Book of Night(82)

“These are all major arcana,” her sister said, frowning at them. “Interesting.”

“What does that mean?”

Posey didn’t look happy. “That something big is going on.”

“Okay,” Charlie said uncertainly. “What else?”

Posey set down the first card. “The Magician. The conversion of the spiritual into material. It’s a card of new beginnings, so I am guessing this is about you being a gloamist.”

“Nothing we don’t know,” Charlie said, although she was a bit impressed.

Posey set down the second. “The Fool.”

Charlie rolled her eyes.

“See how he’s about to step off that cliff? And is oblivious to the danger.”

“I see.”

Charlie’s sister looked at the final card, raised an eyebrow, and grinned. “Ooooh. Looks like there’s a taboo that you’re in danger of breaking.”

Charlie frowned. “Which card is that?”

Posey showed it to her. A religious figure sat on a throne in red robes holding up his hands as two monks knelt before him. The Hierophant.



* * *



That night, Charlie went down to the basement and took out the aerial silk that she hadn’t practiced on for months, the one that was supposed to keep her limber enough to slither through windows like the Grinch.

She strung the cloth up on a hook, shook off the dust and at least one annoyed spider. Then she climbed in and went through the old exercises. The ones she used to do every morning, before pickpocketing practice. She was stiffer than she used to be, but as her muscles warmed, she found herself relaxing into the rhythm of it.

On the wall, her shadow followed every pose.





24

SAD SONGS ON REPEAT




The next morning, Charlie brought a cup of coffee back to her mattress on the floor and finally returned the call from Rapture. They wanted her to come in the following night and then go back to working regular hours for the rest of the week.

Charlie was fine with that, so long as she could take off Saturday, for Salt’s party. Book or not, she was going to have to attend.

Then, after taking a huge sip of coffee, as the lazy golden light spilled over her worn sheets, she called the bursar’s office at UMass. A grouchy-sounding woman picked up.

“Can you look up my outstanding bill?” Charlie asked. “It’s under Posey Hall.”

“Hold on,” the woman said with a long-suffering sigh.

Charlie bit the skin around the edge of her thumb, trying not to play out the worst possible scenarios.

“It looks like you missed a deadline,” the woman said. “There’s a hold on your account.”

Charlie’s heart kicked up. “No, I had until the end of the month. I have the letter around here somewhere.”

“End of last month,” the woman said.

For a moment, all Charlie could do was stare at the wall. It was possible that Doreen had gotten her brother to do this, but it was equally possible that Charlie had made a mistake.

“I can get it to you,” she said. “Monday.”

“Monday, or you wash out and have to reapply for next semester,” the woman said impatiently, and hung up.

Charlie flopped back on her bed, looking up at the ceiling, trying to convince herself to keep going. If she stopped, she might not get out of that bed for weeks.

She dialed Vince’s boss, a story ready. But as soon as he picked up the phone, he launched into a tirade. “Tell that son of a bitch that he’s dead to me! You hear that? You tell him that he can’t just go on a bender and expect to have a job when he sobers up.”

“He’s not—” Charlie started, but he’d already hung up. And even if he hadn’t, he obviously had no idea where Vince was.

Three calls. Two hang-ups. Maybe she’d lost her touch.

Charlie sighed, letting her head fall back to her pillow. She missed him, and wasn’t sure she’d ever known him. She might be able to guess where Vince would go, but Remy Carver was an utter mystery.

But maybe not to Dr. Liam Clovin, who’d sold three valuable books to Paul Ecco. Who’d obviously known a lot more than he’d let on.

Charlie got up and started pulling off the sweatpants she’d slept in, her shadow following her motions. She watched it against the wall, stepping into panties, tugging its bra over its head, tying back its hair with an elastic band.

“We’re magic,” she whispered to her shadow, to herself.

There was no response.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

As she moved her hand to her leg, the hairs stood up on the back of her neck and prickled all along her arms. She hooked a nail under the hard edge of a scab and pulled at it, like she was ripping off a Band-Aid. Blood came sluggishly, beading up and running off her ankle.

It never hit the floor.



* * *



After a breakup, it was normal to listen to sad songs on repeat. It was normal to spend hours staring at old photos and letters, or burning them on the grill, or even drawing devil horns on every picture you could find of your ex. Normal to eat an entire carton of ice cream on the couch and wash it down with a bottle of chardonnay. Normal to talk about the guy incessantly to your friends, to call his number just to hear his voice on the answering machine and then hang up without leaving a message.