Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan (15 page)

"You're a little behind the curve on cursing me," I snapped, and I yanked
my hands out of his. The trainspotter looked at me sadly, a thousand miles of
broken hearts etched into the lines on his face. I shook my head. "I already
have all the things you're wishing on me, and Bobby Cross is not my fault."

"No. He's not. But he is your responsibility." And then he turned and
walked away. His message had been delivered. I was no longer his concern.

But Bobby Cross was mine. So let Emma and Texas Bill make their
recommendations--it doesn't matter. That man died because I wouldn't help him,
and while I might not have saved his life, having me there could have saved him
from something worse than death. Maybe Texas Bill is right; maybe trying to
change the fates of the living will make me crazy. Right now, I don't care.
Bobby Cross is not my fault. If anything, I'm his. That doesn't mean I can sit
back and let him rule these roads.

Sometimes, all a dead girl can do is stand up and take responsibility for
the things that gather in the shadows.

***

One nice thing about being dead: I bounce back a hell of a lot faster than
the living. I open my eyes to find myself sprawled on the asphalt, broken doll
cast to the side of the road, with an aching head and skinned patches on my
hands and knees. My tattoo is burning like a brand, the pain somehow focusing,
rather than distracting me. I manage to lift my head, despite the ringing in my
ears, and scan for Chris.

He wasn't as lucky as I was. He's also sprawled on the pavement...but he
isn't moving. Maybe I'm not that lucky, either; maybe I'm only still moving
because being dead makes me harder to kill. My legs won't answer my command to
move, and the ringing in my ears is getting worse. It's with relief that I
release my hold on flesh and bone, feel my borrowed coat drop through what had
been the substance of my body only a moment before, and climb, finally, to my
feet.

Things are different here on the edge of the twilight. Black clouds streak
the sky like spilled ink, and the broken cars glitter with firefly brilliance in
the process of slowly--so very slowly!--fading into darkness. People stand near
the broken bodies of their cars. Not that many, not one for every driver who
must have died in the collision but...enough. Only one stands out to my eyes;
the one to whom I owe assistance. Chris is standing by his own fallen body, a
look of deep confusion on his face, like he can't quite understand. I've seen
that look on too many faces, on too many roads. I should give him time to come
to terms with what's happened. At the very least, I should give him time to
recover from his shock. But the air tastes of wormwood, and there are many
things here, on this borderland highway, but what there isn't is time.

My skirt rustles against my ankles as I start toward him, the green silk as
clean and crisp as it was on the night I wore it for the first, and last, time.
The prom gown is no surprise, not here, not with Bobby close enough to taint the
shape of the world. The length of my hair is no surprise either, lemon-bleached
curls loose against the sides of my neck. The wind that blows around us doesn't
touch me. Nothing touches me but the consequences of my own motion. So it goes,
when the dead come too close to the day.

"Chris," I say. "Come on. We need to get out of here."

His head comes up, confusion in his eyes. It only deepens as he sees the way
I've changed. He picked up a scruffy hitchhiker in a coat two sizes too big for
her, and now he's facing a prom princess from an era that ended before he was
born. I've slid out of date one inch at a time, and there's nothing I can do
about it. "Rose?" he asks.

"Yes." I walk faster now, all but running--but I mustn't run, I don't
dare
run. I can't pull him onto the ghostroads without his consent, not
this soon after his death, and I definitely can't pull him any deeper into the
twilight if he's fighting me. Run and I'll frighten him more than he already is,
and if that happens...if that happens, he'll be lost forever. No afterlife for
Bobby's victims. No second chances for the souls he claims. "Come with me, and
I'll explain."

"What--what happened? I lost control of the car..." His eyes flick to the
body on the asphalt, confusion starting to thin as terror takes its place.
"Where did you get that dress? What's going on?"

There are no answers I can offer; not without making things worse than they
are right now, and that's saying something, given that he's standing over his
own corpse and I'm waiting for the bogeyman to descend. I close the last few
feet between us, reaching for his hand. "Please, Chris. We don't have time."

"I don't know, Rosie my girl," says the voice behind me. It's cool and crisp,
California accent painted over something sweeter and slower, something out of
the deep Southern states, where the nights are long and wise men know the cost
of a crossroads bargain. Maybe if he'd stayed at home, he would have known
better. Maybe. "There's a case to be made for your having run shy of time some
sixty years gone. Can't say I think much of granting you time on top of that
just because you got all dressed up for me."

The graveyard chill that sleeps inside me when I cast my coats aside melts
away, replaced by a tight, hot ball of fear. I take one more half-step forward,
until I'm almost touching Chris, and whisper, "Stay behind me. If you value your
soul,
stay behind me
."

Chris doesn't say a word, nothing but terror in his eyes. I don't care. Let
him be afraid of Bobby; let him be afraid of me. I have other matters to worry
myself about. So I turn, squaring my shoulders.

"Hello, Bobby," I say.

And Bobby Cross--Diamond Bobby, Hollywood legend, gone but never,
never
forgotten--smiles.

***

This is Bobby Cross, has
been
Bobby Cross since that night in 1941
when he drove out of the daylight and into the dark:

Short by today's standards, five foot eight and compact. A dragster's build,
the kind of man who makes hearts melt and panties dampen. Dark hair. He used to
wear it sleeked and slicked and shaped to within an inch of its life, but not
anymore; unlike the ghosts he leaves in his wake, Bobby is among the living, and
still allowed to change. Now it hangs loose and careless, that tousled style
that's so popular with the kids I see at the races, or lounging on the beaches.
He looks as young as they do, as effortlessly carefree and strong, and it's been
long enough since his day that he doesn't even get the "hey, aren't you...?"
reactions anymore.

It's his eyes that give him away. They aren't remarkable. They're pale
brown--plain, even--but something about them makes people take a step back and
give him a wide berth. The living aren't meant to see the things he's seen, or
ride the roads he's ridden.

The smile that slides across his lips doesn't reach those eyes as he looks me
up and down, and offers a cool, "Same old Rosie. You trying to play the hero on
me? You should know better. All those years of running away, you're going to
make your stand here and now?"

"Got a better idea?" Chris's hand is on my shoulder, and oh, I just met him,
and oh, it doesn't matter; he's every driver I couldn't save, and if I don't at
least try, I may as well give in right now. "Why did you do this? These people
didn't hurt you."

"Why do you take rides when people offer them to you? Why do you take their
coats, drink their coffee, suck their cocks?" Bobby's smirk is painful to
behold. "We're not so different, Rosie girl, except that I admit what I am--and
you, I'm afraid, are about at the end of this road."

"Let them go." I take a step forward, watching Bobby all the while. I'm
faster than he is. He's got powers I don't understand and weapons I can't touch,
but I'm faster. If I can get the ghosts out of here, maybe I can drop into the
twilight before he catches hold of me. Maybe. "They're all fresh ghosts. They
can't be what you really want. I've got a lot of miles on me."

"What makes you think that makes you worth more, and not less? A lot of
things call for virgins in place of whores."

"But the road treasures the things that have travelled the furthest." The
thrift store fashion of the routewitches; the battered, duct-taped shoes of the
ambulomancers. Distance is just about the only thing that's universally
respected on the road.

Bobby's smile this time is slow, dark, and horrifying. Whatever it is he does
to the dead, it can't be painless; not if he's looking at me like that. I stand
my ground, the tattoo burning hot against my skin. Apple said the tattoo would
protect me, that the Ocean Lady was allowing me to take it away because the
routewitches feel responsible for Bobby's darkness. I have to believe her.
There's no choice; not here, and not now.

"I've been tired of you for decades," he says. "I'll take you and let them
go...but not, I think, in the order you're hoping for. First you give yourself
to me, and then, once I'm sure you're not going to pull any little hitcher
'tricks,' I'll let them go."

The sky is getting darker. I want nothing more, right now, than I want to
run. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because, Rosie, darling, you don't have any choice. You can rabbit-run the
hell out of here and pray I'm not toying with you--I might be--since if I am,
I'll just grab you and take every soul still standing as my due. Or you can
surrender, admit that I've won, and wager that I'm a man of his word."

I don't want to. But he's right. I have nothing left to lose; not with Bobby
Cross standing right there. "I accept your terms," I say, and hold out my hands.
"I'm yours."

I have no coat, no borrowed life to wear, but it's no surprise when Bobby's
hand clamps down on mine. Chris says something I can't make out, finally
realizing, I suppose, that something more important than his death is happening
in front of him. Maybe that's a selfish way of thinking, but if there's proof of
existence after dying, I'm it, and here I am, approaching my own ending.

I thought I knew what cold was. I was wrong. Bobby's fingers redefine cold,
tell me that every frost and snowfall I've ever known was just the prelude to
the main event. Winter radiates from his skin as he tightens his grip and yanks
me into an embrace. My skirt tangles around my ankles; I all but fall into his
arms.

"So eager," he says. "I always knew you would be." And Bobby folds me in his
arms, and lowers his mouth onto mine.

***

I've been on the ghostroads for sixty years. The girl I was, the girl
Bobby killed, is barely a memory now--I barely remember her. Life was only the
beginning. I've seen all the joys America has to offer, walked away from them,
and come back to find them transformed to something glorious and new. I've met
monsters and danced with gods. It's been a good time, and a bad time, and one
hell of an adventure. And I still wish I hadn't died.

He's young, this Florida fry cook, so young that I must seem like some
sort of fantasy, the beautiful girl who walks in and says she'll do anything he
wants if he'll do her one little favor. Two, really--if he wants to do any of
the things his eyes say he's thinking, he'll need to give me a coat. Right now,
I think he'd give me a kidney if I asked for it.

"It's...it's like this red round ball, like an apple, and flowers all
around it. I think lilies, and some sort of funky white flower. I mean, it's
pretty, but it's sort of weird, too, y'know?" His tone turns apologetic. "Most
folks get little things when they get tattooed drunk. Like, hearts and birds and
the names of their moms. It's probably going to cost a lot to get that lasered
off."

"Maybe I won't." I look over my shoulder at him, smiling as coyly as I
can with the itching in my back threatening to drive me crazy. "Is that all you
have to say about it?"

"It's pretty," he repeats, like that's the secret password to my pants.
"It's all flowers and fruit and shit, but it's pretty."

That'll have to be good enough, for now. We have sex on the floor of the
store room after he gives me his coat, and he's gentleman enough to let me be on
top, and it almost distracts me from the burning, for at least a little while.

Time to head to the Last Dance. Maybe Emma knows what the gift the Old
Atlantic Highway gave me means.

Maybe after a burger.

***

There's a pause. Bobby's hand clamps down hard on my neck, his arm all but
spasming...and then he's shoving me away, hand going to his mouth and anger in
his eyes. "You bitch!" he shouts. "What the fuck did you do? What the fuck are
you trying to pull?"

The tattoo is burning hotter than ever, but it's a good heat, clearing the
chill of Bobby's fingers from my skin. I straighten up, glancing back to be sure
that Chris is still there. He is, seemingly rooted to the spot. I'll have to get
him to the Last Dance soon, or Emma won't be able to help him get anywhere at
all. "I'm not trying to pull anything, Bobby," I say, turning back to my oldest
enemy. "I said you could have me. It's not my fault if I'm too much woman for
you."

"You
did
something," he spits. "What did you do?"

"To be honest, I have no idea." I take a step forward, gambling everything
one more time. It's a gambling sort of day. "Want to try again? I'm still
willing."

Bobby snarls. For a moment, he looks like a beast, some monster out of a
fairy story, come to bar my way. "I don't know what good you think this is going
to do you. You can't bring these people back to life."

"No. But you can't have them, either." I tilt my chin up. A cornered snake is
still a snake. "What's it going to be, Bobby? Walk away, or try to figure out
just how far I can push this?" I don't know what "this" is. Hopefully, neither
does he.