Elegy (7 page)

Ruth answered on the second ring.

“Jillian, honey? How nice to hear from you.”

Immediately, I could tell that Ruth had recovered from her poisoning last Christmas. Lucky for her and the New Orleans Seer community, Kade LaLaurie’s serpentwood cocktails apparently didn’t have a permanent effect. She sounded so strong, so imperious, that it struck me mute for half a second.

“Jillian? Jillian, dear, I’m awfully busy—”

“It’s not Jillian, actually.”

My voice came out strained and unfamiliar. But Ruth nonetheless recognized it. After a tense pause, she growled, “What do
you
want?”

“A chance,” I said weakly. Then, in a firmer tone, I repeated, “A chance, Ruth. I need one, your family needs one—the entire town of Wilburton needs one.”

I heard a faint, rhythmic clicking on the other line, as though she was tapping her fingernails against a marble surface. She stayed silent for so long, I thought she might have hung up on me. But finally, she commanded, “Explain yourself.”

I took a deep breath for courage, and then did just that. It took me a while to go through the whole story—I actually started from the beginning, with Eli, and made my way to the present threat. I only left out a few details, mainly steamy ones concerning me and Joshua; in my opinion, those memories belonged solely to us.

I felt a little breathless as I finished. Checking the clock over the Mayhews’ stove, I could see why: I’d talked for almost thirty minutes straight. I took a quick, peripheral peek at my tablemates. Joshua and Jillian looked far more somber than they had earlier, and Scott looked downright queasy. I guess Jillian didn’t give him the
entire
story, after all.

Ruth’s voice drew my attention back to the phone call, which, up till now, had been more of a monologue than a conversation. As Ruth continued to speak, it seemed that the call would remain a monologue—she talked ceaselessly for another thirty minutes, telling me
exactly
what she thought about me and my plan. She even told me when the conversation was officially over, hanging up on me without so much as one word of good-bye.

I stared at the phone in my hand long after the call ended, not really noticing when the screen went blank from inactivity. My tablemates stared at me, too, waiting silently for the bad news. While they waited, I played Ruth’s most important words over and over in my mind. Then I shook my head and raised my eyes to Joshua’s.

“She’s in,” I said. “Ruth’s on our side.”

Chapter
ELEVEN

F
our tense but uneventful days later, neither Joshua nor I had quite recovered from Ruth’s shocking change of heart. Or change of methods, at least.

On the phone with me, she made it perfectly clear that she still thought I shouldn’t exist in this realm. But as long as I intended to fight the powers of darkness, she’d stand with me. Until High Bridge fell, of course. After that, we would return to our respective sides of the dead/living divide.

For the last few days, Joshua and had I spent every spare minute planning the big picture. Before we knew it, it was already Thursday night—only forty-eight or so hours away from our epic showdown. So we lay on the gazebo’s daybed, avoiding his Physics homework and plotting the smaller details. Unfortunately, most of our plotting involved
waiting
, since everyone agreed that we should let Ruth convince the Wilburton Seers to join us. God only knew what would happen if four teenagers, one of whom was a Risen ghost, asked them.

Without looking at Joshua, I tugged nervously on my bottom lip with my teeth.

“Ruth said she could get a flight out of New Orleans Friday,” I told him. “And she promised that she’d spend this week working on spells. But since she won’t get here until tomorrow night, we only have one full day to rally the Wilburton coven
and
prep for Saturday’s midnight attack, before the demons strike again. Assuming they even keep their word on the one-death-a-week thing.”

Joshua shifted uneasily beside me. “We can’t afford to think like that, Amelia.”

“You’re right,” I said softly. “I’m not sure I can wrap my brain around the idea that someone else might die before then.”

To distract myself from that very real possibility, I reached up and drew invisible patterns in the air with one finger. Joshua watched me for a minute and then reached up as well, to try to clasp my hand. Even though our hands passed through each other midair, it was the thought that counted; with Joshua, it
always
counted.

I angled my head toward his on our shared pillow. “You know the only thing that makes all this bearable?”

“That you love me?” he guessed.

“Bingo.” I smiled faintly and dropped my hand to trace the outline of his jaw.

“Do you need me to tell you that the feeling is mutual?” he asked. When I shook my head, he beamed at me. Then his smile faded into a grimace.

“Damn,” he murmured, raking his fingers through his messy, post-baseball-practice hair. “I forgot to tell you—I’ve got a game tomorrow night. I won’t be there to help you with my grandma.”

The thought of speaking to Ruth in person, without Joshua as a buffer, made me go cold. Still, I shrugged and gave him a blasé wave. “It’ll be okay—Ruth and I can handle the planning that night by ourselves. And on Saturday . . . well, you’d better not miss Saturday.”

“I wouldn’t, not ever. But you know what’s weird? I’m actually a little sad that
you
have to miss Friday.”

“Me, too,” I said, and I meant it. I’d attended each of his spring ball games, albeit invisibly: I’d never felt ready to introduce myself to Joshua’s friends. Kind of ironic, considering the fact that just a few days ago, I’d introduced myself to one of them with a literal bang.

“Maybe if I’m not there,” I joked, “you’ll play even better. You know, since my freaked-outedness won’t be subliminally freaking
you
out.”

Recently, college scouts had started attending the Wilburton High baseball games to watch Joshua and his friend David O’Reilly play. Since the scouts arrived, I’d spent every game in near agony, both hopeful and fearful that Joshua would finally earn his scholarship to some faraway college. Each pitch, each hit, had me clawing at my wooden seat. Now, I didn’t know if either of us would survive this weekend to see another game.

Unaware of my real fears, Joshua laughed. “Maybe you
do
affect how I play. But it’s not like I can see you up there in the bleachers.”

His reference to my invisibility problem brought up another, far less pleasant thought. I curled up into a seated position next to him, tucking my legs beneath me on the bed.

“Speaking of Friday,” I said, abruptly changing the subject, “I think I’ve decided that I
am
going to go, tomorrow morning.”

Joshua’s eyebrows drew together with worry. “You shouldn’t have to go by yourself, Amelia. I can skip school tomorrow. Go with you.”

I shook my head firmly. “No, you can’t. Besides, you’d get some pretty weird looks, standing all by yourself at the funeral of a woman you didn’t even know.”

Joshua’s expression darkened further as he shifted to sit up beside me. “So, you’re really going to stay invisible for the whole thing?”

“It’s Serena’s funeral, Joshua. You read the newspaper: my mother will definitely be there. I can’t let her see me, especially not on a day like that.”

Two days ago, Jillian had found Serena’s obituary in the
Latimer County News-Tribune
. Other than the few details I’d learned from the TV news report, I discovered some unexpected items in the obituary as well.

The first thing out of place was Serena’s burial site: it would be the same cemetery where I’d been buried, instead of her family plot in the neighboring town of Hartshorne. Next, the obituary listed only one person as Serena Taylor’s next of kin. Not her mother, father, or little brother Aaron, but one Elizabeth Louise Ashley. My mother.

“If you want to go by yourself,” Joshua said, drawing me out of my confused thoughts, “then I won’t stop you.”

Although he spoke the words, I could tell that Joshua didn’t like the idea of me being alone at the funeral of my ex–best friend/murderer. Truth be told, I didn’t much like it either. But I
couldn’t
miss the funeral—just as I suspected that Serena hadn’t missed mine.

Suddenly, Joshua’s face brightened with a new idea. “You could wear a disguise,” he suggested. “So that your mom won’t recognize you.”

I released a small snort of disbelief. “What, like wear oversized glasses with a fake mustache attached?”

Joshua grinned a little. “Could I get a picture of that, please? But seriously: Jillian obviously loves to dress you up like a paper doll, so we could at least see what she comes up with.”

I was about to reject the idea completely, when I hesitated. At worst, I could turn invisible at the cemetery gates if I didn’t feel sufficiently disguised.

“All right,” I said, looking up at Joshua. “I’ll give it a shot.”

He blinked back, clearly surprised that I’d actually agreed. Then he pulled out his cell phone. After a quick text and its reply, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“Jillian’s in her room—she says you should just go on up so that you two can look through some clothes.”

I swept away a few leaves that had fallen onto my jeans from the plants above us and then peeled myself off of the daybed. “Don’t you think it’s a little ridiculous,” I asked him as I rose, “that the two of you
text
each other, when you’re less than a hundred feet apart?”

Joshua grinned good-naturedly and settled back on the daybed with his previously discarded Physics book.

“How would we have known how far apart we were, unless we texted first?”

I shook my head, moving toward the entrance of the gazebo. “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand this century.”

I heard Joshua chuckle as I let the heavy outer drapes of the gazebo fall shut behind me. I trudged through the dark backyard into the house, dragging my feet a little. Once I entered the house I turned myself invisible, just in case Jeremiah or Rebecca had decided to stay up later than their children, and made my way to Jillian’s bedroom. I knocked on her door, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu—I’d gone to her room to get dressed up only a few days ago. But considering what had happened since then, it felt like something I’d done in another lifetime.

The door opened and, instead of Jillian, a dress greeted me. It swung slightly on its hanger, which Jillian held in front of her like an offering. The dress was surprisingly understated: cleanly cut black silk, almost retro with a wide neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves.

“Perfect,” I said quietly, running my fingers across its fabric. “Very . . . funereal.”

Still hiding behind the dress, Jillian produced a black, floppy-brimmed hat in her other hand. “This, and some oversized sunglasses, ought to hide your face.”

Finally, the dress swished aside and Jillian came into view. Without letting me cross her threshold yet, she scrutinized my face as if I had a smudge of dirt on it.

“What?” I asked, wiping self-consciously at my cheeks. “What is it?”

Jillian tilted her head to one side, still giving me that thoughtful look. “Have you always worn your hair down? I mean—did you wear it like that, when you were alive?”

I tugged at the ends of my long brown hair and frowned. “Yeah, I did.”

Jillian nodded decisively. “Then tomorrow, you’re a ponytail girl. Sleek and sophisticated—none of your usual bohemian crap.”

“Thanks, Jill,” I drawled. “You’re a big help.”

“Don’t mention it,” she muttered, entirely missing my sarcasm as she continued to study me. “A little makeup wouldn’t hurt you, either. Mascara, blush, maybe some red lipstick—you’ll look like a totally different person. I’ll leave everything out on my bed for you tomorrow morning. I’d help you get ready before I go to school, but . . .”

“The no-touching thing sort of preempts that,” I finished awkwardly.

She was obviously not as concerned by the problem as I was. Without bothering to end the discussion properly, she shut the door in my face.

“Night,” she called belatedly, her voice muffled by the wood.

Although Jillian couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes at her door. Even with all we’d been through together, I guessed some things never changed. I took a quick peek at Jeremiah and Rebecca’s door, to make sure they hadn’t heard me talking in their house so late at night. Then I crept back downstairs, through the back kitchen door to where the gazebo—and Joshua—waited for me.

When I woke the next morning, I found myself curled as close to Joshua as I could get on the daybed in the gazebo, where we’d stayed up talking. I pushed myself into a stretch, yawning.

I cast a glance back at Joshua, and my yawn transformed into a soft smile. I loved the way he looked as he slept: frowny and disheveled like a little kid. Not as heart-wrenchingly handsome as I found him while he was awake, but somehow just as appealing. Sitting this close to him, I experienced that familiar, curling ache within my core, the one that awakened each time I
really
let myself look at him. Physically, it felt as though I’d slept alone in an otherwise empty bed. Emotionally . . . well, that part never changed.

My gaze drifted upward, to the mesh skylights that Rebecca had sewn into the cloth ceiling of the gazebo. I wasn’t surprised to see that it was still dark outside. On a day like this, there was no way I would sleep past dawn. I was too edgy. Too anxious.

I slithered off the bed—no need to rouse Joshua, since no one in the Mayhew household could possibly be awake yet. I stepped carefully across the creaky gazebo floorboards and parted the drapes, slipping quietly through the backyard. I almost laughed at myself as I crept into the Mayhews’ house like a cat burglar: for a girl who could go invisible, I was acting a bit ridiculous.

Yet something about my goal this morning felt a little clandestine. Maybe because I hadn’t told anyone, including Joshua, my full plan.

With my lips pressed tightly shut, I climbed the stairs and then paused outside Jillian’s room. Did I really want to do this? Like a crazy person, I answered myself by nodding. Then, as slowly and delicately as possible, I turned Jillian’s doorknob.

Inside, Jillian was sprawled diagonally across her bed, taking up every available inch of space with weirdly angled arms and legs. And she was snoring. Loudly. I stifled a snicker: the wry, jaded Jillian Mayhew
snored
. That was something I could file away for later use, I told myself as I passed the foot of her bed.