— — —
Emma sat in the back of her parents’ plain white Honda, staring out the window and nervously bouncing her leg. She had no idea what to expect from this meeting, since her mom had basically arranged the whole thing alone. She knew they were going to meet someone who was supposed to help with her weird new ‘problem,’ as her parents put it. Someone with the same kind of problem and some experience dealing with it. Someone who knew Miss Desavi, the tall, irritable businesswoman with the solid black outline.
That was all they really knew about the lady at the moment. Meeting her was supposed to fix that, and Emma just hoped she wasn’t as harsh as Miss Desavi. From the front seat, her mom let out another huff of irritation, looking down at her phone. “So unhelpful,” she muttered. “I asked for a description of this woman we’re about to meet, and all she said was, ‘Black woman. Braids. Big glasses. Trust me, she’s hard to miss.’ What on Earth does that mean?”
“Maybe she has bright-colored hair,” Emma suggested, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “Or she’ll have a big sign or something, like at an airport.”
Her mother glanced back at her, unamused. “Stop that, sweetheart. Your stomach is showing.”
Flushing with embarrassment, Emma pulled her sweater back down and crossed her arms instead to stop her fussing hands. She didn’t speak again until they reached their destination, a park by the Hudson River. Despite it being 2 p.m. on a Saturday in summer, there weren’t many people there. There was a playground visible from the parking lot, but its emptiness and the oddly cool weather just made the scene feel a little gloomy.
However, sitting on a nearby bus stop bench, there was a woman who ticked all the boxes in Miss Desavi’s description: cool, dark skin that looked more black than brown; a headful of shining black braids; large, round silver glasses; and in her strangely old-fashioned outfit, she was definitely hard to miss. She had a hardback book open in her hands, her eyes down as she read, but her posture was starkly straight, her head not bowed in the slightest. Emma’s first impression of her was, in a word, stern.
Even when the three of them approached, the woman didn’t look up from her book for a moment until Emma’s mom addressed her directly. “Ahem. Excuse me.” She looked up at them but didn’t smile. “Are you by any chance July Morgan?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she said, putting her book away in the brown leather messenger bag at her side and getting up from the bench. Her tall, thin frame was an almost shocking contrast to Emma’s mom—and Emma herself—being so short and round. “You must be Mrs. Cavanaugh.”
“Yes! My name is Diane. This is my husband, Anthony—”
“Tony is fine,” her dad said with a slight nod.
“And this is Emma,” Diane went on, placing her hands on Emma shoulders to pull her forward.
“Hi,” she muttered, only looking up briefly before going back to observing the woman’s—July’s—wardrobe. Black leather boots were just visible under the edge of a high-waisted skirt, which was paired with a silvery blouse made out of something shiny. Like the fancy table runner Emma’s mom set out on special occasions. The high collar and loose sleeves cinched at the wrist made July look like she belonged in Alice in Wonderland or A Christmas Carol. She was so fancy it made Emma’s fraying sweater and sneakers feel all the more drab.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you all,” she said. “I suppose you have some questions.”
“We do,” Mrs. Cavanaugh laughed nervously. “Do you mind?”
“No, no, it’s fine. That’s the reason I’m here. Let’s sit down, and we can talk.” There was a gazebo closer to the water where they could talk privately about this big, weird secret, so they gathered there. July sat on one side of the table, and Emma took the other, between her parents.
“So, that woman,” her mom began. “You know her?”
“Valen? We’re acquainted. Not to say we’re friends by any means, but I do know her. I can’t imagine she was easy to talk to about any of this.” July spoke very clearly, which Emma appreciated.
“Hm. That’s one way of putting it,” Mrs. Cavanaugh sniffed. Emma and her dad were content to let her do most of the talking in social situations like this. “She was completely insensitive, and she has the most vulgar vocabulary. Let me say I’m relieved you’re nothing like her.”
“Oh, God, so am I!” July laughed. Emma’s eyes widened, and she could practically feel her parents tense up. They didn’t like hearing God’s name used so casually. “So is there anything you’d like to know about me personally? I’m an open book, so to speak.”
“Well, what do you do? For a living, I mean. We weren’t told much about you outside of what you and Emma have in common.”
“I do freelance writing and editing on occasion. But most of my earnings come from my YouTube channel.”
“You’re a YouTuber?” Emma finally piped up in surprise. July looked down at her and, for once, smiled.
“Yes, for a few years now,” she explained. “I give readings of classic literature and discuss it with my viewers. Do you like to read?”
“Kind of. I’m slow at it,” Emma said, lowering her eyes toward the table, though they flickered back up now and then. Her parents got onto her for never looking them in the eye, so she tried despite how weird it felt. “I always have to recheck my books at the library.”
“That’s fine. I go to the library a lot, and I own quite a few books too, if you’d like to borrow one from me, instead.” That was a nice offer, even if it was unlikely to happen. Maybe she wasn’t quite as chilly as she seemed.
“But you don’t have a real job,” Emma’s dad asked.
“Maybe not your traditional nine-to-five sort of job. But it’s work I enjoy, and it provides for me well enough.” It was almost like she and Mr. Cavanaugh were having a staring contest for a second, like she was waiting for him to object again. “Besides, it helps for me to be able to work from home, for obvious reasons.”
“Are they obvious? We don’t really know much about all this yet,” Emma’s mom pointed out. “Can you tell us what we should expect?”
“Fortunately, with Valen watching out for us—as unfortunate as that sounds—you shouldn’t have to worry at all. She won’t let anyone dangerous near you.” That last was addressed directly to Emma.
“But in the future,” her mother insisted. “She won’t always be here. Could you give us an example, based on your own experience?” July went beyond not smiling and distinctly frowned.
“There are several different kinds of immortals,” she said at last. “Hundreds. It’s been about nine years since I came into my Sight, so I’ve interacted with quite a few of them. Some, usually the higher-ups, will ignore you. Others will see you as a threat because you see them for what they are. Still others will recognize your power and try to take it for themselves. They’ll offer you all sorts of deals and trades, but none of it will ever be worth the price they ask.”
“What price?” Emma asked. She had so many questions already that all she could do was ask the most immediate one first.
“Most often, your…” July sighed. “For lack of a better word, your soul.”
Comments (0)
See all