hands, I open the bottom drawer of the desk and pull out the directory for the terminal. It’s nearly four inches thick, and I sit in Beelzebub’s chair with the directory spread open on the blotter, figuring out my itinerary. I memorize the gates first, and then the complex network of hallways beyond. The door itself will be marked, and I should come out right in Cicero. From there, it’s only a matter of blocks to the Sebastian Street address. The route seems simple enough, and if I lose track of my position, I’ll look it up.
“Can you do this?” I ask myself aloud, staring down at the heap of clothes and supplies piled haphazardly into the bag.
“Yes,” I reply, knowing that there is no other answer.
Entering the terminal, I might as well be invisible. I have a long black coat, a pair of boots with ankle buckles. A plaid dress and a striped sweater. I have a black bag full of money and information. I have two ideas of how to behave, one for demons, one for angels. I run my tongue over a pair of metal teeth and don’t know what I am.
At the turnstile, I press my hand to the pass panel and say “Truman Flynn.” There’s a soft click as I speak it and the door unseals.
When I step through, the corridor lies empty before me, a series of twists and turns. In the hall leading to eastern Illinois and Chicago, I search through rows of mismatched doors until I come to a small wooden one marked CICERO. At my touch, it hisses open like a secret, and I’m gone.
PART TWO
EARTH
MARCH 7
4 DAYS O HOURS 3 MINUTES
T ruman Flynn woke up.
His head felt heavy, and he had a bad, metallic taste in his mouth. For a second, he didn’t know where he was or if he was still dreaming. Then a car horn sounded outside and he sat up, relieved to find himself in his own bed.
His heart was hammering in his chest. When he pressed his palms against his eyelids, he saw squirming red shapes, afterimages of his dream.
It wasn’t one of the bad ones—not a bloody bathtub or a hospital room. It was not a dark, decrepit church. Not a funeral full of crows. This time, he’d dreamed about the girl.
She wasn’t anyone he knew from work or school, but more like a fantasy—the kind of girl who only existed when you closed your eyes and wished for some magic genie, some storybook princess to sweep in and save you from your life. Her hair was black, and her face was very pale. Behind her, there was nothing but a huge, gleaming expanse of polished metal.
In his dreams, she never talked. Even when he pleaded with her, desperate to hear her voice, she only sat next to him and held his hand.
This time had been different, though. When their eyes met, she had smiled, a wide, dazzling smile. She’d said his name, but nothing else.
Truman untangled himself from the covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He thought it was Friday. Wasn’t sure. School was out for the Easter break, and without the routine of late bells and missing homework, the days had begun to bleed into each other. His ears were ringing and he felt pretty catastrophically hungover. He started to stand up, but the room did a slow half-turn and he sat back down.
The voice spoke from the corner of the room then, low and patient. Pleasant, except for the fact that it was coming from his open closet. “Come here. I need to show you something.”
Truman froze. The window in his room faced east and the shade was up, flooding the worn-out carpet with weak sunlight, but over in the corner, the closet was a rectangle of darkness.
“Let’s not waste time,” the voice said. “I have something to show you and it’s important.”
Truman crossed his arms over his chest, already knowing that he didn’t want to see it.
“Get up out of that bed and come over here right now . I need you to see this.”
Truman pressed his back flat against the wall, shaking his head. He already knew what the man in the shadows
“Can you do this?” I ask myself aloud, staring down at the heap of clothes and supplies piled haphazardly into the bag.
“Yes,” I reply, knowing that there is no other answer.
Entering the terminal, I might as well be invisible. I have a long black coat, a pair of boots with ankle buckles. A plaid dress and a striped sweater. I have a black bag full of money and information. I have two ideas of how to behave, one for demons, one for angels. I run my tongue over a pair of metal teeth and don’t know what I am.
At the turnstile, I press my hand to the pass panel and say “Truman Flynn.” There’s a soft click as I speak it and the door unseals.
When I step through, the corridor lies empty before me, a series of twists and turns. In the hall leading to eastern Illinois and Chicago, I search through rows of mismatched doors until I come to a small wooden one marked CICERO. At my touch, it hisses open like a secret, and I’m gone.
PART TWO
EARTH
MARCH 7
4 DAYS O HOURS 3 MINUTES
T ruman Flynn woke up.
His head felt heavy, and he had a bad, metallic taste in his mouth. For a second, he didn’t know where he was or if he was still dreaming. Then a car horn sounded outside and he sat up, relieved to find himself in his own bed.
His heart was hammering in his chest. When he pressed his palms against his eyelids, he saw squirming red shapes, afterimages of his dream.
It wasn’t one of the bad ones—not a bloody bathtub or a hospital room. It was not a dark, decrepit church. Not a funeral full of crows. This time, he’d dreamed about the girl.
She wasn’t anyone he knew from work or school, but more like a fantasy—the kind of girl who only existed when you closed your eyes and wished for some magic genie, some storybook princess to sweep in and save you from your life. Her hair was black, and her face was very pale. Behind her, there was nothing but a huge, gleaming expanse of polished metal.
In his dreams, she never talked. Even when he pleaded with her, desperate to hear her voice, she only sat next to him and held his hand.
This time had been different, though. When their eyes met, she had smiled, a wide, dazzling smile. She’d said his name, but nothing else.
Truman untangled himself from the covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He thought it was Friday. Wasn’t sure. School was out for the Easter break, and without the routine of late bells and missing homework, the days had begun to bleed into each other. His ears were ringing and he felt pretty catastrophically hungover. He started to stand up, but the room did a slow half-turn and he sat back down.
The voice spoke from the corner of the room then, low and patient. Pleasant, except for the fact that it was coming from his open closet. “Come here. I need to show you something.”
Truman froze. The window in his room faced east and the shade was up, flooding the worn-out carpet with weak sunlight, but over in the corner, the closet was a rectangle of darkness.
“Let’s not waste time,” the voice said. “I have something to show you and it’s important.”
Truman crossed his arms over his chest, already knowing that he didn’t want to see it.
“Get up out of that bed and come over here right now . I need you to see this.”
Truman pressed his back flat against the wall, shaking his head. He already knew what the man in the shadows
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