FATHER: THE DEVIL
SPECIES OF MAGICAL YOUTH: ANTICHRIST
Linus Baker fainted dead away.
* * *
“G’way,” he muttered when he felt a tapping against his cheek. “S’not time for your breakfast, Calliope.”
“That’s good to know,” a voice that obviously did not belong to Calliope said. “Seeing as how it’s afternoon. Unless they breakfast late in the city. I wouldn’t know. I tend to avoid such places. Too much noise for my taste.”
Linus opened his eyes, blinking slowly.
A woman peered down at him, silhouetted by the sun.
Linus sat up quickly. “Where am I!”
The woman took a step back, a look of cool amusement on her face. “Marsyas Train Station, of course. An odd place for a nap, but I suppose it’s as good a place as any.”
Linus pushed himself off the floor of the platform. He felt gritty and out of sorts. There was an ache in his head, and he seemed to have accumulated quite a collection of sand on his backside. He brushed himself off as he looked around wildly. Calliope sat in her crate, tail twitching as she watched him warily. His luggage sat near her.
And there, on the bench he’d been sitting on, was a pile of folders.
“Is this all you’ve got?” the woman asked, and Linus turned his attention back to her. He was immediately concerned when he couldn’t quite get a grasp on her age. Her hair sat like a white fluffy cloud atop her head. Bright flowers had been woven in. Her skin was dark and lovely, but it was her eyes that confused Linus the most. They were the eyes of someone far older than the rest of her appearance suggested. It must have been a trick of the bright sunlight, but they looked almost violet. He couldn’t place why he thought her familiar.
She wore a thin wispy shirt that hung loosely on her frame. Her trousers were tan and ended mid-calf. Her feet were bare.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Ms. Chapelwhite, of course,” she said, as if he should have known. “Caretaker of Marsyas Island.”
“Caretaker,” he repeated.
“Is that all the luggage you’ve brought?” she asked again.
“Yes, but—”
“To each his own,” she said. He stood dumbfounded as she pushed by him, lifting his suitcase as if it were filled with nothing but feathers. He’d broken out in a sweat lugging it onto the train, but she seemed to have no such issue. “Gather your papers and your gigantic cat, Mr. Baker. I don’t like to dillydally, and you’re already later than I expected. I do have responsibilities, you know.”
“Now see here,” he began, but she ignored him, moving toward the stairs at the edge of the platform. She descended the stairs gracefully, as if she were walking on air. It was only then that he noticed a small car idling on the road. The roof appeared to have been sheared off, leaving the seats exposed. A convertible, though he’d never actually seen one in person.
He gave very real thought to grabbing Calliope and fleeing down the train tracks.
Instead, he gathered his files and lifted the crate, following after the strange woman.
She’d already placed his luggage in the trunk by the time he reached the car. She glanced at him, then down at the crate. “Don’t suppose you’d be fine with putting that thing in the back?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, moderately offended. “That’s just cruel.”
“Right,” she muttered. “Fine. You’ll have to carry it on your lap, then. Or we can fasten it to the hood, if you think that’d work better.”
He was scandalized. “She would be so angry.”
Ms. Chapelwhite shrugged. “I’m sure she’d get over it.”
“I’m not tying her to the hood of the car!”
“Your choice. Get in, Mr. Baker. We’ll need to hurry. I told Merle we wouldn’t be long.”
Linus’s head was spinning. “Merle?”
“The ferryman,” she said, opening the door and climbing into the car. “He’ll take us to the island.”
“I haven’t decided if I even want to go to the island.”
She squinted up at him. “Then why are you here?”
He sputtered. “It was—I was told—this isn’t—”
She reached to the dash of the car toward a pair of oversize white sunglasses. “Either get in or don’t, Mr. Baker. Frankly, I would prefer if you didn’t. The Department in Charge of Magical Youth is a farce, and you seem to be nothing but a clueless lackey. I’d have no problem leaving you here. I’m sure the train will be back at some point. It always is.”
That rankled him more than he expected. “What I do is most certainly not a farce!”
The car turned over with a rumbling cough before the engine smoothed out. Black smoke curled from the tailpipe.
“That,” Ms. Chapelwhite said, “remains to be seen. In or out, Mr. Baker.”
He got in.
* * *
Ms. Chapelwhite seemed to get far too much enjoyment from the way Linus screamed when they took a corner at a high rate of speed. She handled the car deftly, but Linus was convinced he’d entered the vehicle of a madwoman.
The wind whipped through their hair, and Linus thought she’d lose the ornamental flowers, but they snapped and swayed and stayed put. He held the folders flat against the top of the crate, not wanting to lose them over the back of the car.
They drove on a narrow road through dunes that rose and fell. When the mountains of sand were at their lowest, he caught glimpses of the ocean, now much closer than it’d been from the train. Linus tried not to be distracted by the sight of it, but failed miserably. Even though he was sure he was about to die, it was still a wonder to behold.
It wasn’t until he was slammed against the door after yet another corner that he found his voice again. “Would you slow down?”
And wonder of all wonders, she did as he asked. “Just having some fun.”
“At my expense!”
She glanced over at him, hair bouncing around her head. “You’re wound up awfully tight.”
He bristled. “Wanting to live is not being wound up.”
“Your tie is crooked.”
“It is? Thank you. I hate it when I look disheveled—that’s not funny.”
He saw a flash of teeth through her smile. “Maybe there’s hope for you, after all. Not much, but a little.” She looked at him again, for longer than Linus felt was safe. “You don’t look like I expected.”
He didn’t know what to do with that. He’d never really been seen before. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you look unexpected.”
“Do you often speak without saying anything at all?”
“Quite often. But not this time, Mr. Baker.” She took another corner at a much lower speed. “I thought you would be younger. Your type usually is.”
“My type?”
“Caseworkers. Been doing it long?”
He frowned. “Long enough.”
“And do you enjoy your work, Mr. Baker?”
“I’m good at it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”