Sleep of Death

by Aprilynne Pike

  “Is Sophie awake? Like, can I see her?” I ask, feeling stupid as I tumble over my words.

  “I’ll get no rest today if you don’t,” Sophie’s mom says with an eyebrow raised. “Come on in. You two can chat while I finish getting ready for work. Then you need to scoot. She needs sleep.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I say, slipping past her and into the house. Sophie’s mom is already pointing me toward a hallway in the back of the living room, but my eyes flit about, trying to take everything in even as I shuffle forward.

  There are still enough boxes lining the walls to tell me they’ve moved in recently, but a bunch of framed pictures are already mounted too. Most of them are Sophie and her mom, grinning hugely at a camera against a variety of exotic backgrounds. Other people sometimes make an appearance—friends, maybe extended family, but definitely kids closer to Sophie’s age.

  But the one that really catches my eye is Sophie en pointe in a full arabesque, wearing a beautiful blue tulle costume with a flower wreath in her hair. I knew she must have some kind of dance training in her past, but she’s so incredibly strong and beautiful in this portrait, that I realize it was more than just some training.

  It’s not an old picture and I wonder just how much of her life—of herself—she’s had to leave behind to save other people. It makes me feel guilty about fighting and hiding my abilities for so many years, never mind what I was taught. How much good could I have been doing?

  Of course, since starting to mess with stuff with my powers I haven’t exactly been making a positive difference. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe what I always needed was someone like Sophie—someone to learn from.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” Sophie’s mom whispers.

  I jump. I’d completely forgotten she was there. But I recover quickly and look back up at the photo. “Gorgeous,” I reply honestly.

  A noisy sigh, then her mother gestures me along. “I have a schedule to keep; on with you.”

  The hallway is darker than the front room, but still lined with pictures. Just Sophie now. Baby pictures, school portraits, more ballet shots. All Sophie. It doesn’t seem fair. Sophie’s spent her entire life using her abilities and devoting so much of her existence to helping people with them, but it’s clear that she’s had a life.

  I never lacked for love and affection—both my mom and Sierra have worked hard to make up for the fact that my dad’s gone—but I threw all of my energy into fighting my visions. I didn’t have hobbies or friends. And I certainly didn’t have a passion like ballet. Seeing all the pictures of Sophie makes me feel like my life is very empty by comparison. In every way.

  But I don’t have time to dwell on it, because Sophie’s mom is already poking her head into a doorway down the hall and saying something just a little too quietly for me to overhear. I hurry forward just as she retreats from the doorway and says sternly, “Twenty minutes.”

  I look in and find Sophie looking wan and even thinner than usual and … other than that, completely adorable. Her hair is in braids coiled atop her head and held in place with a feathery purple hair clip. She’s propped up in bed with about six pillows of multiple colors, and her shirt has a picture of a crystal ball on it and says, FORTUNE-ATE. Which truly seems hilarious to me.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling suddenly shy.

  Sophie gives me a weak smile, but rolls her eyes. “Did my mom get to you? Seriously, she’s just so overprotective.” Then she moves one of her pillows and pats the bed beside her. She’s as full of bravado as ever, but her voice is weak. Guilt grips my chest. She’s in bad shape and I put her here.

  “It looks like she has reason to be,” I say hesitantly as I sit down and then almost flop into Sophie when the ultra-soft mattress gives more than I expected.

  “Sorry,” Sophie says with a grin. “I’ve slept on this bed since I was like four and it will eat you if you turn your back on it. My mom keeps threatening to buy me a new one, but I’ll never let her.” She wriggles back and forth and slips down a little further into her blankets. “I love it just the way it is.”

  I meet her eyes and a long moment passes before Sophie looks away, self-conscious. “Are you okay?” I ask. She looks like a cancer victim near the end of chemotherapy. Even against her dark skin there are bruise-colored circles beneath her eyes, and the way her cheekbones stand out reminds me more of starving children than fashion models.

  “Pretty much,” Sophie says, denying the evidence we can both see. “I’m already doing better than I was when I saved that last girl,” she mutters.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she snaps. But she looks instantly apologetic. “What happened?”

  I go over the story slowly, relating every detail I can remember, as quickly as I can. It seems like the least I can do.

  She’s nodding in approval by the time I get to the call I made to the cops at one o’clock this morning.

  “That was perfect,” she says, her voice more firm than it has been so far this morning. “You did everything you could. I wouldn’t have done anything different.” She grins and it makes her look stronger—but also more skeletal. Her hand reaches out and squeezes mine, and it’s strange that even in this state she’s the one comforting me.

  I can’t hold back a smile at her praise, even though I’m about to tell her another lie to guard the limits of my abilities. “I don’t know whether they caught the killer, but I drove by this morning and saw Mr. Welsh leaving for work, so we definitely saved them. Do you … do you think we still need to call someone about Daphne?”

  Sophie leans back. “I don’t know. I don’t like that room they lock her into at night. But she was adamant that she was happy with them?”

  I nod. “I’m not convinced, though. Isn’t that just what a victimized child would say? And what if it’s just the mom? Daphne looked genuinely happy to see her dad. If that’s the case then it’s understandable that she wouldn’t want to leave him.”

  “And what? Dad just doesn’t notice that room?” Sophie says skeptically.

  My shoulders slump. I want someone to be innocent here. Anyone. “You’re right. I hate this.”

  “I know.” She glances over my shoulder when I hear the squeaking of a door opening down the hall. “That’s my mom. And you need to get to school.” She rolls her eyes then says, “Pick up my homework for me?”

  I let out a bark of laughter. “Of course I will.” I hesitate for a second, then lean in to give her a hug. Despite her weakness she squeezes me tightly.

  “You know this is all okay, right?” she asks close to my ear.

  “Is it?” I reply without pulling back.

  “I promise. It’s my job. My life.” She lets me go but flashes a wicked grin. “And last night we saved two people, whether they deserved it or not. But you’re going to pay me back by telling me what’s going on with you and Linden.”

  The blood drains from my face and I’m glad I’m not standing or I’d have lost strength in my legs. “What do you mean? I told you we’re not together anymore. It was a mistake. That’s all.”

  “I’ve got him in my history class and when I tapped his arm to borrow a pencil—” she hesitates, “and because I’m a shameless spy—I peeked and he was still remembering kissing you.”

  I don’t even want to consider how funny it must look for my shock-whitened face to flush beet-red.

  But Sophie just leans forward and says with a smirk, “Boy is not over you. If you want him, he’s yours. That’s all I’m saying.” She gestures toward herself with a flourish of her willowy hands. “Can’t keep secrets from a Sorceress.”

  I don’t just leave Sophie’s house, I flee.

  Chapter Twenty

  I pass through school in a haze of worry, embarrassment, and fatigue. The last time I attempted to function on so little sleep was three months ago when I thought Matt was being murdered. Two days later, when he was actually killed, I was sleeping soundly. />
  Three helpings of caffeine from the vending machines are getting me through, but only just.

  Linden’s in my final class. Generally I do my best to ignore him, but Sophie’s words are ringing in my ears. Why would he be dwelling on our short time as a couple? Our short, secret, never-to-be-repeated time? It made sense when he had just seen me across the hall, but not in Sophie’s fourth-period class, more than an hour away from catching sight of me in either direction.

  I know why it preys on my mind. Because I wish I could have it back. Because I loved him before all of the shit, and getting to have him—even ever-so-briefly—didn’t change that. If anything, it made it worse.

  The best and worst three weeks of my life.

  But for him, it could only have been the worst. And it wasn’t even technically him. He was being controlled by Smith. Every kiss, every touch, every sweet word he said to me, was a lie placed there by a monster.

  And Linden knows it!

  Maybe he was thinking about it regretfully. Or in anger. That’s the only logical explanation. I stare at the back of his head, his blond hair perfect even that spot in the very back, that he couldn’t have seen in a mirror. It’s simple, and I know it: he’s too perfect for me. I should have known something was wrong right from the beginning. Guys like him just aren’t interested in girls like me.

  He’s perfect. I’m … not.

  But for him I’m worse than just not perfect. The girl he was falling for died, and even though he doesn’t know it, it’s my fault. I’m the explanation behind everything that has gone wrong in his life in the last three months. There isn’t a single guy on earth I could be less perfect for. And it kills me.

  As though feeling my gaze, Linden turns and sneaks a glance backward.

  Look away, look away! I scream at myself. But even though I have time, I’m still staring at him when his profile comes into view and his eyes slide to me.

  And lock.

  The world around us stops. Almost as though Sophie were there, freezing time instead of turning it back on itself. I’ve let myself get too tired; I can’t hide. I’m certain everything I’m feeling is broadcasting like a beacon from my eyes and I know he’s going to despise me for it.

  Except …

  Except his expression mirrors my own.

  Exhausted, devastated tears start to burn and I blink quickly, refusing to let my classmates see my distress.

  But Linden sees.

  His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, then he must remember we’re in a classroom full of other people, because he closes his mouth, clenches his teeth, and faces forward again.

  Every breath feels like my lungs are packed with broken glass. Ten minutes pass that way and when the bell sounds, it’s a mercy.

  I attempt to shove my stuff into my backpack as quickly as possible, but my tired fingers are clumsy. Usually I’m prepared for the end of class and have my things all packed in my bag by one minute before the bell. I know teachers hate it when students do that and I don’t in any of my other classes. But this is my one class with Linden and I don’t want him to have to see me more than absolutely necessary.

  And I don’t want to see him either. It’s too hard.

  But even if I’d been prepared, I don’t think I would’ve been able to get away today. This time, he’s ready for me. Even as I’m pulling shut the zippers on my backpack, I see his shoes on the ground beside me. Planted. I’m not getting away.

  “Hey Char. Can we talk? Please,” he adds, even as the word no forms on my tongue.

  I wish it wasn’t today, when I’m already so out of it, but I guess it had to happen eventually. I force myself to nod and then duck my head, staring at the ground so at least I don’t have to look at his face. I walk by his side out of the classroom and, after glancing left and right a couple times, his eyes light on the auditorium door, just kitty-corner to our classroom. “Here,” he says, then steps forward and holds the door open for me. Always the gentleman.

  The auditorium doors are mostly soundproof, so when this one closes with a dull thud it blocks out most of the noise from the halls, leaving Linden and I face to face in deafening silence.

  Well, metaphorically face to face, anyway. I still have my eyes glued to his shoes. Linden stands there, silent for so long that I almost wonder if I’m going to have to say something when he whispers, “I miss you.”

  I close my eyes. Of all the terrible situations that ran through my head when he asked if we could talk, this one wasn’t even in the top fifty. He’s supposed to hate me. At the very least, resent me. There was no way to avoid him seeing me every day—reminding him of painful memories—but actually dealing with our break-up? That hardship was supposed to be mine and mine alone.

  For him it was supposed to be easy. A relief.

  But here he is, his heart bleeding out of holes I put there.

  Very nearly not metaphorically.

  “For the first month, when I couldn’t look at any other girl with anything even resembling attraction, I figured it was because of Beth,” he says at a volume just a hush above a whisper. “Because I missed her and my heart was healing. And I’m sure there was some of that. But then, I realized it wasn’t all other girls. I still looked at you and … and wanted you.”

  The tears won’t be blinked away at that. I shake my head anyway. “It’s like phantom pain,” I say, my voice breaking before I can stop it. “You only think that because he made you do things and feel things and … you remember that and it’s just easier to not change.” I wish it weren’t so obvious that I’m trying to convince myself too.

  “No,” he says firmly. He takes a small step forward and towers over me, though not in an intimidating way. It would be better if it were. Instead, his size makes me feel safe—protected. An illusion I can’t afford to buy into. “Maybe in the beginning. That’s why I’ve waited this long. I had to be sure. But it’s been months and I miss you, Charlotte.”

  I shake my head but words are impossible as he reaches out and takes my freezing hands in his, wrapping his warm skin around mine, squeezing gently. “I miss the way we were together at my house. You listened, you were funny, you saw me as something more than just the Christiansens’ son. If that makes any sense. I think maybe you have for a long time and I just didn’t notice. And we had such a good time together, didn’t we?”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I protest, everything inside me weakening.

  “I know enough. I know you hide at school, but open up in private. I know you have gorgeous eyes when they aren’t staring at the ground, that you tell great jokes and give good, sensible advice.” He lifts one hand and brushes his lips across my skin. “I know you kiss like a goddess and feel amazing in my arms. We only had three weeks, so you’re right, I don’t know everything about you, but I want to find out.”

  “Linden, I can’t—”

  “Why?” And he sounds frustrated. I wish he’d yell. Maybe he’d get me out of his system if he were just angry. “I’ve seen you look at me. I don’t want to sound like an entitled brat, but I know you want me, too. Before, at the hospital, I totally understood why you ended it. I was relieved, to be honest. Because I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. But I can now. If it’s my choice, isn’t it okay?”

  But I’m already shaking my head. Because I only told him the tiniest bit of the truth.

  “Charlotte.” He whispers my name so softly I almost don’t hear him. But I feel his hands leave mine and lift to either side of my face. The heel of his hand tilts my chin up, and I’m not strong enough to resist. “We made a promise. Do you remember?”

  I’m gasping for air and tears are pouring down my cheeks. I was sure he wouldn’t remember our half-joking vow to help each other reach our life’s goals.

  A vow we sealed with our very first kiss.

  “And we sealed it like this,” he whispers, as though reading my mind. His lips touch mine. Just touch. It almost isn’t a proper kiss.


  But the next one is.

  And then I’m clinging to him, kissing him back with abandon—a starving woman at a buffet. My lips part and I don’t know for sure if I want to speak or kiss him deeper, but the choice is gone in an instant when he accepts the invitation.

  For one minute.

  Two.

  More? I have a better sense of time when I’m on my supernatural plane. I lose myself in him before sense comes slamming back into me and with every ounce of strength I can muster, I place my hands on his chest and push away.

  It’s enough to move me three inches.

  I stare up at him, pain dripping from my eyes onto my cheeks. “I can’t. It’s not fair.” And before I can change my mind I spin from him and hurry to the door.

  “Charlotte!”

  His voice is so strangled, so tortured, I can’t help but pause. But I don’t turn. I can’t face him.

  “If he’s the only reason you won’t let us be together, hasn’t he won? Do you want to let him win?”

  My feet pause at his words because they’re almost, almost true. With every piece of my shattered heart breaking all over again, I look over my shoulder at Linden, my hands resting on the auditorium door. “He won a long time ago.”

  I push the door open.

  I leave Linden behind.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sophie’s house is about half a mile from the school—and, consequently, from my house—but I don’t mind the walk. The chilly breeze feels good, actually. Bracing. And the cold sting helps me to calm down and keep from crying.

  Crying more.

  I can’t believe I walked away from Linden again. It feels like a huge mistake, but in my heart of shattered hearts, I know I had to. Letting him back into my life now would require a level of honesty that would eviscerate any good feelings for me that he’s managed to recover. I’d have to tell him at least half of my secrets; it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.

  Then he’d hate me, and that would be worse.