Dead Ringers by Christopher Golden Page B

artfully disheveled young guy in a 1980s-inspired suit.
    Lili mounted the first step to follow them in, but Tess halted.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Lili asked.
    A tight little ball of nausea burned in Tess’s gut. The voice inside the psychomanteum echoed in her head, the warning still fresh as a slap in the face. Nick’s voice. She remembered the words he had spoken prior to that as well, just before he had stepped into the mirrored room. This needn’t concern you . Not the kind of phrasing her ex-husband would have chosen.
    Lili took the edge of her umbrella and tipped it back so they could look eye to eye. “What are we doing, babe?”
    Tess stepped up beside her, moving under Lili’s umbrella as she closed her own. “Listen to me, Lil. I can only imagine what your brain is doing right now.”
    â€œI’ve kind of shut it off for the moment.”
    â€œExactly. Trying not to analyze any of this, because it’s crazy. I know all that. I want you to see your clone or whatever, but I think maybe it’s not a great idea for her to see us.”
    Lili nodded slowly. “Let’s just look inside.”
    Under that single umbrella, they went up the last couple of steps and peered through the glass panel in the door. Tess had only been to a couple of gallery shows in her life—both during her college years—but both of them had been thinly attended affairs, a handful of friends and curious art lovers, wine and cheese and pompous talk. It surprised her to see that First Light had drawn a crowd. People milled about in clusters, admiring the work hung on the walls and installations. A closer look revealed glasses of wine and small plates of cheese and grapes, so maybe First Light wasn’t that much different from those art school shows after all.
    Tess scanned the crowd. “I don’t see her.”
    â€œI do.”
    Lili had leaned to the left, looking through the shop window instead of the door. The artwork hanging there must have blocked most of the view—Tess certainly couldn’t see more than the tops of a few heads and an arm or two—but Lili stood positioned to see between two of the displayed paintings. Her face had gone slack and she let out a loud breath that seemed to deflate her.
    â€œIs this real?” she said quietly.
    Tess held tightly to her arm, aches and pains forgotten. “It is.”
    â€œI don’t … Oh, my God, Tessa. To be told is one thing, but to see … to see her…”
    Lili pulled away from the window and reached for the door.
    Heart lurching, Tess held her back. “No, no. Honey, I think that’s a very bad idea.”
    Lili hung her head and breathed in and out, steadying herself, then looked up at Tess. “It’s like A Christmas Carol . Like the Ghost of Christmas Past is showing me myself.”
    â€œBut it’s not you. Her name is Devani Kanda and she’s an artist.”
    Lili leaned over to stare back through the window, peering between those two paintings behind the glass. “I saw the guy. Theo. I saw how much he looked like Nick, but this is different.”
    â€œWe should go,” Tess said.
    Lili didn’t argue. They turned together and descended the steps, staying under the one umbrella. Tess held on to her own umbrella as they reached the sidewalk, knowing that she and Lili needed to talk, to make sense of things that made absolutely zero sense, but she didn’t have the words yet. Didn’t know how to begin.
    â€œTessa,” Lili said, yanking her to a stop.
    Tess glanced up and saw the homeless man standing in the rain. She jerked back in surprise. The man turned toward them, perhaps as startled as they were, and she saw the dirty rag he had tied like a blindfold over his eyes. The white lights of the gallery cast him in a dim glow. His gray hair was slick with rain, beads of it running down his stubbled face. He wore a ratty, full-length,