Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan Read online

  --and we slam, hard, into the segmented body of the single beast called "accident," and everything is blackness, and the smell of burning.

  ***

  I've been on the ghostroads for eight years. Long enough to see my classmates marry, start families of their own, put the yearbooks on the shelf and forget the girl who starred on her very own page in her Junior Year, the one titled "In Memoriam." Long enough to see my boyfriend graduate. He saw me once, when I was young and careless, and it broke something deep inside of him, in the space where mourning lives.

  Long enough to learn to slip between the twilight and the daylight like a bride slips between the sheets on her wedding night; long enough to learn what it means when I touch a trucker's hand and taste ashes, when I flag down a ride and smell lilies on the wind. Hitchers aren't death omens, but we're psychopomps, if we want to be. "It can make you crazy," says one of the older hitchers, a lanky man who goes by "Texas Bill," whose eyes contain a million miles of desert road. "All those lives, all those deaths--leave them. Find another ride, and keep your sanity."

  Emma at the Last Dance (which is the Last Chance sometimes, they tell me, and those are the times where you need to be wary and beware) says something different. "By the time they hear me singing, it's too late," she says, and she sounds sadder than any living soul should sound--but she's not really living, is she? The rules are different for the bean sidhe, and I don't know quite how they apply to her. "You get an early warning. You get a chance. That's just this side of a miracle, Rose. You should treat it like one."

  I listen to them both, but I've made up my mind, and not because of anything either of them said. No; what made up my mind was a white-haired old trucker who bought me a grilled cheese sandwich and showed me pictures of his sister, of her little house in Florida, the place he was going when he retired. Just four more cross-country runs, he said, and his skin smelled like lilies and ashes, and I knew, even if he didn't, that he was never going to see his sister's little house on the beach. And I didn't help him. I didn't even try. I told him I didn't feel good, ran for the bathroom, and fell back down to the ghostroads, where the dead are the dead, and the living don't look at us that way.

  His truck crashed on I-5, blind curve, bad driving conditions, a perfect storm of bad luck and bad decisions. Word in the truck stops is that his body wasn't even recognizable when they pulled it from the cab. That doesn't bother me as much as it should--being dead for eight years has given me a very different outlook on death--but what came after is another story. One of the trainspotters was near the place where the crash happened, riding the rails from San Diego to Vancouver, and he came looking for me as soon as he figured out what rail line I was closest to. That's the trouble with trainspotters. They can see the future (sometimes, when they're looking in the right direction), but they're limited in more ways even than the hitchers.

  "He came in the stink of wormwood and soured gasoline," said the trainspotter, grabbing my hands. I wasn't wearing a coat. He caught them anyway. Damn wizards. "He came like the wind out of the west, like a crow to the battlefield. He came on black wings of burning rubber and shadow, and he drove his victim as a wolf drives a fawn. He has claimed another soul, Rose Marshall, and you might have stopped him, had you cared enough to rouse yourself to action. Shame, shame on you, shame and a thousand nights of wandering lonely. Shame, and all the sorrows of the road."

  "You're a little behind the curve on cursing me," I snapped, and I yanked my hands out of his. The trainspotter looked at me sadly, a thousand miles of broken hearts etched into the lines on his face. I shook my head. "I already have all the things you're wishing on me, and Bobby Cross is not my fault."

  "No. He's not. But he is your responsibility." And then he turned and walked away. His message had been delivered. I was no longer his concern.

  But Bobby Cross was mine. So let Emma and Texas Bill make their recommendations--it doesn't matter. That man died because I wouldn't help him, and while I might not have saved his life, having me there could have saved him from something worse than death. Maybe Texas Bill is right; maybe trying to change the fates of the living will make me crazy. Right now, I don't care. Bobby Cross is not my fault. If anything, I'm his. That doesn't mean I can sit back and let him rule these roads.

  Sometimes, all a dead girl can do is stand up and take responsibility for the things that gather in the shadows.

  ***

  One nice thing about being dead: I bounce back a hell of a lot faster than the living. I open my eyes to find myself sprawled on the asphalt, broken doll cast to the side of the road, with an aching head and skinned patches on my hands and knees. My tattoo is burning like a brand, the pain somehow focusing, rather than distracting me. I manage to lift my head, despite the ringing in my ears, and scan for Chris.

  He wasn't as lucky as I was. He's also sprawled on the pavement...but he isn't moving. Maybe I'm not that lucky, either; maybe I'm only still moving because being dead makes me harder to kill. My legs won't answer my command to move, and the ringing in my ears is getting worse. It's with relief that I release my hold on flesh and bone, feel my borrowed coat drop through what had been the substance of my body only a moment before, and climb, finally, to my feet.

  Things are different here on the edge of the twilight. Black clouds streak the sky like spilled ink, and the broken cars glitter with firefly brilliance in the process of slowly--so very slowly!--fading into darkness. People stand near the broken bodies of their cars. Not that many, not one for every driver who must have died in the collision but...enough. Only one stands out to my eyes; the one to whom I owe assistance. Chris is standing by his own fallen body, a look of deep confusion on his face, like he can't quite understand. I've seen that look on too many faces, on too many roads. I should give him time to come to terms with what's happened. At the very least, I should give him time to recover from his shock. But the air tastes of wormwood, and there are many things here, on this borderland highway, but what there isn't is time.

  My skirt rustles against my ankles as I start toward him, the green silk as clean and crisp as it was on the night I wore it for the first, and last, time. The prom gown is no surprise, not here, not with Bobby close enough to taint the shape of the world. The length of my hair is no surprise either, lemon-bleached curls loose against the sides of my neck. The wind that blows around us doesn't touch me. Nothing touches me but the consequences of my own motion. So it goes, when the dead come too close to the day.

  "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?" he asks.

  "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? What's going on?"

  There are no answers I can offer; 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."

  "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 nights are long 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 1941 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 anymore; 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.

  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 as 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?"

  "Got a better idea?" Chris's 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. "Why did you do this? These people didn't 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 travelled 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 no surprise when Bobby's hand clamps down on mine. 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.

  ***

  I've been on the ghostroads for sixty years. The girl I was, the girl Bobby killed, is barely a memory now--I barely remember her. 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, too, 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." 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."

  That'll have to be good enough, for now. We have sex on the floor of the store room after he gives me his coat, and he's gentleman enough to let me be on top, and it almost distracts me from the burning, 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 after a burger.

  ***

  There's a pause. Bobby's hand clamps down hard on my neck, his arm all but spasming...and then he's shoving me away, hand going to his mouth and anger in his eyes. "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 up, glancing back to be sure that 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 bar my way. "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 you can't have them, either." 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 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 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 death with a little education."

  ***

  Only one car in the crash was loved enough to leave a ghost behind, a battered pick-up truck that seems to be 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, phantom 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.