Servants of the Storm (35 page)

“See if there’s a light switch,” I whisper.

The sound of hands brushing brick ends with a muffled “Aha.” There’s a click, and some flickers, and then the hum of fluorescent lights fills the air. I shield my eyes with the hand holding the phone and stumble backward into the guys.

It’s the antiques store. Or at least all the crap I saw in there, mixed in with old stage props. Mannequins, useless tables, grandfather clocks, oil paintings of monkeys in party hats. Everything is jumbled together randomly with wooden stage sets and boxes, a rush job.

“What the hell?” Baker says.

“We found it,” Isaac says, giving me a warm smile.

“Found what?”

He points, and I smile too. The word
Best
is painted on the brick in fancy, faded white letters as tall as I am, with “Furniture Co., Savannah, Georgia” beneath it. And it was here all along, right under our feet.

“Now what?” Baker says.

“Now we lock the door and look for the dybbuk cabinet,” I answer, and it’s good that my plan is a declaration instead of a question, that I’m finally sure of the next step.

“Why are you so positive it’s here?” Isaac asks. “Of all the places in the entire city, why here?”

I stare him down, unblinking. “Because Carly said it would be.”

For once he’s smart enough not to argue.

I move farther into the room, ducking under the mannequin’s arm and angling my body around an old fainting couch. Isaac slides a heavy bolt to lock the door and heads in a different direction, toward a drooping armoire. But Baker stays in one place.

“I don’t get it,” he says.

“We’re looking for a bunch of boxes in a cabinet,” I explain. “I know it sounds crazy, but one of them contains Carly’s soul. Even if we can’t kill Kitty and get Carly’s distal bone back, at least this will set her spirit free. Right?” I look to Isaac, and he shrugs.

“Supposedly.”

“A box with a soul in it. That’s pretty creepy,” Baker mutters, opening an old jewelry box. “But at least all the other demons and thingies are upstairs, right?”

“For now,” I mutter.

Across the room Isaac opens doors and drawers in the armoire. He tosses out old gloves and strings of fake pearls, but I can see his frustration. I scan the jumble of stage sets and antiques and familiar props. There’s the house from
The Wiz
, Bottom’s donkey head from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. Then I notice something in the far corner of the room that looks like a cabinet or table half hidden under a faded flowered tablecloth. A little drawer peeks out from under the corner of the blanket, and it looks like it might be a card catalog, the kind that’s nothing but small drawers.

I climb over a table and push past an umbrella stand. It’s like going through an obstacle course, moving through the room. The closer I get, the more sure I am that we’ve finally found Kitty’s dybbuk boxes. Something in the cabinet rattles, and the sound is just like the black box from my dream, and I push myself to move faster through the junk.

A loud clank startles me, but it’s just Baker across the room, yanking open the door to an antique stove.

“It’s just a bunch of crap,” he says. “Mardi Gras beads and shoelaces and . . . What is this, a garter belt?” He flings a stretchy scrap of satin across the room.

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing,” Isaac says from the armoire. “Costume jewelry and clothes and mothballs.”

I crawl under a dining room table that has heavy feet like lion’s paws and finally reach the cupboard under the tablecloth. Whisking the flowered fabric away, I can’t help gasping. It’s perfect. The wooden cabinet has dozens and dozens of drawers, each
with a number on a brass plaque. Something rattles in the bottom right corner, the drawer that’s a little open. As I reach for it, another one rattles closer to the middle.

“Look at this!” I say, heart pounding with excitement. “Guys, this has got to be it.”

I set my dad’s pistol on top of the cabinet and reach for the drawer that’s rattling the loudest.

“Dovey, wait—” Isaac says.

But I’m too close. It’s just like my dream. Just like Carly said. I had to eat my collards and go to Riverfest and kill demons, had to follow all Carly’s clues, but now I get my lemon chiffon pie. Now I get to put my best friend to rest and maybe save my own soul and all those people upstairs waiting breathlessly for the play to start.

I grab the handle and pull.

THE RATTLESNAKE CURLED INSIDE STRIKES
the edge of the drawer and I barely jerk my hand back in time. I step away, shivering, as its fangs scrape against the wood. Its tail rattles even harder now that it’s free of its confines. Ice water seeps into my veins.

“Did you seriously think the thing you wanted most was just going to be sitting there, in an unlocked drawer?” Baker yells as he rushes over. “Number one rule of video games: it’s always a trap.”

“Maybe,” I say, taking another step back.

It’s a baby snake, and it’s only got two rattles, but it’s unnaturally vicious. The angular gray head curves over the edge of the drawer, the black tongue flickering in and out. Isaac scrambles over the dining table and lands beside me. There’s a black iron bookend shaped like a pug dog in his hand, and he pushes me
back gently until my butt’s against the table. I hop up to sit. I’ve never liked snakes, and I like them even less after Riverfest. As soon as the baby rattler lands on the ground and curls up to strike, Isaac slams the bookend on top of the snake and chops it in half. It dissolves into a black puddle.

“Why would Kitty put snakes in the drawers?”

Isaac slams a fist on top of the cabinet, and I jump as dry scrapes and rattles erupt from within it. “I told you. Demons think we’re stupid, but that doesn’t mean they take chances. Kitty left Old Murph as a guard, left booby traps and fail-safes. She can’t stand over the cabinet, but she can make it hard as hell and nearly fatal to get into it. The snakes aren’t . . . well, they’re demon magic.” He points to the black puddle that used to be a rattler. “They can probably hurt demons, too.”

The drawer nearest to me rattles, and I flinch back from it. “They can’t all be snakes, right?”

“Nothing in those drawers is going to be nice. Check the top and back of the cabinet,” Isaac says. “Maybe there’s a map. Grab something heavy and get ready, Scrappy-Doo.”

Baker pulls a wooden stage sword out of the umbrella stand and scrambles over to join us.

Careful not to touch the cabinet, I edge behind it. Sure enough, there’s a pencil-drawn diagram on the back with letters and numbers on every square. Only problem is, they’re not letters I recognize.

“What is this, a demon alphabet?”

“Aramaic, probably. Another fail-safe. They have something
similar at Charnel House,” he says. “Behind the bar. So you know what to mix.”

“These aren’t drink recipes,” I say, running a finger along the old-fashioned block letters. “Do you know what they mean?”

Isaac joins me behind the cabinet, his shoulder warm against mine. His finger crawls over the tiny inked letters.

“Well?” I ask.

He grunts. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to read Aramaic? Give me a minute.” His finger runs over every square. “I’m pretty sure they’re names. The demons have to keep track of their servants. But there’s no Carly Ray.”

My heart falls. We’ll have to open every drawer, every box. Kill every snake. It’s going to take forever. And then I remember.

“Wait. Caroline Jean. Is there a Caroline Jean?”

“Yeah, I think I saw that.” Isaac’s finger stops on a square. Number twenty-two. He gives me a doubtful look, but I’m too excited to care.

“Her legal name. ‘Ray’ was her mom’s last name, but she wanted to keep her dad’s last name on paper. ‘Jean.’ And she hated being called ‘Caroline.’ ”

I edge around to the front of the cabinet with Isaac right beside me. Both of the guys are looking at me, Isaac like he’s impressed and finally has hope, and Baker like he’s proud but nervous. Maybe they feel like I do, like we’re about to open a treasure, about to finally see some return on a trying couple of days and a year’s worth of tragedy. Isaac said it was impossible, but here we are. Saving ourselves. I think about burning down the whole room, just
grabbing Isaac’s lighter, setting a curtain on fire, and tossing it over the cabinet. But it’s still not final enough. I want to be sure that the deed is done and the souls are free forever.

“Here we go,” I say, every nerve on edge as I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.

I hook a finger into the handle and pull quickly, jumping back as the tiny snake strikes. I was ready for it this time, but my heart still ratchets up into my throat. Baker gently pulls me back farther and uses his stage sword to knock the snake onto the ground and cut it in half, leaving another puddle of goo.

I reach in for the black box that matches the one from my dream.

Before I know what’s happened, I pull my hand back, shocked, clutching it to my chest. There are two red marks in the meat of my thumb, and a triangular gray and brown head waves back and forth inside the drawer, right behind the box.

“But we killed the snake,” I say dumbly.

“They cheated. Told you it was always a trap. Stupid demon jagoffs.” Baker holds out his arms like I’m going to just fall into them, but I can’t move.

“Shit,” Isaac says softly. He grabs the gun off the top of the cabinet and points it at the snake but doesn’t shoot.

“Somebody get the box.” I swallow hard. “Now.”

“Forget the box. We’ve got to get the venom out.” Baker grabs my hand gently to look at the punctures.

“I don’t care.” I jerk it back. “Give me that box. Then find Tamika’s. And Logan’s.”

“Kill that snake and do what she says,” Baker says to Isaac, his voice hard. “I’ll take care of Dovey.”

Isaac gives me a long, guilty look and tucks the gun back into the waistband of his jeans like a moron. Baker hands him the sword, and the third snake lands on the floor and dissolves under Isaac’s boot. Something slams into the door across the room, and I gasp and stumble.

“Sit down,” Baker says gently but firmly. With a hand on my back, he guides me to the nearest antique couch. I flop onto the moss-colored velvet, my hand clutched uselessly over my heart.

“But Carly’s box,” I say. “The demons.”

“Let Isaac fight the snakes. And if they manage to break down the door, we’ll take care of them. If you don’t do what I say, you’re going to die before either of those things happens.”

I’ve never heard his voice so strong and steady, never seen his eyes so serious and worried. He puts my hand down in my lap and bends over to look at my thumb. The door creaks desperately under what sounds like a battering ram.

Baker turns my chin toward him. “I’m going to tie something around the top of your arm. Your job is to hold still and be calm and keep your hand below your heart.” I try to turn around and check on Isaac, but Baker won’t let go of my face. “And if we do that, you might live long enough to find the stupid box and get to a hospital, and they might have antivenin. But if you don’t do what I say, I’m going to call 911 on Isaac’s phone and pick your ass up and carry you upstairs past all those demons and scream
my fool head off in the middle of
The Tempest
. You got it?”

“I got it,” I mumble. He fiddles with my arm, but I ignore it and focus on listening to Isaac’s progress behind me.

There’s a light thump, and then a big thump, and Isaac says, “Jesus Christ, how many snakes can be in one drawer?”

“Get another stick to wedge it out, then. Find some tongs. Whatever. Just get that damn box,” Baker says. He’s busy with the tourniquet, his hands steady and gentle. He would make a good doctor one day. “Idiot,” he murmurs under his breath.

I can’t see Isaac, since I’m having trouble moving my head and I’m feeling nauseated. But I hear wood scrape on wood, and he grunts, and then something heavy lands on the ground with a familiar rattle that has nothing to do with snakes.

“Got it!” At the sound of his triumph, tears spring to my eyes. A roar shakes the door across the room, and metal squeals.

Someone puts the box into my good hand, and it’s identical to the one in my dream.

“This is it,” I say. “This is Carly’s soul.” I hug it to my chest. Up close the polished black wood smells like watermelon lip gloss and Popsicles in the summer and hair oil. Like Carly.

A door slams against brick somewhere far off, and the world tilts sideways as I look up.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to piss off a demon?” Kitty says.

Pointing my dad’s sawed-off shotgun at my chest, she pulls the trigger.

THE SHOTGUN CLICKS.

Because I never loaded it.

Kitty snarls and pulls the trigger again with another empty click.

I try to stand up, but my legs are going numb. Isaac appears, catching me before I fall and gently lowering me back to the couch.

Kitty laughs and says, “Really, Isaac? That’s your rebound? I thought you had better taste.”

When the rest of us crossed the room, we squeezed between things or stepped over them. But not Kitty. After she throws the shotgun to one of her demon minions, she picks up the first mannequin and hurls it against the brick wall. It slams against the word
Best
and shatters into body parts. The next thing in her path is a fancy chair, and she crushes the seat under her boot so hard
that splinters fall into my lap. Isaac steps in front of me, blocking her from view. My hand is starting to swell up, and I can feel my arm stretching and pulsing against the old silk scarf Baker tied above my elbow.

Which reminds me. I can’t see him. Where’d he go?

“Baker?” I say, slurring like I’m drunk.

“Or butcher or candlestick maker?” Kitty says, kicking over a couch and throwing a globe into the bricks, where it explodes into shards. “You really should have taken your pills, Billie Dove. You’re going a little mad, you know.”

I look around the room, but everything is sideways and glittery. Kitty crosses slowly, leaving devastation in her wake. Just like Josephine. Two other demons are behind her, a pretty girl with soft, pointy deer ears who’s got my shotgun and a thin man with a rooster’s wattle under his chin. I don’t recognize them, but I don’t have to. They are what they are. And I know what I have to do.