PART ONETHE PLAN
CHAPTER ONE
I am never alone,never, and yet I’m the loneliest person I know, dead or alive. My whole life is noise, constant static from the Other Side.
Aw, I’d hug you if I could, hon.
Poor thing. Always with us nearby.
We think you’re a real lollapalooza, you know that, kid?
“Lady Rose!”
Thatvoice, though. That one ishere, now, instead of inside and away like the others, and it startles me. That’s a customer calling, using my fake name.
I shake off my stupor and remind myself of my current whereabouts: makeshift psychic parlor, giving a makeshift reading. Treading a makeshift line of sanity. I’ve collected a roomful of questionable folks at this reading. “Yes, yes, one moment.” My fingertips hover over the tabletop.
The Ouija board beneath feels ice-cold and bone-dry. Yes, it’s artful: The letters are a delicate, precise script, and the heart-shaped planchette glides across the polished wood like a clean blade being sharpened.
Few things live in ice-cold, bone-dry places. So to me, a Ouija board is safe.
My fingers tremble. The planchette glides beneath my touch. It is a beautiful, chilling charade.
“What’s it say, missy?” a client wearing tattered overalls grunts. He smells of grease and gin. “Where’d she leave the money?”
Over my dead body, I say. Oh—HaHA!
I glance around the parlor. My clients sit on pillows tossed about the floor. They think it’s more authentic this way, to sit with a medium while perched on a pillow. But it’s truly because I’m too cheap to rent a room with both a windowanda chair.
My assessment of the room stops abruptly on…
Him.
Do I know him?
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. No. I don’t think so. He is unlike the others gathered here. His eyes! They are bottle green with a tinge of silver, iridescent like small, sleek fish, and I can feel them on me.
Spirit wafts cold air across my skin, and I shiver. Yes, I can feel his eyes likethat.
This young gentleman is truly dapper. He sports a pocket watch, shoe spats. A vest. Hair oil. And an arrogant half grin that tells me he knows exactly how handsome he is. Anyone who believes in themselves as much as this gentleman does cannot be trusted.
How did he get in here without my notice? He didn’t pay the nickel entry fee. He owes me.
“Lady Rose,” Tattered Overalls growls.
I blink. The dapper gentlemen’s intensity makes me leery, and there is a darkness around him that I don’t often see. His aura is sharp, stabby. Something deep within me stirs, and I shift uncomfortably, the sensation of sitting on cold rocks.
Back to business.
The oil lanterns scattered about are covered with shawls, and they toss long, twitching shadows on the red velvet walls, the waltz of light and dark. I kick the leg of the squat table.
The crowd gasps. I roll my eyes back in my head. It is a discreet way to size up the room.
About eighty percent of the dozen gathered here are buying this act. I can’t tell if the handsome gentleman falls for it; his eyes are tight and his arms are crossed firmly over his lean chest. But most of the others—they believe. I can tell by the number of lips bitten, the variety of handkerchiefs twisted. This is more than usual. I can punch it up, in that case. I can get away with more.
Not too much more, though. There is great danger in them knowing for sure. A nickel per show is one thing. A true connection to the one universal energy is another. No, it’s far better to get a pinch of things wrong. Mymamanused to say, “A single grain of rice can tip the scale.”
Spirit huffs at my showmanship—my Team of Light on the Other Side often gets impatient with this type of bluster—and they offer me an image of a red barn.
