Griffin.
He’d been quiet for all of three minutes during our “study session” the night before, while I was fixing him cookies and milk, which was plenty of time for him to reprogram my phone with music he knew would make me want to hurl. I quickly pick the phone up; the display says “private.” I know only one person who has a private number, all the easier to annoy me with. This is, without a doubt, the last time I’ll ever play Betty Crocker for him.
As I flip the cell open, my eyes trail to the floor, where I’ve thrown the proofs of our picture from prom. I’d been convinced I looked like a princess in that photograph, until he proudly showed me the proofs last night. He’d had his pointer and middle fingers behind me, giving me rabbit ears. Jerk. “What?” I groan.
“Ms. Devine?” The voice is professional, kind of effeminate … but I’m smarter than that. Griffin can disguise his voice better than anyone.
“Yeah?”
“Coby Baker from the Bucks County Courier Times.”
I sigh. This is a good one. Last weekend, I won a major cash award from Publishers Clearinghouse, which was just too obvious, since I’m not that lucky. “And?” I snuggle back under the covers.
“Are you Julia Devine, Griffin Colburn’s girlfriend?”
“Who?” I ask innocently. There’s silence on the other end; I’ve caught him off guard, a small victory for me. “Yeah, I am. What about him?”
“I was hoping I could get a quote from you, as his girlfriend.”
Oh, I can give you a quote, I think, but I doubt any paper would be able to publish it.
I’m silent, choosing the words, when his voice comes through again, more serious. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Devine.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking fast. “I thought this was about him robbing the 7-E again. Did he finally croak?”
“Um … a-are you …,” the voice stammers. “The car accident?”
“Oh, right,” I say. Wow, Griffin is pulling out all the stops today. “It slipped my mind. Okay. Let’s see. He was a really nice guy, except for that weird fungus. And the funny smell. He was always taking chances. Clearly he is responsible for his own undoing.” I pause. “How’s that?”
More silence. This is where I expect Griffin to break in with his usual “What’s up?” Instead, “Coby,” still businesslike, says, “Um … thank you, Ms. Devine.”
“Pug, it’s nine in the morning,” I begin, but then I notice the words “call ended” flashing on the display.
Huh.
I toss the phone aside and slip deeper under my comforter. Ten minutes later, I’m almost asleep when it happens again.
“You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell!”
Cursing, I find the phone tangled within my sheets and check the screen. Private, again. My first and only boyfriend is so dead.
I flip the phone open. “Yeah?” I say, grouchier this time.
“Ms. Devine?”
“Who are you now, the Wall Street Journal?”
“Actually, it’s the Intelligencer.”
Okay, now this has gone too far. “Do you want a quote from the victim’s girlfriend, too?” I ask, my voice saccharine.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Actually,” I say, “it’s a lot of trouble. Pug, I’m trying to sleep. This. Is. Not. Funny.”
“Hey. Julia Devine.” The voice on the other end sparkles with recognition. “You’re the Julia Devine. The one who made all those headlines. Right? How long ago was that? Five years ago?”
I bite my lip, suddenly aware of my heart thudding against my camisole. If there’s anything, any topic in my life, that Griffin knows is off-limits, it’s that. Even he wouldn’t touch it. “Nine,” I whisper.
There’s silence on the other end. “Ms. Devine,” the voice finally says, “have you not heard about the accident?”
My voice is a squeak. “Accident?”
“Ms. Devine. There was an accident, on Main Street, last night. Griffin Colburn was killed.”
It seems I was right about one thing, I realize as I flip the phone shut without another word and numbly stare at the display.
My first and only boyfriend is so dead.
CHAPTER 2
Eron
If Mama, God rest her soul, could see me now, crouching outside the window of a girl’s house, in this tree, she would surely rise from her grave and swat the life clean out of me. And I agree with her; this is no place for a man. But that is one thing I am not.
At least, not yet.
Watching the bedtime ritual of a woman from a clandestine post is perfectly acceptable behavior for us Sleepbringers, known as Sandmen to humans. In fact, I watch more than one woman every night. I’m sure Mama would get out the belt if she knew that. It’s not proper human behavior, so it was a struggle even for me to grasp. After all, I still appear human, and one’s human sensibilities are difficult simply to disregard. Even now I’m not entirely comfortable with stalking women in the dark, though I’ve been carrying out this seduction for nearly a hundred years. I’m about as used to it as I’ll ever be.
When I died and made my choice to join the Sleepbringers, it was Mama I thought of. She was the only one I hated to leave behind—well, besides Gertie, perhaps. Without me, Mama was alone. I was only seventeen, and I had aspirations to be someone, to make something out of my life. But all too suddenly, that was over. I was a picker in a textile mill in Newark and snagged my shoulder in one of the machines as I was trying to free some bunched fabric. Tore my arm up dreadfully, and by the time they got me to the hospital, I’d lost too much blood. It didn’t hurt. Or perhaps it did. I can’t remember. Like I said, it was a hundred years ago.
I do remember, like yesterday, sitting in a dream state and talking to a beautiful young woman. She told me not to be afraid, and it felt as if I’d met her before, perhaps in my dreams. For the first time, I didn’t trip over my words, didn’t make a fool of myself like I always did with the fairer sex. I was comfortable with her. Little did I know that as I spoke to this young woman, she was drawing me further and further into her world, seducing me, and pulling me forever away from the simple life I’d known as Eron DeMarchelle, textile picker from Newark, New Jersey. By the time she explained to me that my life was over, there was nothing left to be done.
Julia is sitting at her vanity, applying some cream to her skin. If I could speak to her, I would protest; her skin is already the color and texture of Ivory soap. Perfect. That is, except for the three small purple scars, like a cat scratch, on her right cheek. She always wears her reddish hair down. It looks lovely when it spills upon her satin pillows, but during the day, it covers too much of her face, which I suppose is her objective. She has always been wildly self-conscious about those scars, which she received when she was seven, in an incident she has otherwise done a wonderful job of forgetting. Her eyelids sag heavily, so my job should be easy today. For some reason, the thought saddens me.
I’m woken from my reverie when the room suddenly goes dark. I strain to see through the glass the covers of Julia’s bed floating down upon her small frame. Time to begin.
Stepping into the room, I adjust my cuff links and pat my coat pockets to ensure I have a good supply of sand in them. I pass the collection of running trophies, the posters and models of architectural masterpieces, the dusty shelves of discarded stuffed animals she cuddled faithfully when she was a child. Julia is on her side. I peer over her and realize that she’s holding a frame in her hands. Julia’s bureau is covered with framed photographs of family and friends; she feels safe with them watching her. In the darkness, I can’t see the picture she’s holding beneath the glass. I spread the sand over her, and before my ritual is anywhere near completion, she’s dreaming away. She turns onto her back and mumbles something I can’t quite make out.