“Are they helping?”

  “I’m not sure,” Wallace admitted. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  Nelson didn’t seem surprised. “You’ll know when the time is right.”

  “Cryptic bastard,” Wallace muttered. “What do you think I’m—”

  He never got the chance to finish.

  Something tickled at the back of his mind.

  He frowned, raising his head to look around.

  Everything looked as it always did. People sat at the tables, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of tea and coffee. They were laughing and talking, the sounds echoing flatly around the shop. A small line had formed at the counter, and Hugo was putting pastries into a paper bag for a young man in a mechanic’s uniform, the tips of his fingers stained with oil. Wallace could hear the radio through the kitchen doors. He caught a glimpse of Mei through the porthole windows, moving back and forth between the counters.

  “What is it?” Nelson asked.

  “I don’t … know. Do you feel that?”

  Nelson leaned forward. “Feel what?”

  Wallace wasn’t sure. “It’s like…” He looked toward the front door. “Something’s coming.”

  The front door opened.

  Two men walked in. They wore black suits, their shoes polished. One was squat, as if he’d reached an invisible ceiling during his formative years and expanded outward rather than upward. His forehead had a sheen of sweat on it, his eyes beady and darting around the shop.

  The other man couldn’t have been more different. Though he was dressed similarly, he was as thin as a whisper and almost as tall as Wallace. His suit hung loosely on his frame. He appeared to be made of nothing but skin and bones. He carried an old briefcase in his hand, the sides worn and chipped.

  The men moved to either side of the doorway, standing stock still.

  The sounds of the tea shop at midday stopped as everyone turned to look at the new arrivals.

  “Oh no,” Nelson muttered. “Not again. Mei isn’t going to like this.”

  Before Wallace could ask, a third person appeared in the doorway. She was a strange vision. She looked young, possibly around Hugo’s age, or even younger. She was tiny, the top of her head barely reaching the squat man’s shoulders. She moved with confidence, her eyes bright, her frizzy hair unnaturally red under an old-fashioned fedora with a crow’s feather sticking up from the band. The rest of her outfit had probably been en vogue at the turn of the nineteenth century. She wore ankle boots with thick laces over black stockings. Her dress was calf-length, and looked heavy, the fabric black and red. It was cinched tightly at the waist and cut low on her chest, her bosom pale and generous. Her white gloves matched the pashmina shawl around her shoulders.

  Everyone stared at her.

  She ignored them. She raised one hand to the other and began to pluck at the glove one finger at a time. “Yes,” she said, voice deeper than Wallace expected. She sounded as if she’d smoked at least two packs a day since she’d learned to walk. “Today feels … different.”

  “I agree,” Squat Man said.

  “Absolutely,” Thin Man said.

  She pulled off the glove from her left hand before holding the hand out in front of her, palm facing toward the ceiling. Her fingers wiggled. “Quite different. I believe we’ll find what we seek today.” She lowered her hand as she moved toward the counter, the floorboards creaking with every step she took.

  The customers in the shop began to whisper as the men fell in step behind her. They passed Wallace and Nelson by without so much as a glance in their direction. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t the Manager that Wallace had been fearing. Unless she was ignoring him on purpose to gauge his reaction. Wallace kept his expression neutral, though his skin crawled.

  Hugo, for his part, didn’t look as perturbed as Wallace felt. If anything, he was resigned. The customers at the counter scattered as the woman approached. “Back so soon?” Hugo asked, voice even.

  “Hugo,” the woman said in greeting. “I expect you won’t make things difficult for me, yes?”

  Hugo shrugged. “You know you’re always welcome, Ms. Tripplethorne. Charon’s Crossing is open for all.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. “Aren’t you lovely, you silly flirt. Open for all, you say? What could you possibly mean by that?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She leaned forward. Wallace was reminded of a nature documentary he’d seen once about the mating habits of birds of paradise, their plumage on full display. She was obviously aware of her more … substantial features. “I do. And you know what I mean, sweet man. Don’t think you have me fooled. The things I have seen across the world would be enough to strike fear into the very heart of you.” She traced her finger on the back of Hugo’s hand on the counter.

  “I have no doubt,” Hugo said. “So long as you don’t bother my other customers, and stay out of—”

  “Oh hell no,” a voice growled. The doors behind the counter swung open, smacking against the wall and rattling the jars filled with tea as Mei stalked out of the kitchen, a small towel in her hands.

  “—Mei’s way, we’ll be fine,” Hugo finished.

  “Mei,” the woman said with no small amount of scorn.

  “Desdemona,” Mei snarled.

  “Still back in the kitchen, I see. Good for you.”

  Hugo managed to hold Mei back before she launched herself over the counter.

  The woman—Desdemona Tripplethorne, a mouthful if there ever was one—remained unaffected. She slapped her gloves against her hand as she looked upon Mei dismissively. “You should work on those anger issues, petal. They’re unbecoming of a lady, even one such as yourself. Hugo, I’ll take my tea at my usual table. Make it quick. The spirits are restless here today, and I won’t miss my opportunity.”

  Mei wasn’t having it. “You can take the tea and shove it up your—” But whatever threat she wanted to make was left to the imagination as Hugo pulled her back into the kitchen.

  Desdemona turned and eyed everyone in the shop who was staring at her. Her lip curled in a close approximation of a sneer. “Continue on,” she said. “These are matters far beyond your earthly understanding. Tut-tut.”

  Everyone turned away almost immediately, the whispers reaching a fever pitch.

  Nelson grabbed Wallace by the hand, jerking him toward the kitchen. He looked back before they passed through the doors to see the woman and the two men heading toward a table near the far wall under the framed poster of the pyramids. She rubbed her finger along the tabletop before shaking her head.

  “—and if you’ll let me, I’ll just put a little poison in her tea,” Mei was saying to Hugo as they entered the kitchen. Apollo sat next to her, ear flopped over as he looked between the two of them. “Not enough to kill her, but still enough for it to be considered a felony for which I’ll absolutely accept jail time. It’s a win-win situation.”

  Hugo looked horrified. “You can’t ruin tea like that. Every cup is special and putting poison in it would ruin the flavor.”

  “Not if it’s tasteless,” Mei countered. “I’m pretty sure I read that arsenic doesn’t have a taste.” She paused. “Not that I know where to get arsenic right this second. Dammit. I should’ve looked into that after last time.”

  “We don’t murder people,” Hugo said, and it didn’t appear that this was the first time he’d said it to her.

  “Maim, then.”

  “We don’t do that either,” Hugo said.

  She crossed her arms and pouted. “Nothing’s stopping us. You told me that we should always try to achieve our dreams.”

  “I didn’t have murder in mind when I told you that,” Hugo said dryly.

  “That’s because you think too small. Go big or go home.” She glanced at Wallace. “Tell him. You’re on my side, right? And you know the law better than any of us here. What does it say about killing someone who deserves it?”

  “It’s illegal,” Wallace said.

  “But not, like, completely illegal, right? Justifiable homicide is a thing. I think.”

  “I mean, there’s always a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, but that’s difficult to pull off—”

  Mei nodded furiously. “That’s it. That’ll be my defense. I’m so insane that I didn’t know what I was doing when I put arsenic in her tea.”

  Wallace shrugged. “It’s not like I can testify against you showing premeditation.”

  “Not helping,” Hugo said.

  Probably not, but it wasn’t like he thought Mei would actually murder someone. Or so he hoped. “What’s wrong with that woman? Who is she? What did she do besides have a terrible name?”

  “She calls herself a medium,” Mei spat. “A psychic. And she has a crush on Hugo.”

  Hugo sighed. “She does not.”

  “Right,” Nelson said. “Because most people put their boobs up on the counter like she does. Perfectly natural.”

  “She’s harmless,” Hugo said, like he was trying to convince Wallace. “She comes in here every few months and tries to run a séance. But nothing ever happens and so she leaves. It’s never for very long, and it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Are you hearing yourself?” Mei exclaimed.

  Wallace was still stuck on the word crush. It made him bristle more than he expected. “I thought you were gay.”

  Hugo blinked. “I … am?”

  “Then why does she flirt with you?”

  “I … don’t know?”

  “Because she’s awful,” Mei said. “Literally the worst person in existence.” She began to pace. “She gives people like me a bad name. She cons others out of money, telling them she’ll help them communicate with their loved ones. It’s messed up. All she does is give them false hope, telling them what they think they want to hear. She has no idea what I had to go through, and even if she did, I doubt it would stop her. She waltzes in here like she owns the place and makes a mockery of everything we do.”

  Hugo sighed. “We can’t just kick her out, Mei.”

  “We can,” Mei retorted. “It’s very easy. Watch, I’ll do it right now.”

  He stopped her before she could storm through the doors.

  For a moment, Wallace thought it was all for show. That Mei was being overly dramatic, playing a part. But there was a twist to her mouth he’d never seen before, and a sheen to her eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She gnawed on her bottom lip as she blinked rapidly. He remembered what she’d told him about what it’d been like for her when she was younger, when no one would listen to her when she tried to tell them something was wrong.

  “What does she do?” he asked.

  “Ouija board,” Nelson said. “She said she found it in an antique store, and that it once belonged to Satanists in the 1800s. There’s a sticker on the bottom that says it was made by Hasbro in 2004.”

  “Because she’s full of shit,” Mei snapped.

  “Pretty much,” Nelson said. “She also records everything and puts it online. Mei looked it up once. She has a YouTube channel called Desdemona Tripplethorne’s Sexy Seances.” He made a face. “Not exactly quality content, if you ask me, but what do I know.”

  “But…” Wallace hesitated. Then, “If she tells people what they want to hear, what does it hurt?”

  Mei’s eyes flashed. “Because she’s lying to them. Even if it makes them feel better, she’s still lying. She doesn’t know anything about what we do, or what comes after. Would you want to be lied to?”

  No, he didn’t think he would. But he could also see it from the other side, and if people wanted to give her money just to have reassurance, then wasn’t it their business? “She charges for it?”

  Mei nodded. Hugo wrapped an arm around her shoulder but she shrugged him off. “After what she did to Nancy, I really thought you’d see right through her. But here we are.”

  Hugo deflated. “I…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It was her choice, Mei.”

  “What did she do to Nancy?” Wallace asked.

  Everyone stared at him, the silence deafening. Wallace wondered what fresh hell he’d stepped in now.

  “She found Nancy,” Mei finally said. “Or Nancy found her. I don’t know which, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Desdemona filled Nancy’s head with all manner of crap about spirits and her ability to contact them. She gave Nancy false hope, and it was the cruelest thing she could have done. Nancy believed her when Desdemona said she could help. And then she came here looking more alive than she ever had since she first arrived. Nothing happened. Nancy was devastated, but Desdemona still collected her fee.” By the time she finished, Mei’s cheeks were splotchy, spittle on her lip.

  Before Wallace could ask what had happened to Nancy for her to even talk to someone like Desdemona, Hugo said, “That’s not … I’m not trying to—look, Mei. I get what you’re saying. But it was Nancy’s choice. She’s reaching for anything she can to—”

  It was then that Wallace Price came to a decision. He told himself it was because he couldn’t stand to see the look on Mei’s face, and that it certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Hugo was being flirted with.

  It was time to take matters into his own hands.

  He turned and walked through the doors, ignoring the others calling after him.

  Desdemona Tripplethorne had taken a seat at a table. Squat Man and Thin Man stood next to her. The briefcase had been opened. There were candles lit on the table, the scent obnoxious and cloying, like someone had eaten a bushel of apples and then vomited them up and covered the remains in cinnamon. Most of the other customers had cleared out, though a few were still watching her warily.

  The Ouija board had been set up on the table atop a black cloth that hadn’t been there before. The theatricality of it all made Wallace grimace. A wooden planchette sat on the board, though Desdemona wasn’t touching it. Next to the Ouija board lay a feather quill pen, resting on top of loose sheets of paper.

  Desdemona sat in her chair ramrod straight, staring into a camera that had been set up next to the table on a tripod. A tiny red light blinked on the top. Without being told, Squat Man stepped forward, taking the shawl off her shoulders and folding it carefully. Thin Man pulled a vial of liquid from the briefcase along with a glass dropper. He dipped it into the vial and squeezed the top of the dropper, drawing up liquid. He held it over Desdemona’s hands, two drops on each, before setting it aside. He rubbed the drops into the backs of her hands. It smelled of lavender.

  “Yes,” she breathed as Thin Man finished. “I feel it. There’s someone here. A presence. Get the spirit box. Quickly.” She smiled into the camera. “As my followers know, the Ouija board is my preferred choice of communication, but I’d like to try something new, if the spirits would allow for it.” She trailed a finger along the feather quill. “Automatic writing. If the spirits are willing, I give full permission for them to take control of my hands and write whatever message they deem fit. Isn’t this exciting?”

  Squat Man reached into the briefcase and pulled out a device unlike anything Wallace had ever seen. It was the size and shape of a remote, though the comparison ended there. Out the top came stiff wires, each ending in a small bulb. Squat Man turned a switch on the side, and the device burst to life, lights flashing green. It squealed, a high-pitched mess filled with static. Squat Man looked down at it with wide eyes. He tapped it against his palm. The squeal died down, and the lights faded.

  “Strange,” he mumbled. “Never had it do that before.”

  “You’re ruining the ambiance,” Desdemona hissed out of the side of her mouth, never looking away from the camera. “Did you charge the damned thing?”

  Squat Man wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I made sure of it. Battery’s full.” He swung it back and forth around him. Wallace stepped out of the way. It barely blipped when it came within inches of him.

  “What are you doing?” a voice whispered beside him. “Whatever it is, count me in, especially if it causes trouble.”

  He looked over to see Nelson grinning obnoxiously. Wallace couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m gonna mess with her.”

  “Ooh,” Nelson said. “I approve.”

  Thin Man frowned. “Did you hear something?”

  “Only the sound of your voice, which I despise,” Desdemona said. She glared at the few remaining customers until they too got up and left. “Less talking, more focusing.”

  Thin Man snapped his mouth closed as Squat Man stood on a chair, raising the device toward the ceiling.

  “Spirits!” Desdemona said shrilly. “I command that you speak with me! I know you’re here.” She placed her hands on the planchette. “This board will allow us to communicate with each other. Do you understand? There is nothing to fear. I only wish to speak with you. I’ll not cause you harm. If you prefer the pen and paper, make your intentions known. Enter me. Allow me to be your voice.”

  Nothing happened.

  Desdemona frowned. “Take your time.”

  Nothing.

  “All the time you—would you stop hovering! You’re ruining it!”

  Thin Man stood upright quickly and stepped away.

  “Weird,” Squat Man muttered as he stopped near the fireplace. The device squealed again as he swung it over Nelson’s chair. “It’s as if something’s here. Or was. Or might be. Or never was at all.”

  “Of course there was,” Desdemona said. “If you had studied the file I’d given you, you would know that Hugo’s grandfather lived here before he died. It’s most likely his spirit I’m feeling today. Or perhaps this place once belonged to a serial killer, and his victims are reaching out from beyond the grave after being horribly mutilated and then murdered.” She looked into the camera, wiggling her shoulders, chest rising and falling. Wallace didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed how violently red her lipstick was. “Just like when we were at the Herring House last year. Those poor, poor souls.”