Page 54 of The Sisters of Crimson House

Charley took another sip of scalding-hot tea, wincing against the burn in her throat, willing the pain to keep her tethered to her body, to her sanity. The city was taking her worst fears, her most secret shame and literally gift-wrapping the house with caution tape advertising it. The gloom was palpable in the kitchen as Zavier and Astrid stared into their respective cups. It made sense to hold the emergency meeting in the kitchen, the site of many storied emergency meetings in the history of Crimson House. Lord knew how many secret plans had been hatched in this very spot that upended Charley’s life without even consulting her first, so it seemed only fair that she called this one to order.

“We’re going to host the Spectacular.”

Astrid slowly set down her tea. “I’m sorry, we’re doing what now?”

The words reanimated the corpse that was Zavier slumped against the counter. He moved toward Charley as if compelled. “Yes. I like where this is going.”

She could see the vision playing out in his head in real time. Velvet and candlelight with smoke and gilded mirrors. Magnificently attired guests. Paying guests.

“The Bryde Sister Halloween Spectacular to be more precise.”

“With themed cocktails. A DJ perhaps?” Zavier began pacing the kitchen, a party already in progress in his mind.

Astrid said nothing, continuing to stare into her tea as if the answers could be summoned there. Charley had told them about the bizarre vision she’d had next door, but she left out the part about her encounter with Sy and the cards, his alternative history of Miranda, a living thing that she held tight in her fist. She wasn’t ready to release it yet. But she didn’t have to say anything, as both her and Astrid’s eyes nervously cut to the door every few seconds as if Miranda might stroll in. Her sister had turned in early, explaining that spontaneously channeling a murder victim was taxing her nervous system. That made three of them. She knew her sister was powerful. But watching her mind and body move at the behest of a dead woman would never not be deeply unsettling.

“Miranda is home,” she said, appealing to Astrid. “We’d be insane not to capitalize on that fact this close to Halloween. There’s too much at stake.” Those were the facts; liar or not, the great Miranda Bryde was the only one with a proven track record of bringing in paying customers. If they would still pay to see what she was capable of was the gamble, but an increasingly safer-looking bet than the one Charley was placing on Occam’s Razor’s psychic sweepstakes.

“I don’t want to make a habit of being the voice of reason, Charley, but one: Halloween is like, days away.”

“When did you become afraid of a deadline?” said Charley with what she hoped was her most charming smile.

“More importantly,” said Astrid, ignoring her. “We’re being evicted.” She looked to Zavier, who pointedly avoided her gaze. “How do we even do this?”

Charley let in the dreams of velvet and candlelight. She pictured the costumes and the intrigue. She pictured her sister dying on a long-ago Halloween only to be resurrected onstage, a glorious feat of magic. This house had survived worse. She had not sacrificed her own childhood, her parents hadn’t died, Sadie had not sacrificed her life just to hand the house over because a piece of paper said to.

“I’m not letting yellow caution tape dictate what happens next,” she said, sitting beside her. “The neighbors aren’t going to be in a rush to call the police on us. Happily, Miranda helped out with that.” Astrid said nothing, but her face was tight with concern. “We celebrate the life of Sadie by doing what she loved the most—throwing a party. We let Miranda work the crowd, with supervision,” she added. “We make gobs of money and repair the house, get the city off our back, and live happily ever after.”

“You have lines on your palm that weren’t there a few weeks ago. There’s a murderous entity on the loose,” said Astrid, her arms folded, “and for all we know, it’s targeting you next because of it. What supervision are you going to provide?”

The real reason Astrid was reluctant to move forward with this insane plan. She was scared. She should be. Charley looked at her hand, at the two marks that cleaved her palm like a Roman numeral. One line on her palm let her peer beyond the veil, the ghosts visible as they walked the halls of Crimson House. Two lines had unlocked some of Miranda’s ability to channel and Sadie’s gift of tracking. Three lines on her palm could certainly fortify her for whatever was coming next. And no question, there would be a next time. If Sadie had indeed been killed because of this star forming on her hand, then Charley was done being scared. Over being the victim in her own story. Something was hunting her, so it was time to go on the offensive with as many abilities as these lines could grant her. The question now was how soon could she meet with Sy and unlock her powers before it struck again?

Twenty-Nine

October 20, 2008

“Ma’am, I’m just going to put this right, uh, here.” The young sound guy was visibly sweating as he tried to attach a lavalier microphone to either Miranda’s mere slip of a black dress or the black leather jacket over it.

“Sure,” she said absently, staring off into the corner of the studio.

The sound guy quickly clipped the mic to her lapel and scooted away.

“You good?” asked Charley. “You look like death ran you over with a forklift.” Miranda’s face was gaunt, the hollows under her eyes a gray smudge. She had slept for fourteen hours after the spontaneous channeling session next door and looked like she could use fourteen more.

“Excellent,” came her lazy reply.

“What’s with the leather?” asked Charley, studying her sister’s ensemble. In a past life, surely she’d been one of those women who died of consumption and whose pallor inspired a thousand poets in the process.

“I can be cold and fashionable, Chuck,” said Miranda, her gaze continuing to roam the studio. “You should try it.”

They were seated on a couch in the studio of Live at 9, a local morning talk show that filmed in the bowels of a now-defunct downtown mall. This had been Zavier’s brainchild, a Hail Mary push to get the word out about the show, though she wasn’t exactly sure where the Venn diagram of regular viewers of Live at 9 and mediums who channeled dead people intersected.

Charley had gone with a more sensible black jeans, black top, goth-adjacent look and found herself jealous of Miranda’s mussed-hair after-party chic. Astrid placidly sat between them in a cream silk pantsuit and matching stilettos, like an urban fairy unconcerned by the two bookends who looked like they might devour her.

“Are those my boots?” said Charley, seeing her beloved Doc Martens on Miranda’s feet. On one hand, siblings stealing each other’s clothes was a tale as old as time. She should be charmed. Instead she was stuck on a curious thought. Her sister hadn’t traveled home with anything but the clothes on her back. Because she’d obviously been in a rush to help Charley. Not because she was already home.

“Girls, you’re both pretty,” Astrid said through a tight smile. “Focus up.”

“Ladies, tell us all about the show,” asked Laverne Healy, enthusiastic cohost of Live at 9. A perennially sunny Black woman with ever-evolving hairstyles but always in her signature purple, Laverne was a mainstay of local Memphis television. She’d been a client of Sadie’s back in the day, and that was the only reason they were on the show. Zavier had comped Laverne a ticket to the Spectacular.