The Devouring Gray

by Christine Lynn Herman

  “What does the town know about us, exactly?”

  “They know we saved them,” said Isaac. “They know we have powers. And they know about the monster.”

  Violet moved across the room, her eyes scanning the four paintings that hung on the wall.

  On the left was Thomas Carlisle, a burly man with curls tied back in a ponytail and a wide, easy grin on his face. Laid across his upturned palms was a red-brown sword. Beside him was Hetty Hawthorne, sleek and blond and smug, a card held between two fingers, and on Hetty’s right was Richard Sullivan.

  Something about the man—slim and pale and looking off to the side, his hair streaked with gray—made her uneasy. Hetty Hawthorne had painted a dark smudge of something that might have been blood on the dagger he was tucking into his waistcoat.

  But it was Lydia Saunders who primarily held Violet’s attention.

  This was the woman at the root of all her problems. She’d signed up her family for generations of strife and struggle, and for what? Powers that seemed to hurt just as much as they helped?

  Violet’s eyes drifted to the placards beneath the paintings, frowning as she noticed a distinct similarity between all four portraits.

  “They died on the same day.” She turned away from Lydia’s slight, upturned smirk. “I’m guessing that’s not a coincidence.”

  “Truly, your powers of deduction are remarkable,” said Isaac. “The founders sacrificed themselves to create the Gray and bind the monster to Four Paths. Which is why we’re all still so obsessed with them. Everybody loves a martyr—or four.”

  Violet swallowed, hard. “So they knew it would kill them?”

  Isaac shrugged. “That’s what the town believes.”

  She took a step toward him. “What about you? What do you believe?”

  A shadow passed across his face. “I think our ancestors went looking for a monster. And I don’t think they realized what the cost would be once they found it.”

  The weight of his words stayed with Violet as she began searching through the filing cabinets and rifling through the bookshelves, all under the watchful gaze of the founders’ portraits.

  When they’d first arrived, Violet had wondered why the archive room—a place that seemed important—had been left virtually abandoned. But after just a few minutes of sorting through dusty books and articles, she realized why.

  Most of the information stored here was completely useless. Whoever had maintained these records had clearly believed in preserving everything they could find, from supply lists and order slips to ancient newspaper articles about people long dead.

  Worst of all, there was no method of cataloging or organization that Violet could see. For a place that cared so much about its roots, the town was terrible at actually documenting them.

  “Hey,” said Violet, glancing at Isaac and noting the red spots on his cheeks. “Are you blushing?”

  He jerked his head up from the stack of papers he’d been reading. “What? No. I just…” He cleared his throat. “Uh, I found some love letters. Between Helene Saunders and Malcolm Carlisle. Forbidden love, super sordid.”

  Violet frowned. “Forbidden? Why?”

  “Founder descendants aren’t supposed to pair off,” said Isaac. “When two founders have kids, it cancels out their powers. Since only one branch of the family inherits powers anyway, competition is fierce, and no one wants to guarantee that their kids will be powerless.”

  “Oh,” said Violet. She’d perched on a chair beside one of the bookshelves, building a nest of discarded materials on the floor beneath her. Her eyes scanned the picture of something called the Founders’ Pageant—four grinning people wearing crowns and waving at an adoring crowd, like a warped version of homecoming.

  “Does this Founders’ Pageant thing still happen?”

  “Every damn year, at the Founders’ Day festival,” said Isaac, who was sorting through a filing cabinet a few feet away. “Actually, as the only Saunders founder who’s semifunctional, you’ll probably have to participate.”

  Violet scowled at the back of his head. “Do I look like the kind of person who participates in things?”

  Isaac shrugged. “You get to wear a crown. People clap. It’s a morale booster.”

  “Clap for what?” said Violet. “Justin said three people have died this year alone.”

  “So you understand, then,” Isaac said, “why it’s so important to pretend everything is fine.”

  They fell silent for a few minutes after that.

  She glanced up at the angles of Isaac’s profile, his brow furrowed in concentration. Several buttons at the collar of his flannel shirt had come undone, exposing a line of crude discoloration that marred his throat. She was close enough to him to see the swollen, mottled flesh contract and expand as he breathed.

  A scar.

  Isaac caught her glance. An instant later, his hand was redoing the loose buttons with a kind of frenetic ease that told Violet he’d had a lot of practice.

  “Don’t ask,” he said sharply.

  “I wasn’t going to,” she said, and meant it. She could tell from the way his eyes widened that he believed her.

  Everyone deserved the chance to tell their own story when they were ready, not when they were forced to.

  She reached for the next thing on the bookshelf, realizing as she examined the binding that she recognized this kind of notebook. She’d used the same type of splotchy, black-and-white composition book in elementary school.

  Violet flipped it open to the first page. The words were handwritten.

  The Diary of Stephen Saunders, January 1984—.

  March 23, 1984

  In nineteen days, my life is going to change.

  I’ve decided to write in this journal because I want to be able to look back and see how things were when everything was just getting started. My life, I mean.

  My name is Stephen Saunders, and if you’re anyone else, you should stop reading this right now.

  Yeah, sisters, that means you. June, I know about the flask in your backpack. And, Daria, I know you caused that dent in Dad’s car. Think very carefully about whether you want that information shared with our parents before you keep reading.

  Not that you guys really care what I do enough to even find this journal. Honestly, in this family, no one really pays attention to you before you do your ritual.

  Less than three weeks left until I turn sixteen. I can’t wait.

  “Hey,” she said sharply. “I think I found something real.”

  And she began to read aloud.

  Consequences came more quickly than Harper was expecting. Later that evening, a few hours after Violet had left, her phone buzzed in her skirt pocket.

  She already knew on some level what would be waiting for her before she saw the screen.

  It’s me. Where are you? We need to talk—in person.

  At first she was frightened. But that fear was quickly chased away by anger. So she ignored Justin’s text for the rest of the night, contemplating her best course of action.

  Only now was he paying her attention. Now that she was useful again. Now that she mattered.

  She’d waited three years for him to reach out to her. He could wait a few hours for her to text him back.

  When Harper woke up the next morning to start her training, she had made her decision. She and Justin Hawthorne did need to talk. But they would do it on her turf, on her terms, because for the first time in years, she finally had the upper hand.

  After school, she told him. At the lake’s edge. Don’t bother me before that.

  It felt good to tell him what to do. It felt better when he actually listened to her.

  Yet when Justin’s tall, agile form came into view at the edge of the water, Harper realized that all her mental preparation hadn’t stopped her from wanting to throw up. Or turn invisible. Or melt.

  Of course, she did none of these things.

  Instead she rested her hand on the dormant German shepherd g
uardian beside her, for strength, and waited for him to come to her.

  Harper had chosen the statue garden outside her father’s workshop for a reason. She felt safer surrounded by the crumbling stone remnants of her ancestors’ power: a reminder that the Carlisles mattered, too.

  Besides, she knew the guardians tended to make people uneasy. And she wanted Justin Hawthorne on edge.

  But as he drew closer, he didn’t look rattled at all. Just tall and tan and annoyingly at home, even though he was in the middle of Carlisle territory.

  Even though Harper had done her very best to look decidedly unwelcoming.

  “I see you’ve convinced Violet that she needs your help more than she needs ours,” Justin said, pausing between a half-crumbled raccoon and a crouching stone cougar, fangs bared. “I guess we deserve it.”

  Harper willed the cougar to come to life and sink its teeth into Justin’s throat. Unfortunately, nothing happened.

  There was the slightest twinge of hurt in his voice. He was incredibly gifted at pretending to be wounded.

  “Yes, you do.” Harper was proud of how sharply the words came out. “Talk to her if you have questions. It was her call, not mine.”

  “Violet’s new here. She doesn’t understand how things work.” Justin tugged at the neckline of his T-shirt. Harper’s gaze, heedless of her attempts to keep it elsewhere, lingered on the part of his shoulder where fabric met skin.

  “I know,” she said, yanking her gaze up until it met his. “That’s why I warned her about you.”

  Justin stepped forward. The branches behind him framed his head, like a twisted crown. “You don’t know what’s at stake here, Harper.”

  Her name in his mouth was a knife in her gut. And Harper was sick of letting him wound her. “I didn’t tell Violet not to trust you. I just told her the truth. It’s not my fault what you did doesn’t line up with how you want everyone to see you.”

  Justin fiddled with the medallion tied around his wrist, which shone crimson in the late afternoon sunlight. “I know that I’m not who Four Paths thinks I am. I can never be that person. But I never wanted to ignore you. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Justin was the perfect picture of guilt. Too perfect. The longer Harper looked at him, the less she believed it. And the more she wanted to rip the lie away from the corner of his downturned mouth.

  Three years ago, after a week of the Hawthornes ignoring her, she’d shown up at their house. No one came when she rang the doorbell, not even when she saw Justin’s face peering down from his bedroom window. She’d made eye contact with him for a moment—and then he’d pulled the curtains shut.

  Harper had stumbled home in a haze of painkillers and tears, faced with the crippling knowledge that from then on, she could count on no one but herself.

  That hurt welled up all over again as she watched Justin’s head droop forward.

  “Really?” she said. “Because you’ve seemed just fine these last three years.”

  “I’m trying to apologize—”

  “No, you’re not.” Harper’s voice had started to shake. She had listened to this for long enough. “Stop pretending to be sorry. You’re only here because I took away something you wanted. But guess what? I couldn’t do anything about it when you cut me out of your life. And you can’t do anything about it if Violet doesn’t want your help. You made your choice. Now she’s making hers. Respect it.”

  Harper wanted him to protest. She was ready to argue. She would win—hell, she’d already won.

  But instead, Justin’s face slackened. His expression was devoid of false guilt now. It was devoid of everything. “You’re right,” he said numbly. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  Harper swallowed her disappointment, sliding a hand down the dog’s back. For a second something fluttered beneath her fingertips, a strange tingling that shot from her hand into the back of her skull. But the sensation was gone before she could take another breath. “You’re not going to tell me to change Violet’s mind?”

  “What’s the point?” said Justin, shaking his head. “You would never do it. But, Harper, if you’re going to help her, you can’t let the sheriff know what you’re doing. We were keeping it a secret.”

  This, Harper hadn’t been expecting.

  Rebellion didn’t come naturally to Justin and May. Back when they’d all been friends, Augusta had run her children’s lives with the ferocity of a coach, the strictness of a headmistress, and the tyranny of a dictator.

  For them to defy her…that took a spine Harper hadn’t believed either Hawthorne child possessed.

  “If your mother isn’t letting you help Violet, why do you want to?”

  This time, Harper knew in her gut that Justin was telling the truth. “Because I think our town’s future depends on it,” he said. “And because I’m tired of listening to my mother when she tells me to do things that will only lead to people getting hurt. It’s why I stopped talking to you, you know—because of her.”

  And with that, Justin walked away, his wiry frame disappearing into the sinking sun.

  Harper curled her fingers around the stone dog’s ear, a rush of frustration coursing through her.

  She’d had the conversation with him she’d daydreamed about for years. Told Justin what he’d done to her. And yet, somehow, he’d managed to make her feel guilty now that it was over.

  They had been children when he’d left her all alone. Maybe that really had been Augusta Hawthorne’s fault.

  But it had still hurt her. And surely, he had still known that it would hurt her.

  Besides, Harper had done what her father asked. She had befriended Violet Saunders.

  It was time to reap her reward.

  The first few entries in Stephen Saunders’s journal were boring. Violet was disappointed by her uncle’s annoying teenage thoughts, which ranged from all the hot girls at school who would totally notice him after he did his ritual to talking about music and TV shows that she had never heard of and didn’t care about. The one interesting part was whenever he talked about the piano.

  But as his birthday approached, things became a bit more compelling.

  April 4, 1984

  Tonight Dad gave us this lecture at dinner about Saunders family responsibility. Grandma fell asleep at the table, and Daria left to “go check on the casserole” and didn’t come back, but of course I had to stay. At the end of it, he fixed Juniper and me with this big stare.

  Agatha made this cawing noise from her stand behind the table and flapped her wings. I swear, she was looking straight at me. Companions are creepy like that, like they know what their owners are thinking.

  “Remember,” Dad said. “The safety of Four Paths rests in your hands.”

  June says that Dad just lectures us a lot because he’s mad that his brother became mayor, not him, but telling Dad that seems like a good way to get lectured until I die of boredom, so I won’t.

  My sisters did their rituals years ago. Daria sees people’s deaths when she touches them. She won’t tell anyone, though, so I don’t really see how it actually helps. I mean, it’s not like anybody has died since she got her power, so we don’t even know if she’s right. But sometimes she gets this look. Like she wants to throw up. She’s never really had friends, but now she avoids everyone, even us.

  I’m not sure if I would want to know what she knows.

  No one will tell me what June can do. But I eavesdropped on Dad and Uncle Hiram talking about her once, going on about how “testing her powers” was going to be hard.

  I guess she’s something else. Something special. Figures—she’s always been Dad’s favorite.

  Violet flipped to the next page. The entries got less carefree the closer Stephen came to his birthday. His original bravado was starting to falter, and in its place was more information about the town, gossip about the other families, and hints about his upcoming ritual.

  “Do you think he’ll talk about his ritual?” said Isaac.
>
  Violet frowned at Stephen’s splotchy handwriting. “I hope so.”

  April 9, 1984

  I turn sixteen in two days.

  Daria won’t even look at me, but June is worse—she keeps trying to hang out. This is the most I’ve seen her since she started spending all her time with Augusta Hawthorne. Augusta’s bod is bodacious, but she’s scary. Not even the biggest guys at school will talk to her.

  “Okay, that’s gross,” said Isaac. “She’s the sheriff. Also Justin’s mom.”

  Violet’s nose wrinkled with abject disgust. “I’m pretty sure I could live the rest of my life without ever seeing or hearing the word bod again.”

  I’ve been practicing piano more and more to avoid everyone, but it isn’t working. So I walked through the woods for hours after school today, just to get out of the house. Maya Sullivan found me somehow—I guess I accidentally crossed into her family’s part of the forest. Dad hates it when we go into Sullivan territory.

  Isaac stiffened. Violet paused. “Your mother?”

  He nodded, eyes fixed on her. “Go on.”

  But as Violet gazed down at the next few sentences, she hesitated. “It’s not exactly flattering. To you or the Hawthornes.”

  Isaac shrugged with carefully manufactured nonchalance. “I know what people say about my family.”

  So Violet continued.

  He says their ritual is unnatural, their powers are wrong. June says it’s just his old prejudices bubbling up—the Sullivans and the Hawthornes have always been allies, just like us and the Carlisles. So Dad associates them with one another.

  He never misses an opportunity to tell us that the Hawthorne family wants what we have.

  The mayor. The best house. The strongest powers.

  Violet spared a glance toward Isaac’s face, but it hadn’t moved.

  She wondered if that was still true. She didn’t know.

  Anyway, I don’t care what Dad says. I like Maya. She gave me a scone she’d swiped from home and told me not to worry about my birthday.

  “Your family wouldn’t let you do it if they didn’t think you were ready,” she said.