And before I had a chance to prepare, the mask was off.

It was worse than I had imagined. So bad that my mind couldn’t accept that it was a face at all. The chin was gone. Instead, the skin below a grotesquely full lower lip slid away in a series of uneven lumps until it reached the smooth undamaged skin of her throat. The nose was shapeless, flat, a twisted knob of pink flesh that sat at the center of a series of ridged white scars that crawled across cheek and forehead. I flinched. If I hadn’t been holding myself rigid I would have recoiled across the breadth of the shelter.

“Can I open my eyes now,” she said. “Have you finished?”

I said something—I can’t remember what.

She opened her eyes. They were still blue. They were still Leslie’s eyes. I tried to stay focused on those eyes.

“What do you think?” she said.

“I’ve seen worse,” I said.

“Liar,” she said. “Like who?”

“Your dad,” I said.

It wasn’t funny but I could see she appreciated the effort.

“Do you think you’ll get used to it?”

“Get used to what?”

“My face,” she said.

“You’re always talking about your face, you know,” I said. “You’re just too vain. You need to think about other people instead of yourself all the time.”

“Who should I be thinking about?”

It was really ugly the way the skin below her mouth rippled when she talked. “Well, me for example,” I said. “When you were dragging me past all those boats I stubbed my toe on the curb.”

“Yeah?”

“It really bloody hurts. I mean, I bet my toe’s swollen right up,” I said. “Want to see?”

“I do not want to see your toe.”

“Sure?”

“I’m fairly certain,” she said and started to put her mask back on.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“I don’t like it when the children run away,” she said.

I tried not to show how relieved I was when the mask hid her face once more.

“Are there more operations?” I asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “But I want to show you something else now.”

“Okay,” I said. “What it is it?”

She stretched out her hand, and above it formed a globe of light with a beautiful opalescent sheen—it was much prettier than any werelight I’d ever produced.

“Fuck me,” I said. “You can do magic.”

Historical Note

HISTORICAL NOTE

KEN “SNAKEHIPS” Johnson was indeed killed on March 8, 1941, while performing at the Café de Paris. The eyewitnesses are clear that he was playing “Oh Johnny” when the bomb hit but I’ve taken the liberty of changing that detail since, frankly, “Body and Soul” is a much better chapter title.

Cover

Table of Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Chapter 1 - Body and Soul