The Alchemy of Forever

point of the eyeliner roughly into his skin. I’ve been distracted ever since Nicole yelled at me in the antiques shop and laid claim on Noah.
    “No worries.” He looks at himself in the mirror and grins in delight. “That’s disgusting. I love it.”
    I stand back and admire my work. “Gruesome.” Armed with a palette of theatrical makeup and prosthetic pieces, I’ve made a horrific mess of Bryan’s face. His forehead and nose appear to be rotting, and an eyeball springs out from one socket, melting into his cheek. I know Leyla will swoon.
    “More blood?” he asks, furrowing his brow.
    “I think you’re good.”
    “Not even just a little bit more? Here, next to this gash. It looks a little empty.” He cranes his head to get a closer look at the realistic-looking wound in his neck.
    I sigh. “Okay, but then you’re done. This is my masterpiece, after all,” I remind him, dribbling fake blood down his neck. He watches with satisfaction as it stains the collar of his shirt.
    “I’m lucky to have such a talented artist for a sister,” he says.
    “Thanks,” I says softly, feeling a pang. “Have fun at the party. Say hi to everyone for me.”
    “I will,” he promises.
    We head to the living room, where Mr. and Mrs. Morgan are drinking cider and handing out candy to the miniature witches and pirates and princesses who ring the bell. I give Bryan a thumbs-up as he leaves, but I’m not feeling very festive.
    In the backyard the night is cloudless and bright, the moon’s round face peering down unabated and reassuring. But the wind obliges the need for spookiness, stirring the wind chimes into a frenzy and urging the tree branches to claw at the sky.
    The garden is strung with fairy lights and a strange, warm wind pushes me toward the redwood tree, dark and looming over the yard like a guardian spirit. I climb up into the tree house that looked so new in the Morgans’ photo album, but now is rotting away. The roof has fallen away, but the base is still strong. I lie on my back and watch the sky, the stars only faint smudges next to the bright, beaming moon.
    They say Halloween is a time when the veil over the world of the spirits is thinnest, when ghosts can cross over and whisper in our ears or touch us on the cheek. I want to believe this—and I don’t. After all, I am a ghost myself. But I am also the creator of ghosts, the girl who can unpin your soul from its moorings and set it free to drift. But where do these souls go? I am no closer to knowing.
    All the girls whose souls I’ve taken stream through my mind. I never knew most of their names. I picture each life I’ve led like beads strung together on a necklace to make me who I am, the sum of all these jewels. And each shiny bead turned to a puff of smoke, a necklace made of ghosts, one bead for one lost girl. Where are you now , Kailey? I snuggle into the collar of her peacoat—I can still smell the faint traces of her jasmine perfume. The idea that she’s still here, watching me live her life, fills me with despair. I don’t believe she is, but I whisper anyway: “I’m sorry, Kailey.”
    If Cyrus were here, he’d shake his head in disgust. He doesn’t believe in an afterlife—that’s just a fairy tale, he said, these existential questions are a waste of time. He would scorn Kailey’s fantastical drawings, her magical creatures. For him, all magic can be explained by science.
    Despite the warm wind that buffets the boards of Kailey’s tree house, I shiver. The life that Cyrus gave me was unlike anything I could have dreamed, back in that torchlit garden. I am sad for that girl. I am sad for Cyrus, too. My bright, blue-eyed alchemist, who wanted nothing more than love and scientific truth. But something snapped in him when he became Incarnate. Something went wrong. The cruelty must have been there all along, but it was amplified by centuries of unchecked power.
    I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear a board creak. I’m on my feet instantly, looking around in the darkness. I let out my breath when I see it’s only Noah. “You scared me!” I say, sitting back down on the tree house floor. “You’re way too good at sneaking up on me,” I add.
    “I’m sorry—Your mom told me you were out here,” he says, with a rueful smile. “It is Halloween, though, so I think I should get a pass.”
    “You’re forgiven,” I say, relaxing slightly. He sits down across from me, his hands inside his sweatshirt pockets. The wind