in the shadows, I felt a jolt of recognition, and I knew that she saw me, too.

  I didn’t catch her. But I found the pink bead, and later I found the note I wrote to myself before the fog could envelop me again and make me forget. Saw Carly at Paper Moon. Have to find her. Have to quit the meds.

  And even though I then returned to what passed for normal, to the numb fuzz, I couldn’t help carrying the note with me. Taking it out of my pocket. Unfolding it. Seeing the words there, and rolling the pink bead between my fingers. Having a brief second of clarity and then slipping back down into the easy stupor. And then, yesterday morning, after waking in a cold sweat from a dream already forgotten, I found myself spitting my pill down the disposal as soon as my mom turned to the fridge. It was gone before I could change my mind.

  So here I am now, back at the Paper Moon. Not even two full days off my meds, and I feel like an entirely different person. Rudy brings me a chai latte with extra whipped cream, and I slide him two bucks. He gives me a weird look, but I’m pretty sure he just feels sorry for me, sitting here alone where I used to sit with Carly. As the owner, he’s been chatting with us for years and always sponsors the school plays.

  The coffeehouse is mostly empty, which is normal for early evening. Rudy pretends like he’s not watching me, but at least he doesn’t try to talk to me anymore. I sip my chai for a few minutes, until all the whipped cream is gone and the liquid is cool enough to drink. I watch the back door with single-minded intensity, willing it to open. But it doesn’t.

  Halfway done with my drink, I get up and walk toward the bathroom, my eyes never leaving the back door. I push into the dark blue room, step into my favorite stall, and scan the walls for new graffiti. They leave a silver Sharpie on a string, just to keep things interesting. Josephine ate my baby is on there, as well as Savannah: It’s NOLA for losers. My eye is drawn to the number 616 drawn raggedly with a jerky hand, and I wonder if they’re talking about Café 616 or something else. It kind of looks like two eyes and a nose, like it’s looking at me while I pee, which is unnerving. For once, I’m glad that there’s no mirror over the sink, just a print that says You’re perfect.

  When I’m done, I wash my hands and head back to my drink and my staring contest with the door. I pass an older woman in the hall, and she stares at me like I’m a freak, and I breathe out through my nose and try to remember why I wanted my emotions back, when all I feel is anger and loss.

  As I push past the counter, I see dark fingers with hot-pink fingernails pulling the back door closed. Recognition jolts through me: I was right. It’s her!

  I take off running, shoving past Rudy and through the door into the evening shadows of the alley. The door clicks shut behind me and, oddly enough, locks. An unfamiliar figure stops just ahead and turns to face me. It’s not Carly—the girl has a similar complexion, but her hair is straightened and she’s wearing velour track pants, which Carly would never do. But the way she’s just standing, head canted unnaturally, makes me step closer, squinting. In her hand is a brown glass jar identical to the one that arrives every month with my pills. The hairs on my neck rise up for the second time today. Something’s definitely off. The girl takes a clumsy step back, and I realize that her eyes are black—dead and empty. I shudder and look down, feeling like I’ve just stared into an abyss I can’t quite escape.

  In that moment she spins and gallops away.

  “Wait!” I yell. “Stop! Please!”

  She slips in a puddle and then lurches back to a run. I take off too, but she’s gone before I can grab her. I know it’s not Carly, but I can’t stop myself from following. This was the last place I saw Carly, and Carly ran away too. It’s just so weird, that this girl would have the exact same pill bottle, which doesn’t look anything like the usual plastic prescription bottles from normal pharmacies. And there’s something seriously wrong with the way the girl is running clumsily without ever looking back. Something bizarre is going on, and I want to know what it is.

  I pound after her, my boots splashing through the puddles and screeching over the broken glass and bits of trash in the oily alley. She’s faster than me, but I’m unstoppable, and I’m not letting her go. In addition to the curiosity and drive to find Carly, it’s got me more than a little pissed that this girl wouldn’t even stop to talk to me. That’s just plain rude. Whoever she is, she’s going to answer my damn questions.

  I hear the rasp of sneakers on chain link, and as I round a corner, she jumps down on the other side of the fence. My fingers curl into the mesh. As I climb, she looks back at me, and I’m struck again by her eyes—it’s like no one is home. Part of me wants to drive back to my house and hug my mom and hide under the covers, but the stronger part of me is determined to finish what I started and find Carly, even if I have to chase some freak girl through dirty alleys until I get answers.

  I ignore the pain of the rusted wire and drag myself over the top of the fence. By the time I land on my feet on the other side, she’s skidding around the corner at the end of the alley. I’m hot on her heels, panting from my first real exercise in months. My lungs burn, my heart’s going to explode, I’m terrified of what I saw in her eyes, and I won’t stop running. Not until she does.

  I round the corner. She’s pelting down a dark sidewalk into a bad neighborhood, one I would normally avoid. All the streetlights are out, the windows are boarded up, and the flood line is still marked on the crumbling walls. My boots crush old newspapers and branches as I run, furious and panting in her wake. Night finally descends completely, as heavy as a blanket.

  When she ducks into another alley, I follow. To hell with it. If she can go there, so can I. It smells even worse back here, dank and dark, like dead rats. But I’m getting closer. I’m just a few yards behind now. I don’t know where we are, but everything is trashed and gutted, like Josephine struck just yesterday instead of nearly a year ago A single light shines up ahead, but the street is oddly empty. Still, it feels like someone’s hunkered down behind the boarded-over windows, watching me.

  The girl flings herself through a door on the left, and I skid to a stop under a tree with sharp, empty bran
ches. The only sign of life on the entire street is the naked red lightbulb beside the still trembling door in a building straight out of a different century. The glass windows are painted black, and the tall wooden door stands ajar. I walk over, hugging myself and shivering, to read the sign under the light. CHARNEL HOUSE RESTAURANT. Underneath it, in carefully hand-painted words, it says Real Savannah BBQ for Those of Persnickety Taste.

  I don’t want to go in, but I’ve got the girl cornered. I push the door open.

  It’s dark inside, even for a restaurant. The only sound is me, panting. There’s no hostess, no sign, and no customers. All the tables are covered in long, white tablecloths, and all of them are empty. I feel like I’ve walked into 1850. I head for the door that has “Employees Only” painted on it in old-fashioned script, but it’s locked. I bang on it with my fist, but nothing happens. I set my forehead against the pitted wood and try not to cry.

  “You look like you need a drink.”

  I startle and turn, but this guy would be surprising under any circumstances. How did I not see him when I ran in? The bar is lit by old-timey lamps, and he’s posing behind the long, wooden counter, dark-eyed and gorgeous and wearing a bowler hat over shoulder-length blond hair. Lots of guys in Savannah look ridiculous in the historic uniforms their jobs insist upon, but he makes suspenders look good. His hands are braced on the bar, and his smile invites confidence. I can’t tell how old he is, but I have this embarrassing hope that he’s younger than he seems. My heart stops slamming against my chest with anger and fear and exertion and begins to thump slowly, steadily, with the cadence of swinging hips.

  “I can’t drink. I’m underage,” I say, but he bows and gestures to a row of bar stools carved to look like skeletal hands. I shake my head. “I don’t want to sit down. I just want answers.”

  “You’re exhausted. Sit down first. Catch your breath. Then we’ll talk.”

  The bar stools creep me out, but I suddenly realize that I’m about to fall over on my feet. I walk right up and plunk myself down, letting the shiny, wooden bones cup the burning muscles of my butt. As I stare at the array of bottles on the mirrored wall, the bartender slides something down the bar.