What the Night Knows (with bonus novella Darkness Under the Sun)

“My sister,” Naomi said, “she’s only eight, you know how it is, her skull’s not totally full of brains yet, she’s a fraidy-cat. But—what am I going to do?—I love her anyway.”

She realized she was babbling. There were a gazillion questions she should ask, but she couldn’t think of any; they blew around in her mind like a tumult of leaves and wouldn’t remain still so that she could grab one.

“My name is Melody,” the woman said, “and when the day comes, it will be my great honor to serve as your guardian and your escort home.”

Honor? Guardian? Escort? Home?

Putting aside her book, swinging her legs off the window seat to sit on the edge of it, Naomi said, “But this is my home. Isn’t it my home? Well, of course it is. I’ve lived here since … since I’ve lived here.”

Leaning forward conspiratorially, Melody said, “M’lady, for your own protection, the memory of your true home has been repressed by a spell, as have those same memories in your brother and sister. The agents of the Imperium would long ago have found you if you knew from where you came, and the assassins of the Apocalypse would by now have run you down.”

All that sounded thrilling and romantic and precisely the most desirable degree of scary, and Melody almost glowed with sincerity, and her stare was direct and unwavering and piercingly honest, and her plain-Jane manner wasn’t what could be expected of some faker. But although Naomi couldn’t put her finger on the problem, she felt that something wasn’t quite right with this scenario.

As if sensing her lady’s doubt, Melody said, “Your true home is a kingdom bright with magic, which you have long suspected.”

With that declaration, the woman raised one arm and pointed to the ceiling with her index finger, as if calling down some power from on high.

Every drawer in the dresser, the highboy, and the nightstands flew open as far as they might without crashing onto the floor, and the book about Drumblezorn levitated off the window seat three feet, four, five. When the woman closed her raised hand into a fist, every drawer slid shut—thump, thump, thump, thump, thump!—and the book flew across the room, slammed into a wall, and fell to the floor.

Electrified, Naomi shot to her feet.

Rising also, Melody said, “In a month or slightly more, m’lady, the circumstances in the kingdom will be ripe for your return, all your enemies destroyed, the way made safe. I’ve come today only so that you will be prepared when I appear again on the night that we must travel. At that time, your memory will be restored, and it will be most essential then that you do as I, your servant, request.”

In all the years that she fantasized about a moment of revealed destiny like this, Naomi had imagined a thousand times a thousand clever responses to such a messenger, but she had never expected to be speechless. She heard herself speaking disconnected syllables that might have been the start of words, and then she managed to stammer full words but couldn’t put them in coherent sentences. Feeling not at all like a m’lady but very much like a pathetic eight-year-old half-pint booby, she finally said, “Does do Zach Minnie know, like you told me, does you did you tell them, and my parents?”

Melody dropped her voice to a whisper. “No, m’lady. You are the supreme heir to the kingdom, and only you need to be prepared ahead. It would be too dangerous for all of you to know until the very last assassins of the Apocalypse are rendered powerless. This must be your secret, and you must guard it well until the night I return, or else you and everyone you love might die.”

“Chestnuts!” Naomi declared.

Pointing to the windows, Melody said, “Regard the tree, m’lady. Regard the tree.”

As Naomi turned toward the windows, the wind from nowhere burst into the calm day again and shook the great oak as if to shatter it and cast its broken limbs against the house. Stripped from branches, flocks of scarlet leaves flew against the windows, with a sound like wings beating frantically against the panes. The exhibition was scary but, oh, so beautiful as well: sunlight and shadow playing on the glass, trembling multitudes like crimson butterflies.

As the wind abruptly died, Naomi remembered Melody and turned to her, but the woman was gone. Evidently she had departed by way of the wind and the tree, whatever that meant.

The door to the second-floor hallway stood slightly ajar. Naomi couldn’t recall if she had left it that way, but she didn’t think so.

She ran out of the guest bedroom, glanced left, right, and found the hallway deserted. She listened for rapid footsteps on the front or back stairs, but she heard none.

In the guest room once more, she hurried to the book that had levitated and flown. She snatched it off the carpet. She dashed to the window seat and knelt on the cushions to watch the last leaf in the glorious multitude settle toward the lawn. Pressing her forehead to a cold pane of glass, straining for a glimpse of Melody dwindling through the branches toward some magical realm or an impossible door closing in the trunk of the oak, she saw nothing more than a big beautiful old tree readying itself for winter.

Her heart raced and she thought it might never stop racing. She was exhilarated although confused, delighted but frightened, totally convinced yet riddled with disbelief, amazed, astonished, eager but wary, impetuous, cautious, buoyant but sad as well, as close to crazy as she had ever been.

Naomi couldn’t imagine how she could keep such a secret for one week, let alone for more than a month, for one day, let alone one whole week. On the other hand, she knew in her heart she was a protagonist, not an antagonist, not the secondary female lead who might or might not go over to the dark side, who might lack the perspicacity to do the right thing. She was the true lead, the right stuff, a veritable Joan of Arc who could be mentored by dragons but never-ever defeated by them. Perhaps she should have her hair cut in a pageboy, like Joan of Arc was sometimes depicted, or maybe even shorter and a little shaggy, like Amelia Earhart, the vanished aviatrix. So much to think about, so many possibilities to consider. Pig fat!

Earlier, Melody Lane drives from the Nash house to the Calvino residence in her Honda, aware that she is possessed, with a full understanding of the nature of her rider. She offers no resistance. She has no fear. Even more than Reese Salsetto, Melody welcomes her rider. She is delighted by the possibilities of cooperation with it, pleased to have the benefits of its protection and its power.

When she was twenty-four, Melody killed her three children—ages four, three, and one—after deciding that motherhood is limiting and boring, and after she learned that humanity is a vile planet-killing plague that Earth can’t survive. She saw it on TV. A documentary about the end of the world and about how it is unavoidable. We all have a responsibility. As each brat died, Melody kissed it, inhaling its final exhalation, which symbolized that she was participating in the salvation of the planet by eliminating the CO2 breathers who were polluting it every time they exhaled. The planet is a living thing. We are lice on the planet.

She murdered her louse, Ned, her husband, and made it appear to be suicide. She saw it on the Internet: lots of ways you can make a homicide appear to be a suicide. Her attempt to stage the children’s murders as Ned’s work deceived the finest crime-scene investigators with all their high-tech devices and scientific wizardry. Not such a bunch of smarties, after all. Her alibi proved ironclad.

This success has enhanced Melody’s self-esteem. Self-esteem is the most important thing. You can’t make the life you deserve if you don’t have enough self-esteem.

Too long, she believed that she was ordinary, unimaginative, not very bright, something of a schlump, as colorless as dishwater. But then she gets away with four murders, and she is doing something socially useful, even important, at the same time. She realizes that, after all, she is interesting, just like Dr. Phil and so many other famous TV hosts have been for so long telling her she is.

Over the past four years, she has murdered three other children, in two different towns. She wishes she could have disposed of dozens, but she is cautious when selecting her targets. The oil companies need new generations to exploit, and if they ever discover she is eliminating their future customer base, they will be ruthless.

All her life, Melody has been ignored by everyone but Ned. And Ned was a bully. He liked her only because she could never stand up for herself and always just hung her head and let him curse her and heap abuse on her— until the night she didn’t. They say you are what you eat, and Ned ate a lot of ham and pork and bacon. Now she knows that she is as interesting as most people and more interesting than many, with her secret life.

They say that the meek will inherit the earth, but if that’s true, by the time the inheritance is paid, it won’t be worth spit, the earth will be used up, burnt out, like Mars. On TV they have all these dance competitions, talent