Book of Night(9)

After that, things started moving very fast.

Mom looked through the messages on the phone and saw the promises “Travis” had made to these women and the awful stuff he’d told them about her. Travis denied it all, becoming more and more furious when he wasn’t believed.

Sucks to be you, Charlie thought with satisfaction, remembering how many times her mother had believed him instead of them.

Charlie was glad when they moved out, gladder still when her mother filed for divorce, thrilled to be moving into their small new apartment, even if money was tighter than ever. But Charlie was a little afraid of what she had done. It was a heavy weight to know that she had committed a betrayal so big that if her mother found out, Charlie might never be forgiven.

And she was in no way ready for her mother to introduce Alonso to her friends. Charlie refused to go. She cried and insisted that she didn’t want to, that she didn’t like letting him talk through her anymore.

She was teetering on the cusp of adulthood. Three-quarters child, one-quarter yearning. Her dreams were confused kaleidoscopes of swanning through the sets of TV shows, drinking cocktails that looked like vodka martinis and tasted like Sprite, wearing lipstick and pumps covered in red craft glitter, and marrying someone who was half pop star and half stuffed animal.

She knew she had to stop pretending to be Alonso before she got caught, but she didn’t know how to stop without disappointing her mother.

Just let him come through. This will be the last time. I promise, honey.

Her mother convinced her to talk to the friends once, and then a second time. By the third visit, Charlie could tell that some of them had grown skeptical. Rand, a portly man with a beautifully waxed mustache, tried to trip her up with historical questions, and Charlie panicked. She talked too much. On the car ride back, she could feel her mother’s gaze on her, disheartened and on the verge of disillusionment. Charlie’s whole body felt as heavy as lead.

The third time, she didn’t protest going, although her mother seemed conflicted. Still, Charlie had looked up historical facts, and between those and Alonso’s probable ignorance about things like antibiotics and gravity, she thought she could push through one more time.

More important, Charlie had remembered what worked on her mother. Charlie didn’t need to convince them of anything.

She needed to make them want to believe.

And so instead of answering their questions, she spun a jagged-edged fantasy. She knew all her mother’s friends well enough to guess who hoped her sculptures would be featured in a magazine, who wanted love, who wanted her children to move closer.

Alonso told them what they wanted to hear, with a kick in the ass.

You have already met the man you are destined to be with and you know who he is and why you’re not together.

Your children will be at their happiest near a lake, but they will resist this knowledge.

Your work will be celebrated after your death.

And then Alonso told them he had fulfilled his purpose, and that he would finally be allowed to move on. After solemn and tearful goodbyes, Charlie let her whole body go limp. She fell to the floor and pretended unconsciousness for a full minute—until she worried they were going to call an ambulance.

Even her mother’s most skeptical friend plied her with cookies and herbal tea after that.

She never had another “visitation.”

Sometimes her mom looked at her strangely, but Charlie tried not to notice. And Posey, jealous of the attention Charlie had gotten, started reading tarot cards and cultivating a thousand-yard stare.

While Charlie felt as though she had been left with only the least interesting parts of herself and lost the rest.





4

MORE COFFEE




Bright morning light flooded the kitchen. Lucipurrr was in the sink, paws balanced on a dirty plate, licking the leaky faucet.

Charlie poured coffee, noting the shine of Posey’s bloodshot eyes and the restless way her leg moved under the table. She was still in the pajamas she’d been wearing the night before, adding unicorn-shaped slippers, their fur a stained gray.

“Did you stay up all night?” Charlie asked, although the answer was obvious.

“I found a new channel to follow.” Posey’s tone suggested she expected Charlie to argue with her. On the message boards Posey frequented and in the videos she sought out, dangerous advice was passed around on quickening one’s shadow, the first step to becoming a gloamist.

Most of the mainstream articles written about shadow magic were about alterations—clickbait like Is Magic the New 1%? Hollywood Actress Starts New Shadow Trend. Rip Out Cravings for Junk Food at the Root. Most Useful Shadow Alterations for New Moms. Is Removing Desire the New Lobotomy? In those stories, gloamists were the providers. The dealers. The grocery stores of magic. The Old Saint Nicks of magic.

Celebrities had their shadows altered more frequently now that the trend had caught on, changing them like other people might change their haircuts, dressing up for the Met Ball with shadows in the shapes of dragons or swans or large hunting cats. They had their emotions triggered to better prepare for roles, or to be able to write more evocative songs.

And if a few people starved to death, or threw themselves off bridges, or had so much of themselves removed that they seemed to float through their days, that was a small price to pay. When shadows withered or burned up or failed to graft, the wealthy could always buy new ones.