Thirteens

by Kate Alice Marshall

  The murmur of voices was too low for them to hear, but Pip had come prepared. When she’d left her room, she’d shoved some of her spy gear into her bag—including what looked like a cross between a mini satellite dish and a ray gun, with earbuds plugged into it that let you listen in on people from far away. She gave Eleanor one of the earbuds and pointed the dish in the direction of the robed Society members.

  The low murmur of voices swelled, ringing with a tinny edge, until they could make out the words.

  “What do people feel about moving book club to Thursday next week? I have a scheduling conflict, but I really want to talk about this one,” a woman said.

  “If it’s just going to be you arguing with Ted about the symbolism of the color red . . .” someone said jokingly, and there was a handful of chuckles. Coming through the cheap microphone, they sounded like cackling crows.

  “Can we please stay focused?” a third voice said. Eleanor recognized Pip’s father’s voice from the conversation she’d overheard at the house. “We must not forget that this is a dreadful business. A regrettable one. And one that deserves solemnity.”

  A few feet shuffled, embarrassment palpable.

  “Besides which, I believe our remaining guests are here,” Pip’s father said, and raised a hand in their direction. The hooded figures turned.

  Eleanor and Pip glanced at each other in surprise.

  “Now or never!” Pip yelled. She dropped the dish, pulling the earbud out as she dashed forward with the walking stick gripped in one hand. Eleanor charged only a step behind her, letting out what she meant to be a battle cry but came out as a strangled yelp.

  Panic welled up in her chest. This wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to wait for exactly the right moment. Listen and watch until they saw the door, and then take the Society by surprise—or some level of surprise. They knew the Society would expect them to come, but they didn’t plan on being spotted right away.

  But now Pip was swinging the walking stick around, clipping ankles and making the Society members yell and jump back. Eleanor hurtled straight for Otto, who stared in gape-mouthed surprise for a moment, then threw himself away from Ms. Foster, tearing free of her grasp. Eleanor grabbed his elbow.

  No sign of the door. No way to run through it. Their plan was in shambles.

  “Run, Pip!” she yelled over her shoulder. “Just run!” Maybe at least Pip could escape. That would be enough to stop the Society—even if it didn’t save her and Otto.

  One of the hooded figures stepped into her path. A hand grabbed her backpack and yanked her back. She and Otto toppled, their feet tangling up with each other. She scrambled upright.

  They were surrounded.

  Pip backed up until she was with them, holding the walking stick out, but there was nowhere to run. The hooded figures closed in.

  Ms. Foster took off her hood. Through the crystal, her hair was bright red and her eyes bright green, as poisonous and beautiful as ever. Through Eleanor’s other eye, the gray hardened all the angles of her face, until she looked sharp enough to cut, and more wicked than ever. “Pip. Dear. This will be easier if you put down the . . . stick.”

  “It was a trap,” Otto said miserably as Eleanor pulled him up to his feet. “They knew you were coming.”

  “We know they know,” Pip said glumly.

  “You should have left me,” Otto said.

  “We couldn’t leave you. Even if it was a trap,” Eleanor said. “We had a plan. It just . . . didn’t work.” Her fault. She should have thought it through better. There must have been some angle she didn’t consider. Some secret she didn’t uncover.

  “Friends,” Ms. Foster said. “Darkness has fallen. I know that it is traditional to wait for the minutes before midnight, but given this year’s antics, perhaps we should get this over with.”

  “Agreed,” Mr. Foster said. And the January Society, as one, lowered their hoods.

  “Great-Aunt Prudence?” Otto said, staring at an old woman with a big mole on her chin. “Really?” He sounded more surprised than upset. Maybe they hadn’t been that close.

  Pip was staring at a man with a short, blunt nose and a squared-off chin. The top of his head was shiny and bald, with pale hair clinging on down below. Eleanor matched his position to the voice she’d heard—this was Pip’s dad, then. Mr. Foster.

  “Mr. Wells? You’re subject three?” Pip asked, and Eleanor blinked. Could she have been wrong? Was Pip’s dad standing somewhere else? “But you’re my dentist.” She looked affronted. “If you were just going to sacrifice me, you didn’t have to nag me so much about flossing.”

  “Speak to your elders with respect, Pip,” Ms. Foster said.

  Pip muttered something under her breath and glared at her mother, but Eleanor was looking around the rest of the circle. “Pip,” she whispered. “If that’s not your dad, where is he?”

  Pip’s head whipped around. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Ms. Foster chuckled. “Harold? You thought Harold was part of the Society? Oh, he attends the public meetings. Enjoys the cocktail hours. But he was always too tender-hearted for this kind of business. I knew I would never be able to make him see the necessity of what we do.”

  “He’s not—he doesn’t know?” Pip asked.

  “No, darling.” Ms. Foster’s eyes softened, just a touch. “Does that make you feel better? He really does love you, you know. And I might have, too. Only it was better, you see, not to get attached.” Her eyes hardened again, and she jerked a hand. “Better tie their hands. There have been enough delays already, and we want them under control when—”

  Mr. Wells hissed a warning, and pointed.

  A figure stood at the edge of the meadow, mist roiling around his feet. He was facing away from them, but Eleanor’s skin crawled with the feeling of being stared at. She shivered and pulled closer to the others.

  Clackclackclack. Clackclackclack.

  The rattlebird. He circled overhead. He seemed bigger than ever, and when he flapped shadows shredded away from him like feathers falling out. They drifted toward the ground, but vanished before they touched down.

  A low, rumbling growl signaled the arrival of the graveyard dog. He stayed back, circling slowly, watching the Society and licking his chops. His nose worked the air, as if he was trying to locate some scent that kept slipping away.

  The cat-of-ashes simply trotted between two startled January Society members and sat midway between the ring and the cluster of children, licking her paw. She twitched an ear in Eleanor’s direction.

  “Thought you were smarter than this, kid. Oh, well.”

  Through the crystal, the dog and the cat were gray all the way through, but through her other eye Eleanor could see the red glow that appeared every time the cat swiped her tongue over her paw. Her green eyes kept darting from Eleanor’s face down toward the ground. No—down toward Eleanor’s pocket.

  Use what you’ve got, she’d said in the alley. She’d meant the weapons, right? The salt? Or had she meant something else, too?

  “No time to bind them,” Mr. Wells said.

  The figure wasn’t at the edge of the field anymore. He was halfway across, carrying a cane with a silver handle at a jaunty angle. And he wasn’t alone. Two women stood farther back, half shrouded in mist. One tall and slender, with hair so pale it gleamed, and the other smaller, sharp-angled, with hair black as ink bound back in a tight bun.

  “Everyone stay calm,” Ms. Foster said. “As long as we stick to the terms of the agreement, everything will be fine.”

  “Most of us have been through this before, Delilah,” Mr. Wells reminded her. “Though, Edith, it’s your first, isn’t it?”

  Eleanor started. She hadn’t recognized the young history teacher in the dark. “I’m just so pleased and honored that you invited me to join,” Ms. Edith said breathlessly. Eleanor wanted to kick her in the shins. Ma
ybe she’d manage it, before they put her through the door.

  “Come here, children,” Ms. Foster said. Otto shrank back. Eleanor, though, took a deep breath and stepped forward, walking slowly and deliberately toward Ms. Foster. She was done being afraid. She’d face this, and she wouldn’t flinch away.

  As she passed the cat-of-ashes, the cat got to its feet. Eleanor paused, momentarily startled, and the cat rose up on her hind legs, planting both feet on Eleanor’s thigh and butting her head against Eleanor’s pocket. Automatically, Eleanor scratched the cat behind the ears, and she shut her eyes and rumbled a purr.

  “One last chance, little beast. Be sharp,” the cat urged her in a tone low as a whisper, and then dropped back to the ground and sauntered away.

  Eleanor swallowed. She stepped toward Ms. Foster, slipping her fingers into her pocket as subtly as she could. They bumped against the hard edge of the ancient coin she’d taken from the hidden room, rough with verdigris.

  She slid it out and closed her hand around it, then stopped just out of reach of Ms. Foster.

  The cat wanted her to remember the coin. But why?

  “You don’t have to do this,” Eleanor said. She felt at the coin in her hand. Had it glowed when she looked at it through the crystal? Had she thought to check? She couldn’t remember. She ran her thumb over it, and the graveyard dog froze in his pacing. He stared at her, stiff as a board.

  “I know that you think that,” Ms. Foster said. “From your perspective, this must all be so awful! But you must understand, you only think that because you’re thinking selfishly. This deal keeps our whole town happy and strong. And it keeps all of us safe. There are only three of you as compared the entire town of Eden Eld. It’s simple mathematics.”

  “Three of us every thirteen years,” Eleanor corrected her. “And besides, if the town has to sacrifice kids to stay happy, it shouldn’t be happy.”

  “Do you know anything about Eden Eld’s economy?” Ms. Foster asked.

  “The primary industries of Eden Eld are mining and logging,” Pip quoted in a high voice, then snorted. “So what?”

  “The mines closed sixty years ago. The last time a tree was cut down for anything other than a better view was the 1980s,” Ms. Foster said. “Eden Eld has no industries. Money simply arrives. This town exists because of this bargain. It would vanish without it.”

  “Then let it,” Eleanor said. She was only half listening. The rest of her attention was on the dog, who was still standing stock-still. She ran her thumb over the coin again, and he twitched and took a jerky step forward. She’d studied the story of the graveyard dog carefully. She could practically recite it by memory. The children fought the graveyard dog and claimed his treasure trove, the story said.

  Maybe he wanted it back.

  “I will not let something that I have invested so much in slip through my fingers,” Ms. Foster said.

  “Guess you’re lucky you never bothered to spend much time on me, then,” Pip said.

  “This would have been ever so much harder if you’d been a more pleasant child,” Ms. Foster said. “Enough of this. Where’s—”

  She looked toward the meadow and jumped.

  The man wasn’t standing in the middle of the field anymore. He stood among them, right in the ring of the January Society, and now he was facing them. He held the cane in both hands, out in front of him with the tip planted in the dirt. The women hadn’t moved, like this was his show, his deal, and they were just waiting to see how it went.

  “What a delightful gathering,” he said in a voice was full of laughter. His face was plain—so ordinary that Eleanor would not have been able to describe it if you gave her an hour and all the metaphors and similes in the world. Except for his eyes. His eyes were solid gray, from one edge to the other. Everyone in the circle froze, like they wanted to step back but didn’t dare.

  She looked at his feet, but they were shrouded in mist. She couldn’t see which way his footprints were turned.

  “And these are the stars of the evening,” he said. He waved a broad hand at Pip and Eleanor and Otto. “I understand you’ve caused quite the fuss today, friends! I admire that. Pluck, that’s what that is.”

  “Sir,” Ms. Foster began. He held up a hand to silence her.

  “No, no need to apologize. I don’t care how you get them here, so long as you do. Now, I’m forgetting something. What is . . . Ah, yes!” He snapped his fingers. The sound was loud as a firecracker, and more than a few of the robed figures jumped.

  In the center of the field, a door had appeared. It was a plain door, hopelessly ordinary. It didn’t even have a frame; the hinges attached to the empty air.

  “You know the procedure,” he said, wagging his fingers in a “shoo” gesture. “Put them through, shut the door, and that’s that.”

  “Let’s be done with this, then,” said Mr. Wells distastefully.

  Ms. Foster lunged for Eleanor and grabbed a fistful of her sweatshirt. Mr. Wells took her arm on the other side, and they dragged her toward the door. She tried to keep up, but they were walking fast and she stumbled until Mr. Wells shook her. From the yelps behind her, the others were getting the same treatment.

  The graveyard dog paced stiffly alongside, watching her with fixed attention.

  “They’ve got this in hand. Musn’t interfere at this stage,” Mr. January called, but the dog didn’t seem to hear. Eleanor gave the coin a squeeze. The dog twitched again and growled. “Come on, boy,” Mr. January said with sharp irritation.

  They were halfway to the door. “Hey!” Eleanor yelled to the dog. “Want this?” She held up the coin between her thumb and index finger. The dog’s head jerked up, his ears pricking and his mouth falling open eagerly. “Go get it!”

  She flung the coin over her shoulder into the middle of the line of January Society members.

  The dog barreled toward it, hurtling past Mr. Wells and Ms. Foster. They shouted and bailed to either direction, dodging its massive body as it careened into the procession, scattering the others. She saw Pip haul Otto to his feet and sprint toward her.

  “Go go go!” Pip yelled. Overhead, the rattlebird shrieked.

  Otto started for the trees. “No!” Eleanor called. “The door! Go through the door!”

  “We don’t know what’s through there!” Otto said.

  “Better than here!” Pip shot back, and they charged forward together. They hit the door as the rattlebird screamed and stooped to dive.

  “Don’t let them—” Mr. January bellowed, but Eleanor turned the knob and wrenched open the door, and then they were tumbling through.

  Twenty-Five

  Eleanor was drowning in gray. Not mist—mist had texture and movement. This gray was a flat, solid color all the way through. It was more like trying to look through discolored water. Her hand was a dim silhouette when she held it away from her face. But it didn’t have resistance like water; she could move normally, though when she tried to take a step, she stumbled. The ground looked no different than the air.

  Everything sounded echoey, but the only thing to hear was her. Her breathing, her heartbeat, her footsteps. “Hello?” she called.

  Ello ello ello, the gray called back.

  “Pip? Otto?”

  Pip ip ip

  Otto otto oh

  And then a new sound: shush-shush-shush. Quick footfalls. The cat-of-ashes appeared out of the gray, her green eyes the only bright things in it. “Now that was a bit of cleverness,” the cat-of-ashes purred, twining around her legs.

  “Thanks for the clue. I thought you couldn’t help me anymore,” Eleanor said.

  “Help you?” the cat-of-ashes said, full of innocence. “I don’t remember helping you. I remember biting you. And I remember you scratching me in just the right spot. Like another lady I know.”

  “A lady?” Eleanor whispered.

 
; “Don’t fret, kid. You’ll see her yet. But not tonight,” the cat-of-ashes said. “You’ve gotten free of that dreadful social club, but you’re not out of the woods yet. So to speak. Better find your friends. This place isn’t healthy for growing girls and boys.”

  She started to trot away.

  “Wait,” Eleanor called after her. “Do you—do you know anything about my father? Do you know who he is?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” the cat-of-ashes said. “Honestly, I can’t tell most of you humans apart.” She flicked her tail and bounded off into the gray.

  Eleanor pushed away her disappointment. The cat-of-ashes was a cat, after all, and you couldn’t expect a cat to be too helpful for too long. “Pip!” she shouted again.

  Pip ip ip, her echo said, and then, nor or or.

  It was Pip’s voice, or what was left of it after the gray stole its share. Eleanor headed toward it, calling out Pip’s name again. The next time, Pip’s voice was stronger. Then stronger again. And then there was Pip, stepping cautiously through the gray. She saw Eleanor and lunged the last few steps, catching her in a tight hug.

  “There you are! I thought I was going to wander here forever,” Pip said. Even through the crystal, Pip was gray all the way through. So, Eleanor realized, was she. That couldn’t be good.

  “We need to find Otto,” Eleanor said.

  “He was a little behind us when we went through. Maybe that means he’s farther away.”

  “But which way?” Eleanor asked.

  “Otto!” Pip hollered, so loud that Eleanor clapped her hands over her ears. Pip’s head cocked to the side as she listened. “This way.”

  “Are you sure? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I’m sure,” Pip said, and forged ahead. Eleanor had to jog to keep up.

  Something odd was happening as they walked. The gray was changing—not getting thinner, exactly. Almost the opposite. It was pressing itself into shapes that looked more and more solid. There were gaps in it now, and then patches that Eleanor couldn’t see through at all. Her hand plunged through one tall column of gray and vanished entirely. It made a squelching, sucking sound as she pulled her hand out, and when she poked a finger against the thick patch again it had the consistency of cold pudding.