by Kali Wallace
“What’s out here?” I asked.
Violet took a shaky breath. “I’ll show you.”
She slammed the trunk and started walking. The dirt road narrowed until it was no more than a trail cutting through thick underbrush. Leafy branches swayed as Violet passed; I stayed a few steps back to keep from being slapped. We crossed the creek by hopping from stone to stone. My foot slipped on the second step and plunged into the water. It was colder than I expected, and with the cold came a memory that didn’t belong to me: Brian Kerr had splashed through this same creek, walked this trail in wet shoes, dodged these whiplike branches countless times.
Violet stopped, half turned toward me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said. My shoe squelched. “Can I ask you something?”
“What is it?” she said reluctantly.
“Those kids that were at the church, on the playground. Did they come out of this more like you or more like Esme?”
Violet turned away. “We don’t know yet.”
“How can you not know?”
“It takes children a little while to . . .” She walked a few steps while she sought the right word. “Recover.”
There was a dull ache in my throat. “What do you mean?”
“It can be frightening for them.”
“Was it bad for you? When you were a kid?”
Violet only walked faster.
“Do you even care?” I demanded.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl with the yellow baseball cap. Her body was somewhere in the darkness. Her hat had fallen off as she fought and tried to run, and Brian Kerr had picked it up. I remembered that much. I didn’t remember why.
“Did you even ask what was happening to all the kids who came after you? The ones Mr. Willow doesn’t like as much as you? The ones he doesn’t want to keep as a pretty house pet?”
Violet spun around. Her hands were clenched in fists at her sides, and there were bright red spots of anger in her cheeks. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A knot of guilt tightened in my chest. That had been cruel. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have remembered the little girl with the green eyes playing with her stuffed rabbit before her parents and their priest tied her to a bed.
“You were only eleven,” I said. “He lied to you.”
“Shut up.”
I shut up.
We passed the remains of a small cabin, a brown square of roughhewn logs and the base of a toppled stone chimney. There was a fire ring in the center and faded beer cans tossed in the corners. Beyond the ruined cabin, the trail sloped upward and the ground turned to gravel beneath our feet. We were walking over a tailings pile that had washed down from an old mine.
There was a sturdy metal gate over the entrance to the mine, bolted into the stone and covered with signs. DANGER, KEEP OUT, warnings about the legal implications and minimum fines for trespassing, all rusted at the corners and pockmarked with bullet holes. The lock was new, but the gate was old and distorted, as though somebody had tried to pry their way in.
Or smash their way out.
Brian Kerr had stood before that iron gate with a key in his sweaty hands. He had missed the lock because he was shaking so much. He had been terrified of this place, the first time he came here and every time afterward, and his fear burned through me like a fever.
“What’s in there?” Wrong question. I cleared my throat. “Who’s in there?”
She’ll be so happy to see you.
Violet only shook her head.
I sat on a fallen log below the tailings pile, picked up a handful of gravel, and let it fall though my fingers. It was warm on the surface, cooler a couple of inches down.
“Can I ask you something? Just one more question?”
“I don’t think you should talk to me anymore,” Violet said.
“Do you believe him? Do you really believe that being like this makes us evil? That it makes us something we have to fix?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“Even the little kids? Even the people who have never hurt anyone?”
Violet stood facing the mine, her back to me, her arms crossed over her chest.
“You’re not a child,” she said, “and you have hurt people.”
“I know I have. I’m not talking about me.”
“You don’t understand anything.”
I was quiet a moment before answering, “Maybe not, but I think I’m beginning to.”
In the still, hot afternoon, I could feel the mine breathing silently, inhaling and exhaling with a slow, slow rhythm.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE SUN WAS sinking low and the shadows growing long when Violet broke the silence.
“They’re coming.”
She was looking down the trail. I didn’t hear anything.
“You should get ready,” she said.
I lay down and closed my eyes. Time to play dead. It wasn’t funny even inside my head.
A few minutes passed before I heard Lyle’s voice and Mr. Willow’s answer. Footsteps crunched on the forest floor. I felt the cobweb of Mr. Willow’s guilt, curled up and tucked away as it had been when we first met.
“Did it give you much trouble?” Mr. Willow asked. His voice was calm, disinterested. He might have been asking about a stray dog Violet caught digging in the garbage.
“No,” Violet said. “She came to me willingly.”
The gravel was rough and warm beneath my cheek. A shadow fell over me, but he wasn’t close enough to touch. Not yet.
“And you’re ready?”
“Yes.” It was Lyle who answered. His voice broke.
Mr. Willow noticed. “I’m very proud of you, Lyle, but this is an important responsibility. I want you to be sure.”
I wanted to see Lyle’s face, but I couldn’t risk opening my eyes. I didn’t know what he knew about Violet’s intentions. She claimed he would go along with our plan to stop Mr. Willow—to kill him—but I wasn’t convinced. I could too easily remember how powerless I had been fighting against Lyle, how strong and fast he was, how much damage he had inflicted while obeying Mr. Willow’s commands.
“I am sure,” Lyle said. His voice was anything but steady. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Pastor.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I really am.” Mr. Willow sounded like a kindergarten teacher praising a slow student’s progress. “But you have to remember why we’re here. We don’t do this for ourselves. We do this for the creatures who need our help.”
“Like my sister,” said Lyle.
“Yes,” said Mr. Willow, after a beat. “There will always be people like Esme who need our help.”
“Even if they don’t want it.”
Damn it. Stop talking, Lyle. Just get Mr. Willow close enough for me to touch.
“It will be dark soon,” Violet said.
But Lyle wouldn’t let it go. “Even if they don’t want it, right?”
“What is this about, Lyle?” Mr. Willow said. “You know what this creature is capable of. You saw what it did to our friend Brian. Why are you so full of doubt today?”
“He’s not,” Violet said too quickly.
“I’m not.” I didn’t have to see Lyle to know he was lying. “Give me the keys.”
“This is not a task to be undertaken if you are feeling uncertain,” Mr. Willow said.
“I’m not. I’ll take her. Where are the keys?”
“I am more concerned about your well-being than I am about this creature,” said Mr. Willow. He was almost convincing. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”
Violet said, “But she might escape again. We can’t risk it. Edward. Can’t you take her yourself?”
It wasn’t going to work. Mr. Willow was keeping his distance. Maybe he didn’t know what I was, but he knew what I could do. We had been stupid to think it would be so easy.
I opened my eyes. “I think we should do it tonight.”
Mr. Wil
low turned to me in surprise. “Violet, what have you done?” he said.
“I’m sorry.” There were tears in her eyes.
I stood, unsteady on the gravel. Mr. Willow took a step back. I was just far enough up the slope to be the same height as him.
“Brian was like a son to me,” he said.
“I never thought I’d feel sorry for a mass murderer,” I said, “but that almost makes me feel sorry for him.”
I took one step toward him. Just one, then I lunged.
I wasn’t fast enough. I caught the fabric of his shirt, but he spun away and I tripped, off-balance on the sliding gravel. Willow kicked out as I fell, caught me on the side of my face with his heel. Bright pain flashed through my jaw and his shirt slipped from my grasp.
It took me a second to recover, get back on my feet, but Lyle was faster. He sprang after Mr. Willow, who was already running. Branches and underbrush crashed as they raced away from the mine. The touch of Mr. Willow’s shadow slipped away like a blanket sliding from a bed.
Violet grabbed my elbow to help me up. “We have to stop him!”
“Just let . . .” I blinked to clear my vision, worked my jaw slowly. It wasn’t broken again. “Let Lyle catch him.”
“We can’t.” Violet shook my arm; the jostling made my head hurt. “We can’t. We can’t, he’ll never forgive himself. We can’t. We have to stop him.”
She gave up on me and ran after them. I followed, unsteady and dizzy. I caught up to Violet just as she reached the remains of the old cabin. She had stopped in the middle of the trail, but I didn’t see why until I was standing beside her.
Mr. Willow and Lyle were circling each other slowly beside the old cabin. Lyle lashed out at Willow, and Willow stumbled backward, but he didn’t fall.
“She didn’t want it!” Lyle screamed. He sounded young and scared, completely out of control. “She didn’t want it! She didn’t want it!”
He lashed out again, so fast the motion of his hands was a blur, and blood blossomed on Willow’s shoulder. He made a choked sound of surprise and threw up his hands to ward off the second blow. Lyle slashed him across the palms, and Mr. Willow yelped in pain.
That’s what it took to get Violet moving. She flung herself at Lyle and grabbed his arm. He shoved her aside, and she fell, but she was up again in an instant.
“Stop!” she cried. She reached for his arm again, and that time she held on. “Lyle, stop!”
It was enough to make him pause. There was blood dropping from his claws, staining his fingers red, but his face was pale, his expression terrified. He looked at Violet, looked at Willow, looked at Violet again. Waiting for her to say something else, to tell him what to do.
Before them Mr. Willow doubled over and gasped for breath. The arm of his shirt was shredded and soaked with blood. He straightened up, touched the wound gingerly, grimaced, and wiped the blood on his trousers. He glanced quickly at Lyle, at Violet hanging on his arm, at me keeping my distance from the fight. Searching for a way to escape.
Lyle shook off Violet’s grip and strode forward. Mr. Willow stepped back, but he didn’t run. He was surprisingly steady on his feet, considering how much those wounds had to hurt.
“Lyle,” he said calmly, as though he were placating a wild animal. He put both hands up. Lyle had torn gashes across his palms and blood trickled down his wrists. “You don’t have to—”
“Give me the keys,” Lyle said.
Willow blinked. “The—”
“The keys. Give me the keys or I’ll rip your throat out.”
Willow leaned over to rest his hands on his knees, but he wasn’t gasping for breath now. He was laughing. It was a raw, rasping sound, and he shook his head from side to side as his shoulders trembled. He was laughing, and when he stood upright again, there were bloody handprints on both legs. He reached into his pocket and brought out a cluster of keys. His smile was hideous.
“What are you going to do?” Mr. Willow asked, the question wheezing painfully from his chest. “You want the keys? What are you going to do? What are you going to do?”
Lyle gaped at him and said nothing.
“Here they are.” Willow shook the keys, like dangling a toy in front of a dog. “Do you want them? Is that what you want? Go to her. Is that what you want?”
“I want—” I expected Lyle to shout, to rage, but he choked on his words, and his answer was as small and hesitant as a child’s. “I want Esme to be like she was.”
Mr. Willow laughed again, that terrible gasping laugh. “And you think she’ll give that to you?”
“Give me—”
“You think you can ask for that? For a favor? For kindness?” Mr. Willow’s face was pale and damp with sweat. All of his calm, his careful poise, it had fled, and left in its place was a ragged, bleeding man on the edge of hysteria. Blood trickled down his arms in red rivulets. He threw the keys to Lyle, who made no move to catch them. “Take them. Go to her. Go to Mother. Ask her to give you your sister back. Ask her if it’s not too late. If you’re lucky, she’ll let you limp out of there an empty shell who can’t even remember how stupid and arrogant you’ve been. You and your wretched sister can—”
A roar ripped from Lyle’s throat and echoed through the forest. He leaped at Mr. Willow, a growling blur of motion. Willow jumped backward, but he wasn’t fast enough. Lyle struck him across the chest. The blow lifted Willow off his feet and flung him into the trunk of a tree. He hit with a dull crunch and slumped to the ground. Fresh blood bloomed from wounds on his chest and his abdomen.
Lyle was on him instantly, crouched over him like a wild animal, claws raised to strike.
“Lyle!”
Violet’s scream was so loud and so piercing it ripped through the forest. It felt like nails driven into my eardrums. I clapped my hands over my ears, and for a second I heard nothing but the terrible echo of that cry.
On the ground Lyle held Mr. Willow down with one hand on the shoulder, but he was looking at Violet in shock. She had both hands clasped over her mouth, but it was too late. There were tears on her cheeks and her eyes were bright, bright green.
Mr. Willow’s lips moved. I dropped my hands, touching the side of my face. My ears ached as much as when Brian Kerr had fired the shotgun near my head, but I didn’t feel any blood.
“Go on,” Willow said.
His voice was a wet gurgle, so weak and damp after Violet’s deafening scream. He clutched at his torn midsection; there was blood and shredded skin between his fingers.
“Go to her,” he said. He coughed and blood foamed on his lips. “Ask for her help. And your sister will be alone.” Another cough.
Lyle flinched away from the pink spittle. “I’m going to kill you,” he said. His voice shook. He pressed the claw of his thumb into the skin of Mr. Willow’s throat.
“It doesn’t—doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except . . .” Willow shuddered and grasped at his guts with helpless hands. “You don’t know how hungry she is.”
“Lyle.” Violet’s voice was quiet now, a desperate whisper rather than a violent scream, but I felt it nonetheless. It was a ringing in my skull, a hornet’s nest buzz of discomfort. Violet pressed her fingers to her lips, afraid to speak again. She shuddered with silent sobs. She looked at me desperately, and something cold and dark and hard curled in my gut. I knew what she wanted. After all, this was why she had brought me along.
“Lyle,” I said.
I took a step forward, then another. I waited for him to look at me.
I said, “You don’t have to do that.”
“He promised he would help us,” Lyle said.
“He lied.”
“Esme—”
“Esme needs you to take care of her,” I said.
One more step and I was at Mr. Willow’s side. I looked down at Lyle. His bloody claws were trembling, his eyes damp. He had never killed anyone before. I hated my perverse curiosity about how it would feel if he did it right here, right in front of me, how the shad
ows would whip and grow.
“You should leave,” I said.
“But he’s—”
“He’s not going to hurt anybody else. He’s done. Go to your sister.”
Lyle lurched to his feet. He started to say something, his mouth working like a fish’s, but there was a gurgle in his throat and he gagged on his reply. He wheeled around and stumbled into the woods. I heard him retching and coughing in the gloom.
“Go with him,” I said to Violet. “Take the cars and get out of here.”
“What are you going to do?” Her words were nettles in my ears. The sun had set, and in the deepening twilight her eyes glowed watery green.
“You don’t really care about that, do you?”
“Don’t,” Violet said, a sudden desperate plea. “Don’t go into the mine. Come with us.”
“You should get out of here.”
“You could die.”
“It was never your fault,” I told her. I wanted her to understand. “Your brother was sick. That priest was in pain before you ever made a sound. You’ve never killed anybody. Mr. Willow lied to you. He lied to you about everything.”
“We won’t leave—”
“You need to get out of here.”
Violet stared at me for a long moment before she turned and retreated into the forest. Just once she looked back, her green eyes eerie and bright, then she was gone.
The ground beside Mr. Willow was damp with blood. I knelt beside him. Touched his shoulder, the undamaged one, and he flinched. He was gasping and coughing.
The blood from his mouth and nose was smeared down his face, his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. My jaw throbbed where he had kicked me. A dull ache spread down my throat and into my chest. It felt a little bit like hunger, a little bit like nausea.
“I don’t have to do this,” I said. “I can walk right by a murderer. I do it every day. You would not believe how many killers are out there. But I can ignore them. It’s easy.”
I put my hands on his face. One palm on each cheek, flat against his skin. He was cool to the touch.
“A witch told me it won’t always be like that,” I said. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe someday I won’t have a choice. But I do now.”