take a breath.
Not a real one. I think we’ve covered that. Nothing here is real. Not my eyelids as they open. Not the living room—myliving room—that surrounds me. Not the recliner that feels so solid beneath me.
Then I accidentally remember that the recliner’s not supposed to be here—that it should be in Dante’s room—and it suddenly stops existing. I drop in what feels like a very realthudonto the rug below.
The rug that wasn’t there a moment ago, because my mind hasn’t put me in my living room as it is now but as it was growing up. When my parents were around and Dante was alive, and we had a huge red-and-brown rug that I recently sold for far more than it’s worth by convincing some blond woman named Deedee that it wasmade by Tibetan monks. Which, honestly, is kind of on her, because the style was definitely art deco. And there was a Target sticker on the back.
Across the room is the overstuffed couch where Dante and I used to watch movies during snowstorms. And the scratched coffee table where Mom kept hidden daggers “just in case.” And the coffin-shaped trinket bowl where Dad left jewelry he got from jobs.
Something tight and suffocating builds in my chest. But the feeling is interrupted by my watch beeping—one of Poppy’s runed inventions to keep track of how long until the Miracle Max wears off—and then I remember why I’m even here in the first place. To see how the codex behaves.
With a groan, I try to stand, stopping suddenly when I realize my arms are empty.
I frantically search the living room, but the grimoire’s not here. It’s not like the recliner, which can stop existing if I don’t concentrate properly. And it’s not like me, where I’m a thin ghost of myself, my existence still tethered to the Beforedeath. With Soul Attaché, the codex is real and solid.
Should be real and solid.
Except it never made it to the Afterlife.
Don’t panic just yet. I had a feeling this would happen.
After all, the Coven had the Voynich manuscript fordecades. Of course they would have realized that there were Dead who could translate it. If they could have brought it into the Afterlife, they would have. So there must have been some reason they hadn’t.
I prepared for this.
You may remember I accessed Infamous Pete’s safe-deposit boxthe day I stole the Rolls. The cash I found hadn’t gone very far and I wasn’t even going to touch the flask, but that’s not why I wanted the safe-deposit PIN.
When I was doing the Groundwork on Pete, I learned that he wasn’t just embezzling, he was also selling information and artifacts to rival syndicates. Most of what he traded in was boring—manifests, filing rights, ancient shrouds—but one item caught my eye. Late last year, he stumbled upon an early-sixteenth-century journal written in a code rumored to be the same as the Voynich manuscript. You can see where this is going.
His plan to sell the journal to the Coven was cut short when Charon got wind of his embezzling and sent him to the Afterlife for good. All I needed to do after that was grab his passwords, which he conveniently kept on him at all times, even in Death. A quick con, some sleight of hand, light bank fraud, and the journal’s now mine.
As soon as Tolliver brings me back to the Beforedeath, I run upstairs to my room and grab the journal from my messenger bag in a pile of dirty laundry. By the time I get back downstairs, the others are arguing about what we should do next.
“We can’t translate gibberish,” CJ says, arms crossed, slouched in the director’s chair.
Rook rolls his eyes. “It’s not gibberish. It’s code.”
“That doesn’t mean we can translate it ourselves!” Poppy snaps.
“Guys,” I say.
Rook clears his throat. “There are several types of writing systems: alphabetic, syllabic, logographic, abjad, and abugida.”
“Guys,” I say again.
“I’ve narrowed down this script to alphabetic or syllabic.”
“Good for you,” CJ deadpans.
“Guys!”
The room quiets, but I’m getting irritated looks like I interruptedsomething actually productive. I stride over to the coffee table, open the journal, and set it on top of the codex.
Tolliver gasps. CJ stands. A wide smile spreads across Rook’s face.
“They match,” Poppy breathes.
A giddy rush runs through me. “Alright. Here we go.”