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“What about the mother? Did he drain her, too?”

“I don’t think he can feed off adults. Only children. He’s got s-ss-someone who works with him, like a Renfield, who helps him with the kidnappings and takes the grown-ups off his hands. You know Renfield?”

“Dracula’s henchman or something?”

“Close enough. I know that the Wraith is very old and he’s had a bunch of Renfields. He tells them lies, fills them up with illusions, maybe persuades them they’re heroes, not kidnappers. In the end he always s-suh-sacrifices them. That’s how they’re of the most use to him. When his crimes are uncovered, he can shift the blame onto one of his handpicked dumb-asses. He’s been taking children for a long time, and he’s good at hiding in the shadows. I’ve put together all kinds of details about the Wraith, but I haven’t been able to learn anything about him that would really help me identify him.”

“Why can’t you just ask the tiles what his name is?”

Maggie blinked and then, in a tone that seemed to mix sadness with a certain bemusement, said, “It’s the rules. No proper names allowed in S-S-Scrabble. That’s why my tiles told me to expect the Brat instead of Vic.”

“If I found him, found out his name or what he looked like,” Vic said, “could we stop him then?”

Maggie slapped one palm down on the desktop, so hard that the teacups jumped. Her eyes were furious—and scared.

“Oh, gee, Vic! Aren’t you even listening to me? If you found him, you could get dead, and then it would be my fault! You think I want that on my conscience?”

“But what about all the kids he’ll take if we don’t do anything? Isn’t that also sending children to their . . .” Vic let her voice trail off at the look on Maggie’s face.

Maggie’s features were pained and sick. But she reached out, got a tissue from a box of Kleenex, and offered it to Vic.

“Your left eye,” she said, and held up the dampened cloth. “You’re crying, Vic. Come on. We need to get you back. Now.”

Vic did not argue when Maggie took her hand and guided her out of the library, and down the path, under the shade of the oaks.

A hummingbird drank nectar from glass bulbs hanging in one of the trees, its wings whirring like small motors. Dragonflies rose on the thermal currents, their wings shining like gold in the midwestern sun.

The Raleigh was where they had left it, leaned against a bench. Beyond was a single-lane asphalt road that circled around the back of the library, and then the grassy margin above the river. And the bridge.

Vic reached for her handlebars, but before she could take them, Maggie squeezed her wrist.

“Is it safe for you to go in there? Feeling like you do?”

“Nothing bad has ever happened before,” Vic said.

“That’s not a very reassuring way to ph-ph-phrase things. Do we have an agreement about the Wraith? You’re too young to go looking for him.”

“Okay,” Vic said, righting her bike, putting a leg over. “I’m too young.”

But even as she said it, she was thinking about the Raleigh, remembering the first time she’d seen it. The dealer had said it was too big for her, and her father agreed, told her maybe when she was older. Then, three weeks later, on her birthday, there it was in the driveway. Well, her father had said. You’re older now, ain’tcha?

“How will I know you made it across the bridge?” Maggie said.

“I always make it,” Vic said. The sunlight was a steel pin, pushing back into Vic’s left eyeball. The world blurred. Maggie Leigh split into twins for a moment; when she came back together again, she was offering Vic a sheet of paper, folded into quarters.

“Here,” Maggie said. “Anything I didn’t cover about inscapes and why you can do what you can do is explained here, by an expert on the subject.”

Vic nodded and put it in her pocket.

“Oh!” Maggie called. She tugged at one earlobe, then the other, and then pushed something into Vic’s hand.

“What are these?” Vic asked, looking into her palm at the Scrabble-tile earrings.

“Armor,” Maggie said. “Also a concise s-s-stuh-stammerer’s guide for dealing with the world. The next time someone disappoints you, put these on. You’ll feel tougher. That’s the Maggie Leigh guarantee.”

“Thank you, Maggie. For everything.”

“’S what I’m here for. Fount of knowledge—that’s me. Come back to be s-s-sprinkled with my wisdom anytime.”

Vic nodded again, didn’t feel she could bear to say anything else. The sound of her own voice threatened to bust her head open, like a lightbulb under a high heel. So instead she reached out and squeezed Maggie’s hand. Maggie squeezed back.

Vic leaned forward, bearing down on the pedals, and rode into darkness and the annihilating roar of static.





Haverhill, Massachusetts


THE NEXT THING SHE WAS CLEAR ON WAS WALKING UP THE HILL, through the Pittman Street Woods, her insides feeling bruised and her face fevery hot. Vic weaved, unsteady on her legs, coming up out of the trees and into her yard.

She could not see out of her left eye. It felt as if it had been removed with a spoon. The side of her face was sticky; for all she knew, the eye had popped like a grape and was running down her cheek.