Secret Histories

1

“No matter what I do, I can’t get it open.”

Jack could sense Weezy’s frustration. It fil ed her bedroom like a storm cloud. He and Eddie knelt on the floor with the black cube from the mound between

them. Weezy sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing her hands together. Jack had told them about the ritual murder story from the sheriff’s office. Usual y that

kind of thing would grab Weezy’s attention like one of those leg-hold traps they’d seen yesterday, but she seemed completely focused on the cube. The Cure’s Pornographywas running in her eight-track player and, as usual, the

whiny voice was grating on Jack’s nerves.

“Can’t you play something else?”

Her smile had no humor in it. “You’d like Siouxsie and the Banshees better? Or

how about Bauhaus?” Her taste in music matched her taste in clothes

and posters.

He found the black-and-white Bauhaus poster of some shirtless guy hanging by

his hands a little too weird. Give Jack the Spider plugging hot lead into mad vil ains any day.

Jack winked at Eddie. “I know she’s got Flashdancehidden around here

somewhere.”

Eddie picked up right away. “She must. I’ve heard it through the wal .” He began

to sing. Badly. “‘She’s a maniac, maaaaaniac—’”

Weezy tossed a pil ow at him. “You lie!And what have you been told about

that?”

Eddie looked puzzled. “What?” Then a light seemed to go on. “Oh, hey, I wasn’t

thinking.”

Weezy only glared at him.

Jack didn’t know what was going on between these two, but doubted it had

anything to do with Flashdance.He tried to bring the talk back to music. “Bauhaus, then,” he said. “Anything but this.”

As she popped out the Cure cassette—thank you, God—he picked up the cube

and turned it over in his hands.

“Can’t open it, eh? What’ve you tried?”

Eddie said, “Anything toolacious. Knife, fork, screwdriver, razor blade,

chisel—you name it. Even a hammer. I’m ready to get my dad’s electric dril .” “Real y?” The glossy black surface looked unmarred. “How come it’s not al

scratched up?”

“Because it doesn’t scratch,” Weezy said, returning to the edge of her bed. “No

matter what we do to it.”

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead” began to play. Jack kind of liked this song. “Maybe it doesn’t open. Maybe it’s just a solid cube of—what did you cal it

yesterday?” “Onyx.”

“What’s onyx?” Eddie said.

“A kind of black stone.”

Eddie snorted. “Black, huh? Figures you’d know about it.”

Weezy gave him a gentle kick. But Eddie had a point. Weezy was into dark—dark

clothes, dark music, dark books. She even kept her shades drawn to

make her room dark. The bright morning sun outside had been locked out. At

least she didn’t have black sheets, although her bedspread was dark

purple. Half a dozen gargoyles peered down at them from her shelves. “It’s not solid,” she said. “Give it a shake.” Jack did just that—and felt something

shift within. Not much. Just the slightest bit, but enough to tel it was

hol ow.

For no particular reason, he dug his thumbnails into the faint groove along one

of the edges and—