Dust Girl: The American Fairy Trilogy Book 1 (16 page)

Hearing somebody speak your most low-down thought may be the worst thing that can happen. Anger bunched its fists up tight inside me, ready to strike. “What do you want?”

“You, silly.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, rippling the perfectly fitted shoulders of her red-and-gold jacket. “Not my business. But if you want your mama to go free before anything permanent-like happens to her, you’ll come with me, nice and easy.”

Jack moved up close to me. I wanted to grab his hand, but I didn’t want the usherette to see how scared I was. “We’re leaving, Callie,” he said, his voice iron-hard.

“You sure about that?” The usherette leveled her gaze at him, like she was bringing up her flashlight beam. “You really sure, Jacob?”

“Don’t call me that. Nobody calls me that.”

She jerked her pointy chin toward the theater and grinned wide, showing the pink wad of gum clenched in teeth that were too big for her red mouth. She was Hopper kin, all right.

Whatever she meant, Jack understood. The last of the color left his cheeks. “You’re just a bunch of liars.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Jacob. You’ve got something we want, and we’ve got something you want. We’re ready to do a deal. All you’ve got to do is turn around and walk away.” She waved her flashlight toward the front doors. “And she’ll be right out there waiting for you.”

“She?” The penny dropped. I said, “That was Hannah up there, wasn’t it, Jack? Your sister?”

“No, it wasn’t.” He meant to snap those words, I could tell, but his voice was shaking too bad. “Hannah’s dead!”

The usherette shrugged. “You think that matters to the
Seelie King? He’s connected, ain’t he? He puts a word in the right ear, and bingo! She’s right back with you, all smiles to see her brother, Jacob.”

Jack stood there as if he’d been struck dead himself. Just his lips moved, shaping one word but making no sound. I didn’t have to hear it. I could feel the word thrumming through the air.

Hannah
.

“Walk away, Jacob Hollander,” said the usherette. “All you gotta do is walk away.”

For one terrible moment, Jack hesitated. His eyes darted from me to the door, with the dark, empty street on the other side of that thin piece of glass. My heart rose up slowly, pushing its way into my throat while I watched my only friend in the whole, wide, terrible world make up his mind.

“I ain’t leavin’ without Callie.” Jack spoke the words like he knew he was closing a coffin lid, and I hated myself for having doubted him.

The usherette sighed and shook her frizzy blond head. “I tried to be nice about this, but have it your way.…” She twisted around. “You can come out now, Mr. Morgan.”

The curtain lifted again. Jack’s arm wrapped around my shoulders as we both backed up.

Bull Morgan seemed to have swelled since the railroad yard. He towered over us, his face puffed up and pale. His fleshy jaw worked back and forth on his toothpick, and the usherette kept time with him by cracking her gum.

“There you is,” Bull Morgan whispered hoarsely between chews on his toothpick. “The no-good pickaninny bummin’ brat and her little Jew-boy friend. Got you both this time.” He shifted the pick to the other side of his mouth with his big, tobacco-stained tongue. “Good job, Trixie.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Morgan,” said the usherette, Trixie. “Always glad to help an officer of the law.”

“He ain’t breathing,” croaked Jack. “Have mercy, he ain’t breathing.”

Jack was right. Bull Morgan walked toward us. Handcuffs dangled from his thick fingers. He chewed his toothpick and grinned, but he wasn’t breathing, not even a little bit. It’s such a tiny thing, you wouldn’t think you’d notice it looking at another person, but trust me, when it ain’t there, you notice right away.

Bull Morgan was dead.

You think that matters to the Seelie King?
Trixie had said.
He puts a word in the right ear, and bingo!

Then I felt something else, something sharp and bright pressing against that extra sense I’d found. Headlights glared on the other side of the glass doors, and I heard a car’s engine. I swung around, taking Jack with me. A big silver Packard screeched up to the Bijoux, bumping right over the curb. Shimmy leapt out, ran to the theater doors, and rattled the handles.

Trixie looked at her and hissed. Bull Morgan lifted his heavy head.

Jack and I dove sideways, in opposite directions. I ran
for the doors. Jack ran toward the theater. “Where you think you’re goin’, Jew boy?” laughed Morgan, stumping heavily after him.

He must have thought Jack was heading back into the movie, but Jack ducked sideways, grabbed up one of the poles with the velvet ribbon, and charged, aiming straight for Morgan’s big stomach. Morgan clamped his hands around the pole and tore it away like it was nothing.

Trixie, in the meantime, sauntered up to me. I rattled the door handle. I banged on the glass. On the other side, Shimmy did the same.

“You don’t have to worry none about her, Callie,” said Trixie. “She can’t get in here. Our gates don’t open for
her
kind.”

I spun around fast. Trixie was bringing her flashlight up to shine on me. I decided not to wait for that.

I kicked her. I missed her knee, but I got her shin and she screeched. For good measure, I grabbed a fistful of that frizzy gold hair and yanked with all my might, spinning her around and slamming her into Bull Morgan, who had Jack by the arm.

I didn’t wait to see how they all untangled themselves. I whirled around again and laid both my hands on the handle of the outside door. Shimmy hammered on the other side of the glass so hard the door shook. I dug down deep into the place where my new sense waited, and I remembered the twisting key-in-the-lock feeling. I felt it in my heart and my stomach. I wished for it with all my might.

Click. Click. Click
. The world key turned, the door opened, and Shimmy toppled inside.

For a moment, I was certain I saw a spasm of fear on Shimmy’s face before she grabbed my wrist.

“Come on!” she shouted.

“No! Jack!” I twisted out of her grasp, yanking her halfway inside.

Shimmy gave a wordless shout of frustration and pulled herself up straight on the threshold, jamming her heel into the door to keep it open. Jack wriggled in Bull Morgan’s grip as the dead man lifted him off his feet, squeezing hard around his middle.

“We don’t ’low
your
kind in here,” Trixie sneered to Shimmy. “Girls! Show this one out!”

The curtain behind the candy counter lifted again, and this time the chorus line appeared: a dozen Trixies, all dressed alike, all with the same hair and the same scarlet mouth and bright red nails, marched in time from behind the candy counter. Mr. Berkeley would have been on his knees to see those girls, all exactly the same, all swinging their perfect legs in perfect time.

All lifting up their flashlight beams to shine straight at me and Shimmy.

That light hit us, and it felt like hot honey pouring over my skin. It melted me down like I was made of wax, and I began to crumble.

Shimmy drew herself up in the light, spread her arms, and started to sing.

There were no words, just loud, clear, rich notes of pure sound, rippling up and down the scale. Shimmy’s voice cut through the light, cut through the fear, and I grabbed hold of it like a lifeline. I even knew the tune, “St. James Infirmary Blues.” She’d been singing it when I first saw her in the juke joint.

Let him go, let him go, God bless him …

The Trixie chorus line staggered in perfect synchronization, first left, then right. Then they all fell back, their flashlight beams scattering every which way. I charged them, barreling through, not letting any of them stop me. Trailing Shimmy’s song and all its power behind me, I ran straight up to Bull Morgan, who was squeezing Jack so hard his eyes were bugged out and his mouth was open to gasp and gag. My stomach lurched up and down, but I grabbed hold of Bull Morgan’s ice-cold arm. I buckled my knees and let my weight drag on him, grabbed tight hold of Shimmy’s music, and
wished
.

Let him go, let him go!

It was like trying to punch through a marshmallow wall; you went in deep and got stuck. For a minute, I couldn’t breathe. Jack choked hard, and I got hold of his fear with Shimmy’s music and we all started pulling back. Morgan’s grip loosened. Jack dropped to the floor. I grabbed Jack by the arm, and we ran straight for the Trixies. They swung round in a circle, ringing us in, bringing their lights up. Morgan growled. Jack snatched up one of the Trixies’ hands and shined her own light into her eyes. She gave a
weird groan and slumped to the ground again, taking the rest with her.

We leapt over the sagging heap of usherettes. Shimmy backed up and shoved the door open, and we ran through. I felt the world twist again, and we were back in Kansas, with the dusty night wind blowing around us and a big, old silver Packard with its engine running right in front.

“Get in!” hollered Shimmy.

I dove into the backseat with Jack piling in behind and partly on top of me. We didn’t even have the door shut before Shimmy threw the car into reverse and stomped the accelerator so we tore backward with squealing tires. With another clash of gears, we shot forward. Vigilantes and civilians flashed in and out of the car’s headlights as Shimmy clutched the wheel with both hands and drove hell-for-leather down Constantinople’s main street.

“What was you thinking going to that rail yard?” she shouted. Jack had managed to get the door shut, which was good because we both spilled against it when the car tipped up onto two wheels as Shimmy cornered tight around the hardware store. We untangled ourselves in time to see the highway swinging into place under the headlights. With another hard bounce, we hit the pavement and raced forward into the dark.

Jack and I sat up, trying to catch our breath. It was not comfortable knowing that Shimmy had saved our lives. Worse, it was setting in that we were stuck with her in a speeding car.

“Where’re we going?” Jack asked.

“Away,” Shimmy snapped.

I tried to rally some nerve, but found precious little left to work with. “Look, thank you for getting us out of there, but …”

“You think you want me to stop?” Something small and dark flew toward me. I caught it automatically. It was a compact, the kind that usually held rouge or face powder. “You have a look in there, and then you tell me how much you want to get out of this car, missy.”

My fingers fumbled with the compact’s catch and finally got it open. There was a mirror under the lid, and I looked into my own hollow eyes, but only for a second. While I watched, the mirror turned solid silver, just like a movie screen. And just like a screen, it showed a moving picture. Except this picture was in color, and clearer than anything I’d ever seen in any theater.

There was Bull Morgan, sprawled on his face in the shadowy rail yard. A thin, dark trickle of blood ran down his temple. My stomach clenched, and Jack, who had leaned close to look, cussed softly.

Some vigilantes came around the corner of a boxcar and saw Morgan lying there. They rushed forward and rolled him over. They listened to his chest; they slapped his face and shouted. One of them ran away, probably to get help.

Morgan didn’t move.

Slowly, though, the light around the vigilantes and the
railroad bull began to brighten. The men didn’t react. They just kept shouting and slapping Morgan. The light was almost as bright as day now, and it coalesced into a ring of candle flames, each as tall as a human being and as white as snow. The candle flames changed, flickering and becoming … people.

They were beautiful beyond words, beautiful beyond understanding. So beautiful, I wanted to tear out my heart and hand it over, because after seeing them, I surely wouldn’t have any more use for it.

They spread wings of pure light over Morgan’s body. He groaned, long and low.

Please
. I heard the word, but I don’t know if Morgan actually spoke.
I don’t want to die. Please, I ain’t ready
.

“Then live, Samuel Morgan,” said one of the shining, beautiful people. “Live, thou good and faithful servant.”

“Thy labors are not yet finished,” said another.

“Rise up, Samuel Morgan,” commanded another.

“Rise up. Rise up,” they said together, their voices blending in a sonorous chord, like the deepest note on a church organ. I knew that voice—part of it, anyhow. I’d heard it on the wind and in the dark. I’d heard it somewhere else too, but I had too much going on in my head to remember where.

The men couldn’t see the light or hear the voices. But Bull Morgan could, and his eyes opened wide.

“My God,” he whispered. “My God.”

“Rise and walk!” the Shining Ones commanded.

And Morgan did rise. Not like a normal man trying to stand, but as if someone had shoved a board under him and was now levering him upward. The vigilantes fell back, cursing and swearing. Morgan ignored them. He took two steps forward and went down on both knees before the Shining Ones. In that white light, I could see his upturned face was ashen and his lips were ringed with blue. His eyes were the worst, though. His eyes were turned up, and they didn’t blink. It didn’t matter if his body was moving. His eyes were dead.

“The girl, Bull Morgan,” said the Shining Ones. “The mixed-blood girl. You know her kind are an abomination.”

“Yes, I do know it,” whispered Morgan reverently.

“You will bring her to us. Nothing shall deter you. We grant you clear sight and unfailing strength. No rest, no food will you need for your righteous quest. You will find the abomination, and you will bring her to us so that we may clear away the stain of her from this earth.”

A terrible peace stole over Morgan’s face, as if everything he held most dear had just been proven true. “It will be as you say.”

“Go then with all our blessing.”

Their brilliance faded, blending back into the stark white of the yard floodlights. Morgan climbed to his feet and turned slowly around to face the vigilantes clustered behind him.

“What’re you mooks standing around here for?” His voice was soft and rough, like he couldn’t get enough breath
to raise it to a shout. Maybe he couldn’t. “We got work to do.”