“Hugo?” he whispered, taking a step toward him. “Are you—”
He raised his hand to shield his eyes as a bright blue light flashed from outside the tea shop. It filled the windows brilliantly, casting shadows that stretched long. The light pulsed again and again. He took a step toward the front of the shop, only to bring a hand to his chest.
The hook. The cable.
They felt dead.
They were dead.
“What is this?” he whispered.
He reached the closest window, looking out to the front of the tea shop, squinting against the bright light that lit up the forest, shadows dancing.
A vague shape stood out on the dirt road. As the light faded, the shape filled in, and Wallace saw it for what it was.
He remembered the brief glimpse he’d seen in the forest the night he’d tried to escape. The outline of a strange beast that he’d managed to convince himself was just a trick of the shadows.
Not a trick.
It was real.
And it was here.
There, standing in the road, was a stag.
CHAPTER
17
It was bigger than any stag Wallace had ever seen in pictures. Even from a distance, the creature looked as if it would tower over all of them. It held its head high, the many points of its antlers like a bony crown. As the stag stepped closer to the tea shop, Wallace could see flowers hanging from the antlers, their roots embedded into the velvet, blossoms in shades of ochre and fuchsia, cerulean and scarlet, canary and magenta. At the tips of its antlers were tiny white lights, as if the bones were filled with stars.
Wallace couldn’t move, a sound falling from his mouth like he’d been punched in the gut.
The stag’s nostrils flared, its eyes like black holes as it dug its hooves into the earth. Its hair was brown with white splotches along its back and considerable chest. Its tail swished back and forth. As the stag lowered its head, flower petals drifted down onto the ground.
Wallace said, “Oh. Oh. Oh.”
The stag jerked its head back up as if it’d heard him. It bleated softly, a long, mournful cry that caused a lump to form in Wallace’s throat.
He said, “Hugo. Hugo, are you seeing this?”
Hugo didn’t answer.
The stag stopped a few feet from the stairs to the tea shop. The flowers growing from its antlers folded in on themselves as if shutting away against the night. The stag reared up on its hind legs. Its belly was completely white.
And then the stag was gone, a frame rate stutter, a glitch in reality. The stag was there, and then it wasn’t.
In its place stood a child.
A boy.
He was young, perhaps nine or ten, with golden-brown skin, his eyes a strange shade of violet. Long, shaggy hair curled down around his ears, brown with streaks of white, unfurled flowers woven into the locks. He wore a T-shirt over jeans. It took Wallace a moment to make out the words on the shirt in the dark.
JUST A KID FROM TOPEKA
The boy’s feet were bare. He flexed his fingers and toes, tilting his head from side to side before looking up at the window once more, directly at Wallace. The boy nodded, and Wallace felt his throat close.
The boy began to climb the stairs.
Wallace stumbled back from the window. He managed to keep upright, though it was close. He looked around wildly, for someone, anyone to see what he was seeing. Hugo and Mei were as they’d been. Apollo and Nelson too. Alan, the same.
He was alone.
The boy knocked on the door.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Go away,” Wallace croaked out. “Please, just go away.”
“I can’t do that, Wallace,” the boy said, his voice light, the words almost like musical notes. He wasn’t quite singing, but it wasn’t normal speech either. There was a weight to him, a presence Wallace could feel even through the door, heavy and ethereal. “It’s time we had a little chat.”
“Who are you?” Wallace whispered.
“You know who I am,” the boy said, voice muffled. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would never do that.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Understandable. You don’t know me. Let’s change that, shall we?”
The doorknob turned.
The door opened.
The boy stepped inside Charon’s Crossing. The wooden floors creaked under his feet. As he slowly closed the door behind him, the walls of the tea shop began to ripple like a breeze blowing across the surface of a pond. Wallace wondered what would happen if he tried to touch them, if he’d sink into the walls and drown.
The boy nodded at Wallace before looking around the room. He cocked his head at Alan, brow furrowing. “Angry, isn’t he? It’s odd, really. The universe is bigger than one can possibly imagine, a truth beyond comprehension, and yet all he knows is anger and hurt. Pain and suffering.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand, no matter how hard I try. It’s illogical.”
“What do you want?” Wallace asked. His back was pressed against the counter. He thought about running, but he didn’t think he’d get very far. And he wasn’t about to leave Hugo and Mei and Nelson and Apollo. Not while they couldn’t defend themselves.
“I’m not going to hurt them,” the boy said, and for a terrible moment, Wallace wondered if the child could read his mind. “I’ve never hurt anyone before.”
“I don’t believe you,” Wallace said again.
“You don’t?” The boy scrunched up his face. “Why?”
“Because of what you are.”
“What am I, Wallace?”
And with the last of his strength, Wallace whispered, “You’re the Manager.”
The boy seemed pleased with his answer. “I am. Silly title, but it fits, I suppose. My real name is much more complicated, and I doubt your human tongue would be able to pronounce it. It’d turn your mouth to mush if you tried.” He reached up and plucked a flower from his head, popping it into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut as he sucked on the petals. “Ah. That’s better. It’s hard for me to take this form and keep it for long. The flowers help.” He looked up at one of the potted plants hanging from the ceiling. “You’ve been watering these.”
“It’s my job,” Wallace said faintly.
“Is it?” He poked a finger against the planter. Leaves grew. Vines lengthened. Soil trickled down onto the floor, little motes of dust and dirt catching the light from the dying fire in the fireplace. “Do you know what my job is?”
Wallace shook his head, tongue thick in his mouth.
“Everything,” the boy said. “My job is everything.”
“Are you God?” Wallace choked out.
The boy laughed. It sounded like he was singing. “No. Of course not. There is no God, at least not like you’re thinking. He’s a human construct, one capable of great peace and violent wrath. It’s a dichotomy only found in the human mind, so of course he’d be made in your image. But I’m afraid he’s nothing but a fairy tale in a book of fiction. The truth is infinitely more complicated than that. Tell me, Wallace. What are you doing here?”
He kept his distance, which Wallace was grateful for. “I live here.”
“Do you?” the boy asked. “How do you figure?”