No. I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. There was no way that she'd ever voluntarily stay in Lily's body.
The only reason she'd even pulled this extreme-makeover routine was because she was unhappy with how she looked, finding Lily's appearance inferior to her original body. Hadn't we been fighting about that only yesterday?
So our problem was still the same as it had ever been: we had to find a way to get her out without hurting Lily.
I tried to feel as reassured by this line of thought as I had been over the last month, but it wasn't working this time.
And then what? that pushy voice returned to ask.
Having started down this path of thinking, the conclusion was impossible to avoid. Assuming I could get Alona back as a spirit guide, things would go back to normal. We'd be helping ghosts between make-out sessions, and all would be great with the world… for a while.
But I was getting older and she wasn't. I'd go to Richmond for classes and meet people who didn't know her. If I wanted to go out and grab pizza with someone, either Alona couldn't go or she'd have to tag along as a spectator and keep quiet, astate I couldn't even imagine.
One day I'd be twenty-five and then thirty-five, forty-five.…She'd still be eighteen. At some point, that was going to get creepy, even beyond the living/dead issue we had going already. And maybe not now, or even in ten years, but I might want the possibility of a family. I couldn't see any woman, even one cool enough to handle the fact that her husband talked to the dead on a regular basis, being okay with a spirit guide who looked like an eighteen-year-old cheerleader hanging around, especially if she knew there'd once been kissing. And, for that matter, I couldn't see Alona being happy in that situation, either. I might not have been Chris Zebrowski, but sharing attention was not something Alona did well with anyone.
I imagined an argument with a wife or a girlfriend on one side, Alona on the other and me in the middle. I shuddered. No way.
Suddenly I was afraid that no matter what happened, I was going to be saying good-bye to her, one way or another.
As soon as I pulled into the strip-mall parking lot, I noticed with a rush of dread that Malachi's window sign — a neon outline of a hand with an eye in the center — was dark.
Crap, crap, crap.
I parked as fast as I could and approached his storefront cautiously. I didn't particularly want another run-in with Erin. But the lights were off and the waiting room was empty, of ghosts and living alike.
I pulled on the door handle. Locked. Malachi the Magnificent was closed, despite the decal in the lower part of the window proclaiming hours that would have indicated otherwise.
I resisted a stupid urge to punch the glass. Without any other way to contact him, I was out of luck if he'd holed up somewhere. Apparently, he'd been really scared yesterday, another piece of this that made no sense.
Putting my hands up to block the light, I tried to get a better look through the window. Most of the chairs were now stacked three or four high, and the receptionist's desk had been shoved back against the wall. Either Malachi had a very dedicated cleaning team, or he was gone… for good.
And it keeps getting better.
But as I started to move away from the window, I caught a flicker of light. Pressing my hands tighter against the glass to block out more of the sunlight, I searched for what I'd seen.
There. Underneath the door to the private consultation area, territory Alona and I had not managed to breach yesterday, a fine line of light flashed and then dimmed. Like someone was moving around back there.
Malachi.
I considered knocking, hammering on the door in case he hadn't heard me trying to open it a minute ago, but what were the odds he'd actually open it if he saw me standing there?
At times like this I wished for Alona to be here in spirit form. She'd have slipped through a window on the far end and unlocked the door to let me in.
But maybe there was another way.
One of my responsibilities during my short stint as a busboy at Sam's Diner had been taking the garbage out to the Dumpsters in the alley. The strip mall on the block behind the diner had its back to us. If I remembered correctly, all the units had doors in the back. And on any given day, most of those doors remained unlocked or even propped open for the ease of employees' coming and going.
I jogged around to the side of the building and then to the back. As I'd suspected, several of the green doors stood open, and a couple of employees from a cell-phone store stood outside smoking. The door corresponding to Malachi's location was closed, but a battered blue van was parked in front of it, with the cargo doors open.
Score.
I approached the van cautiously, wary of Erin and afraid Malachi might bolt if he saw me.
But Erin was nowhere to be seen, and Malachi wasn't in the van, at least as far as I could tell. Hastily filled cardboard boxes dominated the cargo area in the vehicle, and the driver's seat appeared to be empty.
I stepped away and started toward the back door to Malachi's storefront. Before I could reach it, though, the door opened, and the man himself emerged, carrying another worn-looking box. Minus his cape and with his hair sticking up in several directions, he looked more like a harried delivery guy than someone with “Magnificent” in his title.
He saw me and froze, the box slipping in his hand, like he might drop it and run. Then his shoulders sagged and he just looked exhausted. “We're leaving, okay? In a matter of minutes.” He brushed past me, heading toward the van.
“Wait,” I said, hurrying after him. “I just want to talk to you.”
He shoved the box into the van and turned to face me, raking a hand through his already rumpled hair. “Look, we got the message the first time. We shouldn't have stayed, but no one else came around.” He shrugged helplessly. “We were subtle, careful not to overdo it—”
“I know,” I said. “That's what I want to ask about.”
He stared at me. “Who are you again?”
“Will Killian.”
He nodded slowly. “I think I met your—”
“My dad?” I ventured.
He nodded. “That was a few years ago,” he said, seemingly trying to piece something together. “You're not a member of the Order.”
It was a statement, but I could hear the uncertainty in it, the question.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Well,” he said, “that's a relief.” But he looked almost disappointed, which made no sense. “So, what do you want?”
“Just to talk,” I said again. “There aren't many of us who can…” I hesitated, glancing at the cell-phone store employees, who were watching us with unabashed curiosity. “Not many who can do what we do.” Assuming he was legit, which I still wasn't sure about. But if he was, he might have some major skills worth learning. Like how he'd managed to ignore the ghosts in his office so completely.
“No, no.” He shook his head. “If you figured us out, someone else isn't far behind, and I can't take that chance.” He slammed the van doors shut and headed for the front of the vehicle.
I followed him. “I didn't figure anything out. Your name was on this paper my dad left, that's all.” I pulled the page from my pocket, unfolded it, and held it out to him.
He glanced at it, his face tightening.
“I was hoping you might have some answers,” I said.
He laughed, but it sounded bitter. “Kid, the day I have anything other than questions, you'll be the first to know.” He pulled open the driver's-side door and levered himself into the seat.
Kid? He wasn't even ten years older than me. I'd thought it was bad when the Order had been bent on recruiting me as some kind of prodigy. But it was infinitely worse, as it turned out, to be treated like a nonentity, someone not important enough to talk to. I'd expected that in high school, from people who didn't understand. But from this guy? No way.