Dark and Shallow Lies(18)

I turn in a slow circle. “Elora?” I whisper.

The crying stops. A little gasp.

“Elora?” I whisper again. A long sniffle. But no more crying. “Is that you, Elora? It’s Grey.”

And then a voice, like a bony hand reaching through the dark.

“Grey?”

My heart leaps into my throat, and my eyes find something in the darkness. The ghostly glow of a floating orb. Fifolet, my brain whispers. But then I see it for what it is, and I move toward the shine of the lamppost out on the dock. There’s another long sniffle, and I follow the sound around to the back side of a stack of wooden crates. And there she is. Wet and shivering and staring up at me with unblinking eyes.

Only it isn’t Elora at all.

White-blonde hair glistening with fog. Pale blue eyes. “Evie?”

She covers her face with her hands. Doesn’t answer.

I kneel down beside her. Rough boards against my bare skin. “Are you okay?” Still no response. “Are you hurt?”

Her teeth are chattering. Chin quivering. “No,” is all she says, and I can’t be sure which question she’s answering. “What’s wrong, Evie?” I wrap my arms around her, but she pushes me away. “What are you doing out here?”

Her face is frozen, like she’s slipped on a mask.

An Evie mask.

“Evie,” I try again. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She scrambles to her feet and backs away from me.

“I’m fine, Grey. I promise. Just leave me alone.” Her voice is desperate.

“Please.”

Evie can trace her lineage all the way back to the Casket Girls, the first French women sent here to help populate the fledgling city of New Orleans. They arrived half-starved – filthy, sick, and deathly pale – and they stepped off the ship carrying casket-shaped chests that held their few belongings. The men on the docks were shocked at the ghastly sight of them. “Filles à la cassette,” they whispered. They thought they were vampires.

Now, standing here in the dark and the fog three hundred years later, smelling the damp of the river and looking at Evie – pale and tear-streaked and glassy-eyed – it’s easy to understand why the men were frightened.

“Evangeline?” Evie’s mama is calling to her from their front porch. Bernadette’s voice is hushed. Nervous. “You out there, Evie girl?”

“Evie,” I try again. “If something’s wrong, let me help you.”

Another voice cuts through the dark. Louder. This one is steeped in alcohol, soaked with irritation. “Evie! Get your ass in here, girl!” It’s her uncle, Victor. Her mama’s brother. “We ain’t got time for your shit tonight!”

“You know what’s awful, Grey?” Evie wipes at her face, then she wraps her skinny arms around her chest and shivers hard. “The dead? They lie. Just like the rest of us.”

Then she’s gone, absorbed into the dark edges of the night. And I’m left alone and confused.

I should go inside. But I don’t. Instead, I walk all the way up to the edge of the dock. I close my eyes and stand above the dark, rolling surface of the great, wide river.

Elora is a water witch. She feels the magnetic pull of water in her bones. Lots of times that magic pulls her right back here. To this very spot. To the edge of the dock. To stand above the Mighty Mississippi, arms spread wide, and let its unstoppable life force seep into her soul.

There have been so many summer nights when I’ve woken up long after midnight, for no reason I could ever lay a finger on, and felt myself drawn out on to the front porch. And Elora would be here. Right at the edge of the water. Silver moonlight on long, dark hair. She’d feel me close. Just like I’d felt her, even in my sleep. She’d turn and smile at me, and I’d hurry down to meet her, still in my nightclothes, so we could sit on the dock, pressed close together, and feel the river’s power – Elora’s power – move through both of us.

Those are the nights I felt the most magical.

The least grey.

The sound of Evie’s wind chimes carries through the fog and echoes off the river. It bounces between my ears. After a few minutes, I can’t hear the lap of the water against the dock any more. Or even the frogs and the bugs. All I hear are those tinkling chimes.

And Elora’s musical laugh.

I open my eyes and try to see the other side of the river. But I can’t. It’s too wide and too dark. The water goes on forever.

I have this idea that if I could just turn my head fast enough, Elora would be standing right there. I feel her so strong. Just beside me. I don’t turn my head, though. Because I don’t want to be wrong.

Then there’s a sharp splintering sound. Suddenly, I’m falling.

The board I’m standing on gives way beneath my feet. I feel it crumble like it’s happening in slow motion. I lose my footing and pitch backward, clawing at the air with my hands as my feet go out from under me. But there’s nothing to grab on to. I go down hard, and it’s a relief when my hip meets the solid wood of the dock with a sharp and painful crack. One leg is dangling over the deep, fast-moving water, and one arm is twisted behind me at an awkward angle. I scramble back and hug my knees to my chest. My heart must be close to exploding. I hear it thumping in my ears. Louder than Evie’s damn wind chimes, even.