dawn.”
“We’ll be dead before then,” Tim muttered, thinking his voice was too low for Cherelle to hear.
She heard it anyway. “Look, get it through that beautiful thick head of yours that we need money. The printer is yelling at us to pay for the pamphlets and business cards he ran off for us. Our credit cards are maxed, and no one is mailing us any new ones. The tires on this piece of shit are bald. The rent is overdue. We have a quarter tank of gas.”
Tim made yada-yada-yada sounds.
“Virgil has money,” Cherelle continued. “Cash in hand. If he wants us before dawn, we get there before dawn.”
Tim yawned widely. “Y’know, lately you’re sure pissy when you get into your channel role. Lighten up.”
She wished she could. But she couldn’t. It had gotten so that every time she pulled on her white channeling outfit with its long filmy shirt and skirt, her palms got cold and her heart started to beat too fast, like when she used to boost stuff from the convenience store back home as a kid. An adrenaline roller-coaster ride, fear and exhilaration combined.
She didn’t mind that part. What she minded was the dead-cold scaries, the way her nightmares made her feel. Channeling was getting to her. Seeing too much. Hearing too much. Feeling too much.
It was one thing to run a con on the dumbs. It was a whole other thing to feel like the con was real.
Not all-the-time real. Just some of it.
And with Virgil, most of it.
Voices whispering. Chanting. Screaming. Fires burning and knives dripping blood.
Christ Jesus, it was enough to send her whimpering back to the nuns who had done their best to terrorize her into being a good little girl all those years ago.
Unhappily Cherelle decided that she was getting to be as crazy as Virgil. Maybe it was catching, like herpes.
The Bronco hit a pothole so hard that Tim whacked his head against the passenger window. “What in hell do you—” he began.
“Shut up,” Cherelle cut in savagely. “You’re not the one who has to do it. You just stand around and look smart and pretty and make nice with the females. I’m the one sleeping with the devil and hearing all the screams of the damned.”
Tim gave her a startled, sideways look. “Uh, you feeling all right, Cher?”
“Fucking fantastic, why?” she asked through her teeth.
“You’ve been acting weird.”
“Well, ding-dong, we have a big ol’ winner. I’m a channel, remember? I’m supposed to act weird.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job of it.”
She had started to tell him just what she thought of his half-wit, shit-for-brains comments when she spotted the glow of light from the old man’s house. Fiercely she clenched her fingers around the steering wheel and gunned down the bumpy driveway.
There was barely the smallest hint of color along the eastern horizon when she got out, slammed the car door, and gulped air. Without waiting for Tim, she started up the dirt path lined with colorful river cobbles that looked black in the darkness. There was one light on in the old house. The position told her it was the living room, which often as not served as the old man’s bedroom. He spent as much time pacing as sleeping.
The front door opened before Cherelle was halfway to the house. Golden light licked out toward her like a rectangular tongue. With the determination of an actress stepping into the spotlight, she pulled her role more tightly around her.
Showtime.
A gaunt, angular man who was barely taller than Cherelle’s five and a half feet stalked stiffly toward her. As usual, Virgil was wearing several old shirts, one over the other. On top of that he had on his customary flapping black jacket, army-surplus pants from the days when uniforms were still made of wool, and boots that were as hard and gritty as the ground itself. The only thing unexpected about him was the cheap wooden box he carried under one arm.
Before she could open her mouth to offer a bland, peaceful greeting, he shoved a
“We’ll be dead before then,” Tim muttered, thinking his voice was too low for Cherelle to hear.
She heard it anyway. “Look, get it through that beautiful thick head of yours that we need money. The printer is yelling at us to pay for the pamphlets and business cards he ran off for us. Our credit cards are maxed, and no one is mailing us any new ones. The tires on this piece of shit are bald. The rent is overdue. We have a quarter tank of gas.”
Tim made yada-yada-yada sounds.
“Virgil has money,” Cherelle continued. “Cash in hand. If he wants us before dawn, we get there before dawn.”
Tim yawned widely. “Y’know, lately you’re sure pissy when you get into your channel role. Lighten up.”
She wished she could. But she couldn’t. It had gotten so that every time she pulled on her white channeling outfit with its long filmy shirt and skirt, her palms got cold and her heart started to beat too fast, like when she used to boost stuff from the convenience store back home as a kid. An adrenaline roller-coaster ride, fear and exhilaration combined.
She didn’t mind that part. What she minded was the dead-cold scaries, the way her nightmares made her feel. Channeling was getting to her. Seeing too much. Hearing too much. Feeling too much.
It was one thing to run a con on the dumbs. It was a whole other thing to feel like the con was real.
Not all-the-time real. Just some of it.
And with Virgil, most of it.
Voices whispering. Chanting. Screaming. Fires burning and knives dripping blood.
Christ Jesus, it was enough to send her whimpering back to the nuns who had done their best to terrorize her into being a good little girl all those years ago.
Unhappily Cherelle decided that she was getting to be as crazy as Virgil. Maybe it was catching, like herpes.
The Bronco hit a pothole so hard that Tim whacked his head against the passenger window. “What in hell do you—” he began.
“Shut up,” Cherelle cut in savagely. “You’re not the one who has to do it. You just stand around and look smart and pretty and make nice with the females. I’m the one sleeping with the devil and hearing all the screams of the damned.”
Tim gave her a startled, sideways look. “Uh, you feeling all right, Cher?”
“Fucking fantastic, why?” she asked through her teeth.
“You’ve been acting weird.”
“Well, ding-dong, we have a big ol’ winner. I’m a channel, remember? I’m supposed to act weird.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job of it.”
She had started to tell him just what she thought of his half-wit, shit-for-brains comments when she spotted the glow of light from the old man’s house. Fiercely she clenched her fingers around the steering wheel and gunned down the bumpy driveway.
There was barely the smallest hint of color along the eastern horizon when she got out, slammed the car door, and gulped air. Without waiting for Tim, she started up the dirt path lined with colorful river cobbles that looked black in the darkness. There was one light on in the old house. The position told her it was the living room, which often as not served as the old man’s bedroom. He spent as much time pacing as sleeping.
The front door opened before Cherelle was halfway to the house. Golden light licked out toward her like a rectangular tongue. With the determination of an actress stepping into the spotlight, she pulled her role more tightly around her.
Showtime.
A gaunt, angular man who was barely taller than Cherelle’s five and a half feet stalked stiffly toward her. As usual, Virgil was wearing several old shirts, one over the other. On top of that he had on his customary flapping black jacket, army-surplus pants from the days when uniforms were still made of wool, and boots that were as hard and gritty as the ground itself. The only thing unexpected about him was the cheap wooden box he carried under one arm.
Before she could open her mouth to offer a bland, peaceful greeting, he shoved a
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