Mostly Dead Girls

an interlude in minor

In some back alley in Dyer Brook, a boy's breath puffed out white and steamy in the predawn air. It was chilly, that morning, but nowhere much was colder than that alleyway. If the alley had been on a ghost-hunting show the temperature equipment would have been shrieking and the psychic would be muttering about dark presence. The boy just sneezed, wiped his runny nose, and went back to painting on the wall.

GET READY

He paused, trying to remember the exact year. Facts that came out of Caine's mouth had a tendency of running out of your mind like water through a sieve. Useful, when Caine wanted to be forgotten, but it caused endless frustration when Styx had to learn something.

At least he remembered that. Styx—said sticks, spelled S-T-Y-X, the river of the dead, the name Caine had given him. Styx still felt uncomfortable with it sometimes, like it was a mask he had to wear all the time, but he knew better than to say that. Caine was the only person who cared about what happened to him. If he disappointed him—well, he wasn't sure that Caine would kill him, but he might as well be dead. Styx knew that nobody much cared about kids they didn't know, no matter how much they claimed to.

There was a thump on the other side of the wall in front of them, and he started back to alertness. "Shit," he whispered, staring at the half-message he'd painted. Caine would be done soon, and if Styx wasn't finished with this one simple thing by then—

Eighteen-forty-three. The number blossomed in his head like an angel's message, and he spilled red paint over his forearm with the haste of getting it onto the wall. Eighteen-forty-three, one eight four three, that's where we're going. Have you got it, Styx? Repeat it back to me. Again.

He wiped the red paint off as best he could, but it still left wet smears all over the sleeve of his jacket. His heart pounding in double-time, he covered the paint can and dropped the brush among the garbage. His prints didn't matter, Caine had explained, because he was only twelve. Twelve-year-old's didn't have fingerprints in the system, even when they came from a bad neighborhood. It would only ever matter if he got caught, and you're not going to get caught. Are you, Styx?

His thoughts ran naturally along the lines he'd heard over and over, so by the time he'd gotten to the front of the house and met Caine coming out the door he had run through two possible lectures for the paint on his arm already. He held it out silently, awaiting the inevitable, but Caine barely graced it with a frown.

"Clumsy," he said. "You completed the message, I hope."

Styx nodded.

"Good." Caine glanced back towards the interior of the house. "We're experiencing delays. Rayen, get out here."

Styx's old father had shouted at him. Caine went really, really quiet and cold, a tone that sunk right into Styx's bones and chilled them. Styx held his breath, and forgot to let it out again when Rayen slunk out of the doorway. Her head was bowed, her hair covering her face; but it was shining, not dull and clumpy, and her bare forearms were unmarked and smooth, clear brown in the moonlight. Styx always forgot how pretty she was when she wasn't all cut up and covered with blood. Maybe it was weird to feel that way; Caine had said they were both his children, so didn't that make her like his sister? But he couldn't help staring.

"Styx," Caine said, not taking his eyes off Rayen, "you'll need to replace that jacket. We don't want to attract attention, do we? One of the kids in there was thirteen, about your age. Go grab something from his room."

Styx hated, hated, hated going into the houses after Caine and Rayen had gone through them, but he'd do anything to get away from the frost in Caine's voice and the tension—like someone expecting a punch in the face—of Rayen's limbs. He knew that Caine would never hit Rayen, but he wanted to be anywhere but standing near them right now. He scurried inside.