Wicked as They Come

There’s always an epilogue, isn’t there?

The chapter that tells you what happened afterward, tying up the story in a nice big bow?

I can’t exactly do that. My story doesn’t work that way, all nice and tidy. I could maybe have some sort of messy raffia bow that looks as if a haystack exploded, like what my Nana uses when wrapping presents in newspaper. Or twine, the kind they use to tie up mysterious packages in brown paper.

But I’ll try to make it neat.

I slept that night. Really, really well. After a week of sleeplessness and traveling and starvation and enough squirts of adrenaline to kill a polanda bear, it was good to sink finally into real, deep sleep. If I had dreams, I don’t remember them. But I woke up smiling.

And next to me was a Bludman, a blood-drinking creature from another world, where everyone dressed like Victorian prudes and rode around in genuine horseless carriages and submarines. A world where the sky was too low and the names were off just enough to make it interesting.

I’ve always had colorful dreams, but even I couldn’t have conjured Criminy Stain, magician and gypsy king. Whatever forces drew us together seemed haphazard and random. But in each other, we both found that elusive something, the drive that keeps an animal hunting and hoping.

There was still work to do, of course. He had the caravan to tend to, and I had to return to my world to swallow a mouthful of my own blood and report that Jonathan Grove, philanthropist and preacher, had finally succumbed to his condition. My fears about a murder or police questioning were, of course, unfounded. Nurse Carrie just melted away into the night. After twenty-five years of his bleeding the family’s inheritance dry, everyone was more than happy to assume that he had died of old age or complications. It was actually a miracle that he had lasted so long.

The political situation of Manchester is still tense. Without Goodwill at the helm of the second-largest city in Sangland, there’s hope. With Rodvey gone, Ferling was next in line, and his stance toward Bludmen has been noticeably kinder. Antonin’s shop was allowed to move back to High Street, and the latest newspapers say that Bludmen might begin getting votes in London’s Parliament. For once, the gossip was true—there was talk of renaming Manchester as Goodwill, but the Bludmen put up a revolt, and it was abandoned.

As we travel the island, I learn more and more about the wonders of this strange world that distorts history as I know it like a carnival mirror. In Freesia, which corresponds to Russia, the Bludmen rule over terrified Pinkies from an icy palace deep in an enchanted forest. In Franchia, colorful daimons dance in the cabarets under the giddy thumb of the Sun King. In Almanica, Sanglish pioneers press ever farther into the frontier of a world ruled by natives described as half-animal warriors. The stories grow only more fabulous, and I want to see it all. The caravan remains a haven from politics and dogma. But in stopping Goodwill, we helped to make Sang a better place, and I think both worlds are better for his absence.

And I know, because I live in both worlds. While I can.

During the day, I take care of my grandmother, doing my best to make her last time on earth warm and loving and comfortable. We play rummy, and I try to talk her into giving me the recipe for her special chocolate pie. I see my other patients, except for Mr. Sterling. I couldn’t bring myself to return to the pretty town home and touch the beautiful, wasted body. I couldn’t handle the guilt of knowing that I could have given him everything he thought he wanted. I’d seen it in the glance, and even if I’d toyed with the idea of choosing him, I’d always known it wouldn’t happen. He left the caravan for London, and the newspapers say he’s the most eligible bachelor in town. My own glance tells me that he still has a journey ahead of him, but if he plays the right notes, he’ll find love himself before long.

As for me, my days as a nurse are normal and contented, but I’m biding my time.

At night, when I dream, I’m dressed in burgundy taffeta laced up to my chin. I tell fortunes and collect copper pennies and vials of blood. I laugh with the sword swallower and encourage the lizard boy to get more exercise. I sleep in a scarlet wagon, in a bed draped in silk, with a beautiful ruby locket under my pillow. And beside me sleeps my own personal vampire, or the closest thing around.

Sometimes, that’s what I do. Who I am. And I know that no time passes in the other world, that I could stay in Sang and in Criminy’s arms forever. But then I’ll see an old woman in the crowd and touch my own face, feeling the new lines there. Or I’ll gently hold a shriveled hand to read a dark future and remember that my grandmother needs me.

And later that night, Criminy will tuck me into a specially made, well-ventilated box in his trailer. He’ll kiss me softly and give me his love and call me his gypsy queen.

And then he’ll close the door and lock the box with a key he wears on a chain under his undone cravat. He’ll set a small copper snake named Boros on the lid, and the creature’s ruby-red eyes will cast eerie lights on the walls as it spins around and around, guarding me. I’ll lock the inside lock. I’ll fall asleep almost immediately.

And then I’ll open my eyes to my other life and take off the locket for a while.

I’ve made my choice, and for now, my choice is both. And I’m happy.

Except for one thing, hovering on the edge of my thoughts like a bludrat waiting to pounce on an innocent sleeper. There’s only one dream I have in Sang, when the locket is under my pillow and I’m curled against my beloved Bludman. Again and again, unbidden, his glance appears in my head, torturing me, a secret he’s forgotten to unearth.

My glances have always been true.

All except that one.

Yet.

So each morning when I wake beside Criminy, the first thing I do is check my hands, knowing in my heart that one day, they’ll be covered in black scales and blood.

Just like his.