She had done it. She beat the Footman. She had lived. Better, she had survived.
But instead of feeling elated, she felt spent. Charlotte collapsed on the bank. Closing her eyes, she put her head in her hands and began to cry.
She cried for Mr. Metos, getting his liver pecked out. She cried for her gentlemanly cousin, who had punched her in the stomach, who thought he was saving her and was now in very great trouble. She cried for all the children who had lost their shadows. And, most of all, she cried for herself and what she had already done and how much she still had left to do.
That was enough bravery, enough heroism for one day. She had stopped the Footman from killing her. Charlotte Mielswetzski had acted, had seized life, had become everything everyone wanted her to be. Wasn't that enough?
It wasn't. She knew it wasn't. She wasn't done yet.
So then Charlotte Mielswetzski did the bravest thing she had ever done. She wiped her tears away and began to get up.
"That was impressive," a nasal voice said.
Charlotte looked around. A few feet upstream was a small, thin, very old, and rather skuzzy-looking man sitting on a small wooden boat, chewing his cuticles. On the bank next to the boat was a great line of Dead. The line, formed by a vast network of velvet ropes and giant brass pedestals, wound and stretched as far as
Charlotte could see. The man didn't seem interested in the line at all. She turned back toward him.
"Thanks for your help," she muttered, nodding to the spot where the Footman had fallen.
"Philonecron will be mad about the tux, though," he continued. "A shame." He smiled, revealing a toothless mouth, and climbed out of the boat onto the shore. "I won't tell him who did it… if you make it worth my while."
"You must be Charon," Charlotte said.
"Yup," said Charon. Charlotte eyed him. Boy, he was gross. His clothes were ragged and filthy, he was streaked with dirt, and he had a little greasy, gray, stringy beard. He made the creepy man on the bus look like a movie star. And after the events of the day, Charon-eternal Ferryman of the Underworld-looked like just another creepy man on a bus.
She sighed, got up, brushed herself off, and approached him. "Can you take me across?"
He frowned and sniffed her, then shook his head emphatically. "I don't take living mortals over. Big trouble. It's always trouble."
"I can pay." Charlotte reached into her backpack and pulled out her allowance. "You can use the money to buy a new shirt," she added.
Ignoring the last remark, Charon grabbed the money from her and counted it.
"Not enough," he said. "What else you got?"
"Well…" Biting her lip, she reached into her backpack. "I have Fruit Roll-Ups…" She took out the box-as Charon watched carefully-opened it, grabbed a package, unwrapped it, and began to unroll. "They're grape," she said, peeling off a piece from the wax paper backing. "They're really, really good!" She smiled brightly and tried to look convincing. Charon took the piece from her hands and licked it, then grabbed the whole Roll-Up and ate it, wax paper and all.
"Delicious!" he said, and grabbed the box. "So fruity! And so portable!… Okay, I'll take you"-he squinted at her-"For the whole box."
Charlotte sighed as if this were a great sacrifice. "All right, you win. But"- Charlotte turned to look at the lines of Dead-"what about them?"
"They have all the time in the world," he smiled greasily. "Shall we?"
And Charlotte stepped carefully into the boat, and he began to row across the great river, through to the Land of the Dead.
CHAPTER 21
ZEE WANTED TO KILL PHILONECRON. NOT LIKE WHEN you're really angry at someone and you say, "I'm gonna kill that guy," but you don't really mean kill kill. Zee meant kill kill. Zee meant a long, slow, painful death for Philonecron, effected by him, Zachary John Miller.
Never in his life had he felt hatred before. Real, pure hatred. It started in his chest and worked its way throughout his body. He could taste it in his throat, hear it in his ears, feel it rumble in his arms and tingle in his feet. Zee was a new person now-he knew what it was to hate.
Zee was sitting on a rock in a small, shallow cave, with one of the Footmen standing watch over him. The Footman had led him off, away from Charlotte and the banks of the Styx, through another passageway in the high rocks, and then tucked him into this cave, where he sat burning with hatred and thinking about just how he might go about killing an Immortal. Or at least causing him a lot of pain. Or at least-yes, that's what he wanted-making Philonecron feel utterly helpless, utterly alone, utterly lost, just the way he had made Zee feel.
Can you imagine? Can you imagine being under the control of someone else? Can you imagine hurting your family because of it? Can you imagine feeling your body do things you never wanted it to do?
All of his life Zee had been master of himself. He had made his own choices and suffered the consequences for them. Now he no longer was. So who, then, was he? What became of someone who was utterly under the control of someone else? What became of someone who had no will? He was a robot, a cipher. He was nobody. He was Zero.
And he had punched Charlotte. He had hurt Charlotte. He would never ever, ever forget the way she had looked at him. At least she was safe now. He could do that for her. She was probably on her way back home, where she belonged. This wasn't her battle. This was all his fault-his shadow, his blood-and it was up to him to make it all right.
He had had a plan, too. Or at the very least it was an idea. He came up with it when they were going down to the Underworld. There was only one way he could think of for an ordinary kid (him, specifically) to defeat someone like Philonecron. And if the shadows started their march, it seemed like the only option. But his plan required him. Zee. Not automaton Zee, but real Zee.
But he wouldn't be able to do it. Because he could not fight off Philonecron, and that meant he was going to fail. He was going to fail and everyone was going to suffer for it.
And do you want to know the worst part? The worst part was that there was part of him that didn't even care about everyone anymore-not about the kids, the shadows, the world- for all he wanted was to make Philonecron pay.
Zee picked up a rock and threw it as hard as he could against the wall of the cave. The Footman gazed down at him imperiously, arching an eyebrow. Zee wanted to tell him off, but he couldn't quite find the words. Charlotte would have told him off Charlotte would have had just the right thing to say.
But Zee was not Charlotte. He was not even himself anymore. He was nobody.
Zee kicked the ground in front of him, and dust flew everywhere. The Footman's other eyebrow went up, and Zee glared at him. Boy, that would show him!
"Zero!"
He turned. At the mouth of the cave was Philonecron, beaming and holding his arms out. Zee gulped down his hatred. "Charlotte's safe?"
Philonecron clasped his hands together. "Oh my boy, I find your concern so touching. That's the problem with the modern world; people just don't care anymore. You care. It's such a beautiful thing."
"Is she safe?" Zee asked. He could feel his mind fogging over a little at the sound of Philonecron's voice. Yes, I care, yes, it is beautiful. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Would I go back on my word to you? I assure you, your little cousin is completely out of danger."
Zee inhaled once, twice. He wanted to run to Philonecron and start pounding on him, but he couldn't. Even if he could, he shouldn't. Zee didn't have anything else to do but try his plan, even though he knew it would fail. And that plan depended on Philonecron's believing Zee was on his side.