swaying trees across the street.
When we reach the wide-open roundabout at the entrance to Prospect Park, flickers of nervousness flare up from Trevor. Whatever it is he has planned, we’re getting dangerously close to it. I wonder if these frat boys are unknowingly lining up to be the main course of some ritual sacrifice. Trevor seems just erratic and volatile enough to try to pull off such a stunt. But then, a few flatheads and a hipster getting glazed wouldn’t warrant so much concern from the Council of the Dead—and they certainly wouldn’t waste my time with it. Trevor checks his watch and then looks into the misty night. It’s eight minutes to midnight. I try to tune in to the gathering storm of excitement that’s about to explode all over the city, but it’s just a faint glimmer to me.
We enter the park, move quickly through the fresh-smelling darkness. The Brads and David fall into a nervous silence. Trevor is a fortress—he gives up nothing to me, so I let my thoughts chase the ridiculous minidramas and power plays between our companions. We’re moving toward the entrada, and of course, the timing is perfect: entradas are extra accessible to the non-dead at midnight, and this midnight in particular the air would be even more charged with culminating spiritual energy. The majority of Brooklyn’s ancestral souls are out and about tonight, enjoying their own morbid festivities. You can almost taste the bursting molecules in the air.
As if to confirm my suspicions, we turn off the main road and duck down a narrow path through the trees. But what would an inbetweener be doing with a bunch of college kids at an entrance to the Underworld? This is only the beginning, the voice that knows things whispers. You who are neither here nor there keep the secrets of both worlds. And secrets are a valuable commodity. My man has fashioned himself into a traitorous tour guide of the afterlife. I close my eyes and imagine the Land of the Dead overrun by oversized, pasty tourists, thousands of bubbly Brads and Bradettes, snapping pictures and sipping frappuccino-whatevers.
Crap.
I really shoulda taken him when it was simple. Now we’ve arrived; the entrada is a gaping void beneath drooping tree branches. It’s not black; it’s just emptiness. The air is crisp with new rain and a murmuring breeze. If Trevor touches that void, it’s game over—he’ll disappear into a relentless, hazy maze of wandering souls. David and the frat boys would be shit outta luck, their magical romp through the Underworld canceled, but Trevor would be safe from my expert problem-solving hands.
I push my way up through the crowd of Brads. With about ten feet to go before the entrada, Trevor makes a break for it. My elbows shoot out in either direction, crack into meaty midsections, splinter ribs. With a little added encouragement from my shoulders, the home team collapses to either side of me, and I sprint forward in a ferocious, lopsided lunge, unsheathing the blade from my cane as I go. It leaves my hand like a bullet. For a second, all anyone hears is that terrible whiz of steel cutting through air, and then the even more terrible renting of flesh. That sound means I win, but for once it doesn’t feel so good to win. Trevor collapses heavily, an arm’s length from the entrada.
Without breaking stride, I pull my blade from Trevor’s flesh and launch back toward the college boys, cutting the air and hollering gibberish at the top of my lungs. They leave in a hurry, limping and carrying one another along like the good guys in war movies. I return to Trevor, who’s bleeding out quickly.
If he can die, I can die.
It’s a sobering thought. I have so many questions I don’t even know where to begin, and his life force is fading fast. He makes like he’s about to speak but just gurgles. All of his attention, all of his waning energy, is focused back on that little scrap of something in his pocket, but his eyes stare right into mine.
He knows I can read him. He’s pointing it out to me.
I gingerly reach into his pocket and retrieve what turns out to be a photograph of a girl.
I can’t remember the last time I said this. Maybe I’ve never said it. But this chick is fine as hell. Not just fine though—there’s something about her gaze, the way she holds her chin, the shadow of her