too much literal and figurative ground to cover. “This is the New Haven Green,” he said,
as they strode down one of the stone paths. “When the colony was founded, this was where they built their meetinghouse. The town was meant to be a new Eden, founded between two rivers like the Tigris and the Euphrates.”
Alex frowned. “Why so many churches?”
There were three on the green, two of them near-twins in their Federal design, the third
a jewel of Gothic Revival.
“This town has a church for nearly every block. Or it used to. Some of them are closing
now. People just don’t go.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“Do you?”
“Nope.”
“Yes, I go,” he said. “It’s a family thing.” He saw the flicker of judgment in her eyes,
but he didn’t need to explain. Church on Sunday, work on Monday. That was the
Arlington way. When Darlington had turned thirteen and protested that he’d be happy to
risk God’s wrath if he could just sleep in, his grandfather seized him by the ear and dragged him out of bed despite his eighty years. “I don’t care what you believe,” he’d said. “The working man believes in God and expects us to do the same, so you will get your ass dressed and in a pew or I will tan it raw.” Darlington had gone. And after his grandfather had died, he’d kept going.
“The green is the site of the city’s first church and its first graveyard. It’s a source of
tremendous power.”
“Yeah … no shit.”
He realized her shoulders had gone loose and easy. Her stride had changed. She looked
a little less like someone gearing up to take a swing.
Darlington tried not to sound too eager. “What do you see?” She didn’t answer. “I know about what you can do. It isn’t a secret.”
Alex’s gaze was still distant, almost disinterested. “It’s empty here, that’s all. I never really see much around cemeteries and stuff.”
And stuff. Darlington looked around, but all he saw was what everyone else would: students, people who worked at the courthouse or the string of shops along Chapel, enjoying the sun on their lunch hour.
He knew the paths that seemed to bisect the green arbitrarily had been drawn by a group of Freemasons to try to appease and contain the dead when the cemetery had been
moved a few blocks away. He knew that their compass lines—or a pentagram, depending
on whom you asked—could be seen from above. He knew the spot where the Lincoln Oak
had toppled after Hurricane Sandy, revealing a human skeleton tangled in its roots, one of
the many bodies never moved to Grove Street Cemetery. He saw the city differently because he knew it, and his knowledge was not casual. It was adoration. But no amount of
love could make him see Grays. Not without Orozcerio, another hit from the Golden Bowl. He shuddered. Every time was a risk, another chance that his body would say enough, that one of his kidneys would simply fail.
“It makes sense you don’t see them here,” he said. “Certain things will draw them to graveyards and cemeteries, but as a rule, they steer clear.”
Now he had her attention. Real interest sparked in her eyes, the first indication of something beyond watchful reserve. “Why?”
“Grays love life and anything that reminds them of being alive. Salt, sugar, sweat.
Fighting and fucking, tears and blood and human drama.”
“I thought salt kept them out.”
Darlington raised a brow. “Did you see that on television?”
“Would it make you happier if I say I learned it from an ancient book?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Too bad.”
“Salt is a purifier,” he said, as they crossed Temple Street, “so it’s good for banishing
demons—though to my great sorrow I’ve never personally had the honor. But when it comes to Grays, making a salt circle is the equivalent of leaving a salt lick for deer.”
“So what keeps them out?”
Her need crackled through the words. So this was where her interest lay.
“Bone dust. Graveyard dirt. The leavings of crematory ash. Memento mori.” He