It didn’t matter. I was out of here as soon as I passed my GEDs and figured out how to tell my sisters I was leaving.
And Russ. I’m not sure there were the right words for deserting a best friend.
Across the grounds, the band played. People danced. Someone was handing out glow sticks, making it look like a million multicolored fireflies had invaded St. Hilaire. Then Clive Rice took the mic to talk about the great services the people of St. Hilaire gave to the world. The way we used our talents to offer hope to all mankind. Blah, blah, blah. It was possible he gave precisely the same speech every year. By this point in the evening, I had usually already tuned him out.
A roar of applause went up in the crowd as the air shimmered next to Rice. Little by little, the ghost of Melody Thorne appeared next to him. One of the town founders, there was a statue of her with a huge parasol just a few yards from the stage, in the center of the square. It was her name that was invoked before all citywide readings, asking that our contacts with the dead and interpretations of the messages we received were fair and accurate. Apparently, she loved pomp and circumstance as much now as she had when she was alive.
Like all ghosts, she was less than solid, more the idea of Melody Thorne than a person. If you tried to focus on her edges too hard, they seemed to flicker and fade into their surroundings. It took a great deal of effort for a ghost to interact with us in any noticeable way, and they usually only mustered enough energy to get the attention of the living by slamming doors or whispering in the dark or moving stuff around the house.
Melody was stronger than most spirits, and probably had been resting up for a while. So she could make herself mostly visible while she spoke about her great joy at being able to bring another summer season to a close.
My head began to swim just as a fan of playing cards appeared in front of my face.
“Tonight. Poker. I’m getting a car this year,” Russ whispered in my ear.
“You should have been gouging the tourists,” I said. “Who exactly do you think you’re going to win that much from?”
“Better not let the Guild hear you,” Russ replied in a stage whisper. “Winning money from customers is illegal, you know.” His mock warning might have been funnier had he not been doing everything possible to join that same Guild. “I tried to call you, but it went to voicemail. David Sheridan and Alex Mackenzie are apparently feeling flush. What about it?”
I turned and looked at him. Russ had screwed with his hair again. It was normally jet-black, but he’d given it a violet tint, and it sat mop-like on top in defiance of gravity. He’d also shaved the sides, which made his pale skin look even paler against his long black coat and dark jeans. He obviously hadn’t wasted a second after the tourists had left, this year, to ditch his Guild-approved appearance and turn back into himself.
As Russ reached around to stash the cards in his backpack, I caught a glimpse of his owl tattoo, wrapped around his wrist as if it were hanging on for dear life.
“Impressive,” I said pointing to Russ’s hair. But really, I was talking about all of it. The hair, the tattoo, the metal bolt that sat in his ear, his dark and somewhat forbidding clothing, and most of all, his commitment to being himself in St. Hilaire, which didn’t embrace rebellion.
Russ turned away. He never could take a compliment.
“So, why do Sheridan and Mackenzie want to play with us anyhow?” I asked. Playing cards with a bunch of mediums always brought its own challenges. Beyond that, while Sheridan was loaded and probably just looking for a recreational game, Mackenzie was a con artist. And it wasn’t like we were friends with them.
Russ shrugged. “Sheridan wasn’t exactly forthcoming, but man, I need a car.”
Money always flowed freely for the first couple of weeks after a busy summer season. Playing poker, drinking a few clandestine beers. It sounded so normal. More than that, it sounded like an evening that could further my goal of escaping if I played my literal cards right.
I’d managed to squirrel a small amount of money away during the summer. With luck, I could add a couple of hundred to it tonight. The Griffins definitely didn’t have cash to burn. Russ wouldn’t be taking the risk if he weren’t sure he would win.
“I’m in,” I said, smiling, but it felt like I was using muscles that were out of shape.
“You know,” Russ started. “I have the strangest feeling that this is going to be a…an important year.” My shoulders tensed. I knew better than to question Russ’s “feelings,” but I wished he’d said “a great year” or “a fun year.” “Important” sounded too ominous.
He continued, “You never know when someone interesting is actually going to walk through those gates.”
We both looked up at the high, spiked, iron gates that would be locked in another hour—not to keep us in—all St. Hilaire residents had pass cards—but to keep the tourists out. There just weren’t enough mediums here in the off-season to keep the businesses open. Some mediums did phone or web séances to pay the rent, but it was looked down upon by the Guild, who felt it was too “gimmicky.” As if this whole freaking town weren’t one big gimmick.
“Interesting? Here? Dream on,” I said. We’d gotten boring, strange, skeptical, curious, and bat-shit crazy before, but as far as I was concerned, Russ was the last interesting person I’d known to move to St. Hilaire.
Up on the stage, Rice, alone once more, was still droning on about the coming year and an upcoming fundraiser to overcome some town financial crisis. Typical stuff.
“Please, make it stop,” I whispered to the sky.
But then, Rice changed topics and caught my attention. “As you all know, St. Hilaire was founded by an accomplished and selfless community of spiritualists. But over the ensuing generations, we have found ourselves weakened by disbelief and external influences. In the coming year, we will be taking measures to once again strengthen our town’s commitment to our mutual calling, as well as to the bloodlines of those who carry on the traditions that our founders set forth.”
The crowd went quiet. Russ and I stared at each other.
“Bloodlines?” I asked. “What the hell does that mean?”
Russ shook his head. “I have no idea.”
Rice continued. “We are in the process of putting in place some new parameters in order to tighten the bonds that hold us together. Starting with a more rigorous method of training the coming year’s Youth Corps, we will be enforcing some of the regulations that served St. Hilaire so well in its storied past.”
Everyone stood watching Rice with matching expressions of confusion.
“This program will begin as some of our past Corps members distribute Guild flags as our gift to you. All we require is that, as members of our community, you will fly these flags outside of your homes year-round. And while we don’t wish to cause concern, it seems like a prudent time to inform you that the Executive Council has been tasked with examining the long-held policy of grandfathered families and whether that has set a precedence of allowing our talents to be diluted.”