“Chris,” I say. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”
His head comes up, confusion in his eyes. It only deepens as he sees the way I’ve changed. He picked up a scruffy hitchhiker in a coat two sizes too big for her, and now he’s facing a prom princess from an era that ended before he was born. I’ve slid out of date one inch at a time, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Rose?”
“Yes.” I walk faster now, all but running—but I mustn’t run, I don’t dare run. I can’t pull him onto the ghostroads without his consent, not this soon after his death, and I definitely can’t pull him any deeper into the twilight if he’s fighting me. Run and I’ll frighten him more than he already is, and if that happens . . . if that happens, he’ll be lost forever. No afterlife for Bobby’s victims. No second chances for the souls he claims. “Come with me, and I’ll explain.”
“What—what happened? I lost control of the car . . .” His eyes flick to the body on the asphalt, confusion starting to thin as terror takes its place. “Where did you get that dress? When did it get so dark? What’s going on?”
I don’t have any answers that I can offer to him; not without making things worse than they are right now, and that’s saying something, given that he’s standing over his own corpse and I’m waiting for the bogeyman to descend. I close the last few feet between us, reaching for his hand. “Please, Chris. We don’t have time for this.”
“I don’t know, Rosie my girl,” says the voice behind me. It’s cool and crisp, California accent painted over something sweeter and slower, something out of the deep Southern states, where the summer nights are hot and wet, and wise men know the cost of a crossroads bargain. Maybe if he’d stayed at home, he would have known better. Maybe. “There’s a case to be made for your having run shy of time some sixty years gone. Can’t say I think much of granting you time on top of that just because you got all dressed up for me.”
The graveyard chill that sleeps inside me when I cast my coats aside melts away, replaced by a tight, hot ball of fear. I take one more half step forward, until I’m almost touching Chris, and whisper, “Stay behind me. If you value your soul, stay behind me.”
Chris doesn’t say a word, nothing but terror in his eyes. I don’t care. Let him be afraid of Bobby; let him be afraid of me. I have other matters to worry myself about. So I turn, squaring my shoulders.
“Hello, Bobby,” I say.
And Bobby Cross—Diamond Bobby, Hollywood legend, gone but never, never forgotten—smiles.
This is Bobby Cross, has been Bobby Cross since that night in 1950 when he drove out of the daylight and into the dark:
Short by today’s standards, five foot eight and compact. A dragster’s build, the kind of man who makes hearts melt and panties dampen. Dark hair. He used to wear it sleeked and slicked and shaped to within an inch of its life, but not these days; unlike the ghosts he leaves in his wake, Bobby is among the living, and still allowed to change. Now it hangs loose and careless, that tousled style that’s so popular with the kids I see at the races, or lounging on the beaches. He looks as young as they do, as effortlessly carefree and strong, and it’s been long enough since his day that he doesn’t even get the “hey, aren’t you . . . ?” reactions anymore. I wonder if that stings, down in the blackened depths of the swamp he calls a soul.
It’s his eyes that give him away. They aren’t remarkable. They’re pale brown—plain, even—but something about them makes people take a step back and give him a wide berth. The living aren’t meant to see the things he’s seen, or ride the roads he’s ridden.
The smile that slides across his lips doesn’t reach those eyes. He looks me up and down, and offers a cool, “Same old Rosie. You trying to play the hero on me? You should know better. All those years of running away, you’re going to make your stand here and now? For these people?”
“Got a better idea?” Chris’ hand is on my shoulder, and oh, I just met him, and oh, it doesn’t matter; he’s every driver I couldn’t save, and if I don’t at least try, I may as well give in right now, because if I don’t try, Bobby already has my soul. “Why did you do this? These people didn’t do anything to hurt you.”
“Why do you take rides when people offer them to you? Why do you take their coats, drink their coffee, suck their cocks?” Bobby’s smirk is painful to behold. “We’re not so different, Rosie girl, except that I admit what I am—and you, I’m afraid, are about at the end of this road.”
“Let them go.” I take a step forward, watching Bobby all the while. I’m faster than he is. He’s got powers I don’t understand and weapons I can’t touch, but I’m faster. If I can get the ghosts out of here, maybe I can drop into the twilight before he catches hold of me. Maybe. “They’re all fresh ghosts. They can’t be what you really want. I’ve got a lot of miles on me.”
“What makes you think that makes you worth more, and not less? A lot of things call for virgins in place of whores.”
“But the road treasures the things that have traveled the furthest.” The thrift store fashion of the routewitches; the battered, duct-taped shoes of the ambulomancers. Distance is just about the only thing that’s universally respected on the road.
Bobby’s smile this time is slow, dark, and horrifying. Whatever it is he does to the dead, it can’t be painless; not if he’s looking at me like that. I stand my ground, the tattoo burning hot against my skin. Apple said the tattoo would protect me, that the Ocean Lady was allowing me to take it away because the routewitches feel responsible for Bobby’s darkness. I have to believe her. There’s no choice; not here, and not now.
“I’ve been tired of you for decades,” he says. “I’ll take you and let them go . . . but not, I think, in the order you’re hoping for. First you give yourself to me, and then, once I’m sure you’re not going to pull any little hitcher ‘tricks,’ I’ll let them go.”
The sky is getting darker. I want nothing more, right now, than I want to run. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because, Rosie, darling, you don’t have any choice. You can rabbit-run the hell out of here and pray I’m not toying with you—I might be—since if I am, I’ll just grab you and take every soul still standing as my due. Or you can surrender, admit that I’ve won, and wager that I’m a man of his word.”
I don’t want to. But he’s right. I have nothing left to lose; not with Bobby Cross standing right there. “I accept your terms,” I say, and hold out my hands. “I’m yours.”
I have no coat, no borrowed life to wear, but it’s somehow no surprise when Bobby’s hand clamps down on mine. A man who feeds on the dead must be able to touch them. Chris says something I can’t make out, finally realizing, I suppose, that something more important than his death is happening in front of him. Maybe that’s a selfish way of thinking, but if there’s proof of existence after dying, I’m it, and here I am, approaching my own ending.
I thought I knew what cold was. I was wrong. Bobby’s fingers redefine cold, tell me that every frost and snowfall I’ve ever known was just the prelude to the main event. Winter radiates from his skin as he tightens his grip and yanks me into an embrace. My skirt tangles around my ankles; I all but fall into his arms.
“So eager,” he says. “I always knew you would be.” And Bobby folds me in his arms, and lowers his mouth onto mine.
The Ghostroads, 2013.
I’ve been on the ghostroads for sixty years. The girl I was, the girl Bobby killed, is barely a memory—I barely remember her, and I knew her better than anyone. Life was only the beginning. I’ve seen all the joys America has to offer, walked away from them, and come back to find them transformed to something glorious and new. I’ve met monsters and danced with gods. It’s been a good time, and a bad time, and one hell of an adventure. And I still wish I hadn’t died.
He’s young, this Florida fry cook, so young that I must seem like some sort of fantasy, the beautiful girl who walks in and says she’ll do anything he wants if he’ll do her one little favor. Two,
really—if he wants to do any of the things his eyes say he’s thinking, he’ll need to give me a coat. Right now, I think he’d give me a kidney if I asked for it.
“It’s . . . it’s like this red round ball, like an apple, and flowers all around it. I think lilies, and some sort of funky white flower. I mean, it’s pretty, but it’s sort of weird, y’know?” His tone turns apologetic. “Most folks get little things when they get tattooed drunk. Like, hearts and birds and the names of their moms. It’s probably going to cost a lot to get that lasered off.”
“Maybe I won’t bother getting it removed.” I look over my shoulder at him, smiling as coyly as I can with the itching in my back threatening to drive me crazy. “Is that all you have to say about it?”
“It’s pretty,” he repeats, like that’s the secret password to my pants. “It’s all flowers and fruit and shit, but it’s pretty. I could take a picture with my phone if you wanted . . .”
“That’s okay,” I say hurriedly. I show up just fine on camera, and that’s the problem: my face never changes, and I don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention. “Pretty” will have to be good enough, for now.
We have sex on the floor of the storeroom after he gives me his coat, and he’s enough of a gentleman to let me be on top, and it almost distracts me from the burning in my back, for at least a little while. Time to head to the Last Dance. Maybe Emma knows what the gift the Old Atlantic Highway gave me means.
Maybe I’ll ask her after a burger.
Georgia, 2013.
There’s a pause. Bobby’s hand clamps down on my neck, his arm all but spasming . . . and then he’s shoving me away, that same hand going to his mouth. The anger in his eyes is easy to read, and it terrifies me. “You bitch!” he shouts. “What the fuck did you do? What the fuck are you trying to pull?”
The tattoo is burning hotter than ever, but it’s a good heat, clearing the chill of Bobby’s fingers from my skin. I straighten, glancing back to be sure Chris is still there. He is, seemingly rooted to the spot. I’ll have to get him to the Last Dance soon, or Emma won’t be able to help him get anywhere at all. “I’m not trying to pull anything, Bobby,” I say, turning back to my oldest enemy. “I said you could have me. It’s not my fault if I’m too much woman for you.”
“You did something,” he spits. “What did you do?”
“To be honest, I have no idea.” I take a step forward, gambling everything one more time. It’s a gambling sort of day. “Want to try again? I’m still willing.”
Bobby snarls. For a moment, he looks like a beast, some monster out of a fairy story, come to drive me back into the dark. “I don’t know what good you think this is going to do you. You can’t bring these people back to life.”
“No. But that doesn’t mean that I have to let you have them.” I tilt my chin up. A cornered snake is still a snake. “What’s it going to be, Bobby? Walk away, or try to figure out just how far I can push this?” I don’t even know what “this” is. Hopefully, neither does he.
He snarls again, and spits, “This isn’t over.” Turning on his heel, he stalks away—away from the accident, away from the shade of Chris, away from me.
Seconds trickle by like sentences of execution, and Bobby Cross—the man who killed me once, and would do it again, given half a chance—is gone.
“Deliver me from Bobby Cross,” I whisper, and turn to face Chris, who is staring at me with confusion bordering on terror.
“I’m dead,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. It seems like the safest option, just now.
“I’m dead.”
“Yes.” I gesture toward the wreckage of his car. “Bobby caused an accident, and you were in his way. I’m sorry.”
“Is this your fault? Could you have stopped this?”
For once, I’m grateful to know the answer. “No,” I say, and offer him my hands. “I couldn’t have stopped it. All I could do was be here when the crash happened, so that I could be the one to get you home.”
“Home? But I’m dead.”
“There are a lot of kinds of home, Chris.” I slip my hands into his. His skin is cool—the dead are always cool—but he lacks the chilling, killing cold of Bobby Cross. I suppose that gift is reserved for the men who’ve sold their souls. “Now come on. You ever hot-wired a car?”
“What? No.”
“Good. Then we can begin your afterlife with a little education.”
Only one car in the crash was loved enough to leave a ghost behind, a battered pickup truck that’s healing by the second, the years wiping away like so much dust. Six more ghosts come out of the wreckage, all confused and shaken and uncertain of the rules that bind them now. I scan their faces, labeling them without really thinking about it—hitcher, homecomer, white lady. Emma can sort them out, help them decide who needs to move on and who wants to find a place in the endless arms of the midnight America.
I twist the wires until the truck gives a purring roar of acceptance, ready to drive us wherever we need to go. I give the crowd one last scan, and say, “I’m Rose Marshall. Some of you may have heard of me—they call me the Lady in the Diner.” Murmurs, and shocked expressions. Sometimes it’s good to have a reputation. “Now, you can come with me, or you can stay here. I have to warn you that the man who caused this accident may come back, and if you stay, you’re on your own.”
“Where are you taking us?” shouts one brave shade, hidden somewhere in the crowd.
I allow a smile, feeling the tattoo burn my skin. Chris stands by the passenger side door, ready to let me drive this time. “I’m taking you home,” I answer, and that’s the truth, that’s all the truth they’ll ever need. I’m taking them home.
They climb in one and two at a time, these new ghosts of the road. I slide behind the wheel, pat the dashboard for luck, and whisper, “O Lord, who art probably not in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. O Lady, deliver me from darkness, deliver me from evil, and deliver me from Bobby Cross.”
“What?” asks Chris.
I shoot him a smile. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all.”
The wheel fits easy in my hands, and we roll forward, out of the daylight, down into the dark.
2014
Prom Night Sweethearts
THE DEAD KEEP their own calendar. Every ghost is a sovereign nation, unbound by the laws of the living. We have our commonalities—Halloween is universal, for reasons which may seem obvious but aren’t obvious at all, once you get below the surface—but on the whole, every one of us marks time in our own way, measuring by the dates that matter to us. Some of them we choose. Some of them we don’t. All of them bind us, using our personal laws against us and forcing us to conform to whatever our deaths have made us.
There are holidays on the ghostroads, too. Forgotten holidays, holidays that have slipped between the cracks of the daylight world. The people in the twilight pray to dead gods, building temples to religions that were lost so long ago that no one really remembers what they were. Living faiths have no comfort to offer to the dead, so the dead go seeking comfort from their own. Saint Celia of the Open Hand, who keeps the phantom riders running true along their routes. Danny, God of Highways, whose given name has been forgotten, and who guards the gates between the twilight, the darkness, and the light. There are hundreds of ghost gods on the ghostroads, and their faiths are as faded and tangled as back country roads.
I’ve met a few of them. I still refuse to believe in their divinity, just as a matter of principle. It doesn’t seem to matter, either way. Their worshipers keep their calendars, and the rest of us keep calendars of our own.
Always, of course, there is Hades, Lord of the Dead.
And even when he turns his face away, there is Persephone.
The Last Dance Diner, 2013.
“It’s a mistletoe branch surrounded by white lilies and—I think that’s white asphodel, actually, which makes a lot of sense, if you think about it.” I’m not wearing a coat right now. I’m not wearing a shirt of
any kind; it would cover my tattoo, which would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise. Emma’s fingers trail beneath the surface of what should be my skin, sending cold shivers through me. I hate being touched by the living when I’m not solid. The fact that Emma isn’t technically quite alive doesn’t change that.
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking about it, and it doesn’t make any fucking sense at all.” I’m snapping at her. I know that, and I don’t particularly care. “What the fuck is asphodel?”
“It’s a flower.” She pulls her hand away. “This isn’t the kind of asphodel you’d find in a botany textbook. This is white asphodel. Real white asphodel, and that only grows in one place.”
“Where’s that?” I stand, rolling my shoulders and calling my clothes back into existence in the same motion. White tank top again, phantom recreation of the shirt I once borrowed from the only boy I had the chance to love before I died. Gary never wore this shirt, but it’s a comfort all the same.
Being dead means never moving on—not all the way. Not until you pass that final exit, and move on from everything.
Emma walks back around the counter, eyes glinting a brief, feline green before she starts dishing up a slice of apple pie. “The Asphodel Meadows in the Greek Underworld. The land of the balanced dead. If you’re not good, and not evil, you go there when you die.”
“Great, so it’s what, a moral judgment?”