“Because you serve the Cabals and I am a Cabal leader. You may call me Mr. Punch although that is no more my name than this is my face.” The man made a horrible smile, as though his muscles were fighting against one another. “Now, can you guess why I’ve brought you here?”

  “I finished my last assignment.” Charlie gestured toward the bruise from where the guy in the bar had hit her, which wasn’t accurate, but was easier than showing the glued-up wound on her back. “If that’s what this is about.”

  “You’re fast,” said Mr. Punch. “And maybe foolish.”

  “I’m ambitious,” Charlie said. “My ambition is for Vince and me to be done with this gig as quickly as possible.”

  “Shadow, how are you enjoying the work?” asked Mr. Punch.

  Charlie turned to see Red standing behind her, appearing as solid as the rest of them. She hadn’t noticed him manifest and wondered why he had. “Onyx floor,” he mouthed to her.

  Fuck, she’d lost her touch. She’d walked across it and hadn’t even noticed.

  “Shadow?” the man repeated.

  There was a pause where Charlie worried Red was going to refuse to answer the new head of the puppeteers unless she commanded him.

  “Killing fellow Blights?” Red returned, finally, in a silky voice that was all threat. “What could I fail to enjoy about that?”

  Charlie noted the surprise on the faces of the two men who had brought her there. They knew he could speak, but they still looked shocked when he did. Maybe they hadn’t expected sarcasm.

  The Vince she’d known had hunched his shoulders in order to seem smaller, had tried to take up less space in every room. But Red emanated violence. He didn’t even think to make himself seem docile; he chafed at the end of a leash and didn’t mind who knew it. As his eyes met hers, he smiled, but there wasn’t an ounce of gentleness in it.

  “Let’s sit down to business,” said Mr. Punch. “Have a seat, Charlie Hall.”

  Then the man in the robe seemed to deflate as a shadow slid away from him, across the floor, toward the landing.

  “Yes, sit,” said a second voice from the stairs. It was a woman in her midfifties with silvery hair, wearing only a nightgown. Her eyes were closed and she swayed slightly, as though deep asleep. Was that the other homeowner?

  “Dramatic,” said Red.

  “Creepy,” Charlie added, her gaze sweeping the room. If she could spot the line that connected his shadow to wherever Mr. Punch was hiding, she’d have a shot at figuring out who he was. But there were too many other shadows in the room. “Done playing with your dolls yet?”

  “Don’t be rude,” said the redheaded man, who immediately put his hand to his lips as though he couldn’t believe those words came from his throat. Mr. Punch again.

  “Sit,” the man in pajamas on the couch said as the puppeteer’s shadow returned to him. “Before I lose patience.”

  Not wanting the next command he gave her to come out of her own mouth, Charlie sat on the velvet couch. Red moved behind her, close enough that if she leaned back, she’d be touching him, which she definitely didn’t want to do.

  “Now let’s be hospitable,” Mr. Punch told the redhead he’d recently controlled. “Bring tea.”

  The man frowned, but headed for the kitchen.

  “Coffee, if there is any,” Charlie called after him, trying to act like things were normal. Like this was fine.

  The woman still stood on the stairs, eyes closed, swaying slightly. Somehow, she didn’t fall. “I have an assignment for you, Hierophant,” she said, with Mr. Punch’s intonation.

  It had only been a week since Vicereine had told Charlie to hunt down the Blight in the warehouse, after some baby glooms saw it hanging around an underpass by the river. The last thing Charlie needed was another job. But it seemed she was about to get one.

  At least there’d be a bounty.

  “There was a massacre at the Grace Covenant Church,” he said.

  “The one in Hatfield,” Charlie supplied, thinking of the televisions in the Walgreens and the reporter talking about dead people in the basement. Thinking of the milky stickiness of the stems she’d been holding when her mother had married Travis. They’d been freshly picked from the side of the road. She’d been hopeful about her future, about her family. “With the cult.”

  “The victims were meeting regularly in the church basement to discuss shadow magic,” said Mr. Punch, speaking through the man in his pajamas on the couch. “They were hoping to quicken their shadows. You must be familiar with people like that.”

  Charlie wasn’t sure if he was suggesting that Charlie herself had been one of those hopefuls—not true, well, not entirely true—or that he knew about Posey. “I’m familiar” was all Charlie said.

  “They weren’t part of any cult,” Mr. Punch told her. “One of our people was there. He gave a lecture that night. No one has seen him since. I want you to figure out what happened.”

  “Me?” Charlie held up her hands in warding. This was outside the role of the Hierophant and not something she was likely to get paid for either. “I’m no good at investigating disappearances or finding murderers. I hunt down rogue Blights and steal stuff.”

  “I thought you were ambitious,” he said.

  She stalled out at that. “What are you saying?”

  “Kill the Blight responsible. Find Rooster Argent and hide his involvement. I don’t want any of this coming back on the Cabals, do you understand?”

  “A Blight caused that?” Charlie asked.

  The redhead returned with a single cup of coffee, obviously instant from the smell. She took it gratefully. A sip cleared her head a little. But on the second sip, she realized the guy hadn’t brought anything for Red. Was that because they didn’t expect Red to ingest food or drink? How unusual was it that he could?

  She glanced at him, but she could read nothing of what he was feeling on his face.

  You want some? she sent through their bond, lifting the cup. She was still angry with him about the fight they’d had in her bedroom, but not treating him like a person wasn’t any kind of revenge.

  Red shook his head.

  “You want me to kill a Blight and find a guy named Rooster?” Charlie said, turning back to Mr. Punch’s puppet and trying to pick up the thread of the conversation. “Like cock-a-doodle-doo?”

  Since the guy was probably dead, it seemed uncharitable for Charlie to give her opinion about his name. Ah, well. Too late.

  “Yes.” Mr. Punch went on, “Eliminate everyone and everything responsible for those deaths. Hush things up. Find Rooster or whatever is left of him. Clear his name. The last thing the Cabals need is more bad press, more threats of government oversight. Make this go away, keep whatever you discover quiet, and I’ll convince the others to set you both free from the role of Hierophant. You must know they will never release your shadow without my intercession.”

  That was a much better reward than a bounty.

  “And you think you can convince them?” Charlie liked his offer, especially since it meant there was something to hush up. Blackmail material to hold over a Cabal leader had to come in useful. Of course, if he had something big to hide, he might rather she took the knowledge to a freshly dug grave. Promises were just words. If he was planning on killing her, he was free to offer the moon and stars.

  “I can orchestrate freedom for you both,” he said, speaking from a stolen mouth.

  Charlie didn’t see how she could get out of this, so she’d better hope he was telling the truth. “Is there anything you can tell us about the massacre? Do you have a reason to think a Blight was involved?”

  The words came from the woman on the stairs. “The bodies were exsanguinated.”

  Well. That was a reason. An upsetting reason.

  “No Blight needs that much blood.” Red frowned. “Want, maybe. But not need.”

  The two goons shared an uncomfortable look.

  “Should we be concerned about your loyalties, Vincent Carver?” Mr. Punch asked.

  A long silence filled the room and Charlie thought again about the cup of coffee the redhead had brought out. How could they ever expect him to be loyal when they hadn’t even brought him a drink?

  “No,” Red said finally.

  “Bellamy would like to study you,” said Mr. Punch’s puppet. “He thinks he could learn a lot about Blights from doing a little poking and prodding. A few experiments.”

  “He’s not a lab rat,” Charlie snapped.

  “No. He’s a monster,” Mr. Punch said, although there was reverence in his voice. “Fail me and the shadow will go to the masks to be studied. And you, Charlie Hall, I will turn into a real puppet.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlie asked, half-regretting her question as soon as it was out of her mouth.

  “I will make you turn on all the people you care about most. You will hurt them and you will remember it, but you won’t be able to stop yourself,” he said. “Do what I ask. I am new to power among the local Cabal leaders. I need allies. Be mine, or be my enemy.”

  Big promise, bigger threat, and nothing to bind this guy to his end of the deal. Not only that, but he apparently equated “failing at a difficult task” with “being his enemy.” Not great. Charlie had barely managed to take down the last Blight she’d faced, and one that had killed so many people would be much worse.

  Still, he had her. His threats were too scary and his offer too good.

  “I’ll do your job,” Charlie said. “How do I contact you if I need to ask you more questions? Or to let you know what I discover.”

  “I’ll find you,” said the woman on the stairs, speaking as though in a dream.

  “I’ll find you,” said the man on the couch, in his robe and pajamas, feet bare on the carpet.

  “I’ll find you,” said the goateed man. He wiped off his mouth with the back of his sleeve once he was done speaking, looking disgusted.

  Charlie stood. “I better get to it then.” She set her mug down on the coffee table.

  The man in the robe said nothing. His face had gone slack. He looked like someone you might pass in the supermarket, checking the eggs for cracks. Someone’s dad, bringing out the ladder with a groan to put up holiday lights in anticipation of the kids coming home for Christmas. Would he wake on the sofa with no memory of how he got there, and a dirty coffee cup in front of him? Would his wife find herself on the stairs in the morning and worry over dementia? Neither would know how Mr. Punch used them, and somehow that made it worse.

  No one should cover for the puppeteer leader. No one should hush things up.

  Which made Charlie no one, because even knowing that, she was going to do exactly what he wanted.

  12

  Pretend

  As dawn glowed through the trees like a distant fire, Charlie sat on the edge of the road and summoned a Cosmic Cab, one of the Valley’s quirkier alternatives to Uber or Lyft. Watching Red out of the corner of her eye as she gave her home address, she had the uncomfortable feeling that if she looked away, she’d find him returned to shadow.

  “Don’t go,” she said as she put the phone away.

  Red furrowed his brow as though not sure what she meant.

  “I mean, you don’t have to disappear all the time,” she went on. “Though I understand why you might want to. I wish I could disappear sometimes too.”

  He moved to sit beside her in the icy grass.

  Maybe they couldn’t have anything more than friendship, but she needed to find her way to that with him. “You could talk to me more too,” she said, with a yawn. “I mean, obviously. Sorry, I’m tired.”

  “I never used to sleep,” he volunteered, watching her closely. “But I do now. For a few hours, every night. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Do you dream?” she asked, although she knew. He’d spoken in his sleep once, calling Adeline’s name.

  “I think I always dreamed,” he told her, appearing surprised by his own answer.

  She smiled up at him. “Can I lean against your shoulder?”

  “You can,” he said, as though surely she would think better of it. But right then, she was willing to take any comfort she could get. Like this, it was easy to imagine it was Vince who she was pillowing her head on—Vince, who cleaned their gutters and went grocery shopping even when it wasn’t his turn, who paid his part of the rent punctually and without complaint. Vince, who’d seemed so stable he was an enigma.

  The wool of Red’s coat was soft and carried the scent of cologne, something expensive, with clove and smoke in it. Vince had smelled like bleach and the cheap soap she bought for the shower. He had tried to make her believe he wasn’t anything special. But even back then, some part of her had known: she might have him, but she couldn’t keep him.

  And it had turned out that he wasn’t real.

  Red was the hidden face of the man she’d loved, one she’d occasionally provoke him into showing. Those glimpses had made her feel as though they had a wicked, shared secret. Now that he showed that face to everyone, all the time, and maybe didn’t even like her, her feelings were a painful jumble of want and shame.

  Vince had been the kind of person you were supposed to grow old and comfortable with. Red was a monster. You didn’t grow old with a monster. You set the world on fire together and burned up in the blaze.

  Still, she pressed her cheek against Red’s upper arm and closed her eyes. Typical Charlie Hall, ignoring every warning. “Wake me when the car comes.”

  She didn’t sleep. But she did listen to the morning calls of birds and felt the warmth of the sun cut through the chill night air. Let herself be comforted by his arm over her shoulder, as solid as if it were made of flesh.

  Mr. Punch had given her an opportunity, so long as she didn’t fumble it. She’d need to figure out what he was trying to hide from the other two Cabal leaders. And she’d need to find the murderer, although she didn’t know how to do that—especially since a Blight could return to shadow and presumably stay there.

  When she heard the crunch of tires on gravel, she opened her eyes.

  True to its Cosmic company name, the Mitsubishi Mirage had been tricked out, obviously on the cheap: spray paint covered the body, pink and dark blue swirls obscuring a few dents and scrapes and creating something that looked vaguely galactic.

  Charlie opened the door to the pounding rhythm of Eurodance music and a pink fur cover on the back seat. The ceiling had silver fabric glued to it, the whole thing studded with LED lights in changing rainbow colors. If you were high, this would not be a car to get into lightly.

  She slid over, making room for Vince, and told the driver her address. The kid—probably a college student—dutifully typed it into the map app on his phone.

  “Can you go through a Dunkin’ drive-through on your way?” she asked.

  The kid perked up. “For sure.”

  With that, Charlie rested her head against Red’s shoulder again. This time the hum of the engine and the spreading warmth of the heater lulled her away from planning. Moments later, despite the music, she slept.

  In dreams, she found herself in the library of Salt’s house, lying on the rug. She was no child, though, as she had been then, waking up in a sticky mess of vomit, poison, and fake blood. Instead, she was her adult self, in the red suit she’d worn the last time she was there, and Rand sat in a leather club chair, looking down at her between puffs on a cigar.

  Rand, her mentor in con artistry when she was too young to know better and he was too old to become better. Rand, whom she’d hated almost as much as she’d loved, and missed terribly ever since Salt murdered him.

  “Cuban cigar,” Rand said, taking a deep drag and then pursing his lips to make smoke rings. “Nothing but the best for Lionel Salt.”

  “What are you doing here?” Charlie asked, pushing to her feet. “Shouldn’t you be dead?”

  Rand grinned fondly. “You know me, always sneaking into places I’m not allowed. Anyway, I came to warn you.”

  Charlie looked around the room. “I think it might be too late for that. Salt’s dead.”

  “You can’t trust the people in the castle,” he said, shaking his head. “None of them. Not even the prisoners in the dungeon.”

  Was he talking about Red?

  “They’re like vampires,” Rand went on, turning the cigar over and pressing the burning part into the center of his palm. The scent of singed flesh filled the room. His familiar smile turned strange, menacing. “They’ll drink your blood.”

  And then Charlie jerked awake with a gasp. She was still in the back of the Cosmic Cab, the music still thumping. Cold air from an open window might have been what woke her, because the driver was accepting a tray of drinks.

  “I ordered you a large coffee with cream,” Red said and for a moment, she couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. How had he remembered how she took her coffee?

  She scrubbed a hand over her face, realizing a coffee order didn’t mean he’d gotten any memories back. All it meant was that he’d been paying attention these last few weeks. “Right. Thank you.”

  The driver handed her a huge coffee, passed a smaller, equally milky one to Red along with some change, and kept a whipped cream monstrosity for himself.

  Red had ordered himself a coffee. That was interesting. So he did want to eat and drink like a human.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked her.

  “You used to take yours black,” she told him, pointing to his cup.

  He blinked. “Did I?”

  “Maybe you just wanted to seem like a badass,” she told him.

  He took a tentative sip, his face not really allowing her to guess if he liked it. It came to her that he might not know how he preferred his coffee. Even back then, maybe he’d taken it black because he’d chosen that once, at random—possibly he’d heard someone order it that way—and stuck with it. Maybe a lot of what she’d thought she knew about Vince had been protective coloration.