Brown hair with streaks of gray. Big, strong, and scowling like always, lines around his mouth not from smiling but from smoking. He wore his work shirt, gray pinstripes smelling of oil and dust, a patch on the breast pocket that said Decker Electrical, and under it in cursive, his father’s name. Bill.
The table was covered in things that didn’t make sense—a fork, a razor blade, a knife, and a small welding torch.
Rafe took his chance, lunged forward, and grabbed the fork. He jammed it into the thing that looked like his father, just in the arm. He wanted smoke to pour out, but no…nothing. Not a Bright Boy. Something else. The fork fell from Rafe’s hand and clattered onto the floor.
“No,” Rafe breathed.
“Sit down, son,” his father said.
He sat because the Bright Boys made him and because the man in front of him really was his father, and when his father said sit, Rafe sat.
Storyteller CornerYes
In case you were still wondering, yes, that really is the lost soul of Rafe’s father.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emilie was back home in Ohio, back in her bedroom, and only fourteen years old. Stevie sang “Dreams” to her through her speakers, and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted up from the kitchen below her, where her mom was cooking dinner. Their dog, PawPaw, lay asleep and snoring on the rug while Emilie folded her laundry. PawPaw didn’t even flinch when she stacked her folded T-shirts along his back, almost half of them Fleetwood Mac tour shirts.
And she wasn’t afraid of anything.
With her eyes closed, she kept singing and remembering all her favorite days, especially the easy days, the lazy days, the days when she didn’t know the definition of fear.
It was working. Skya had told her to do this as they traveled into the Ghost Town. The Bright Boys ate fear, her sister had warned her, and with a gleam in her eyes, she’d said, “Starve them out.”
So far, it was working. Although they’d trapped her in a cold basement room, all concrete and wood paneling, she was safe. Her memories of happiness had kept the Bright Boys away from her. The more she sang, the more the boy-shaped parasites slunk off, seeking easier prey. That morning, she’d jumped off a moving ship into a strange ocean and swum fully clothed to the rocks and told her sister, the queen, she would not leave her. Brave and stupid felt good on her. A good fit. This fake king of a dead world was not going to win, not without a fight.
The floor vibrated with approaching footsteps. Emilie smiled at the fear and sang to it. She raised her voice and belted out the chorus just as the door opened. One of the boys half threw, half pushed Jeremy inside. He landed in a heap on the concrete floor. She was on her feet and at his side in an instant.
“Jeremy? Jeremy? You okay?”
She grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him into a sitting position, and rested his back against the wall.
“Been better,” he said with a grunt of pain. His nose trickled blood, but otherwise he seemed to be in one piece, more or less. “Can you help with this?”
He held up his wrists. They’d been tied tight with a cut-off length of electrical cord.
“Oh my God, Jeremy, no…” She started to panic as she frantically worked at the cords.
“Deep breaths. Stay calm,” he said. “They love to freak us out.”
“Why did they do this to you?” she asked between slow breaths.
“For touching the king’s son,” he said. “I’m lucky they didn’t cut them off. And other things.”
“I can’t. They knotted them.” She tried pulling and tugging…nothing worked. Jeremy’s hands were turning red. They’d be blue soon.
She fought back tears. She needed music again, needed Stevie. No, not Stevie.
“Hold on,” she said. “I got it. I got it.”
“Hurry,” Jeremy said. “I’m losing feeling.” She took Fritz out of her hoodie pouch and set him on top of the bindings.
“Chew, baby, chew. You can do this, buddy. Pretend it’s one of my phone cords.”
“Smart,” Jeremy said as Fritz got to chewing, his sharp front teeth making quick work of one cord, then another. “I love rats. Rats are my new favorite animals. Don’t tell the horses I said that.”
Emilie laughed through her tears. “I won’t. Promise.”
Finally, Fritz snapped the last cord with a single bite. She hefted him into the air for a victory cheer while Jeremy flexed his hands.
“Good, thank you,” he said. “They still work.”
Fritz was exhausted after all that chewing, so she kissed him on top of his head and tucked him away again for safety. God only knew what the Bright Boys would do to him if they found him.
“Where’s Rafe?” she asked as she helped Jeremy chafe his wrists and hands to get the blood circulating again.
“Kitchen. Something’s up there pretending to be his father.”
She lowered her voice and leaned close. “It is him, Jeremy. It’s his lost soul.”
He stared at her, eyes wide with horror. With a cry of fury, he got to his feet and pounded on the door. He kicked it so hard the wood splintered. Then he kicked it again. Again. It didn’t give.
“Jeremy!” she called out. “Don’t. Remember the fear—”
“This isn’t fear,” he said. “This is rage.”
