Olivia was soaked through and shaking violently. She threw off her wet things and used them to clean the mud off, then she slipped into her gown and down between the covers, pulling the netting close in around her. She couldn't stop trembling, and as she lay in the dark she thought for one moment that she might start to scream.
Was that really Jesse in the cabin? I didn 't dream it, did I — it was Jesse and Skyler and, my God, Mathilde — and what were they talking about — what did it mean—
She burrowed deeper under the covers, burning hot
yet icy cold. She heard the sounds again . . . wet . . . sucking . . . moans . . . She couldn't tell if they were coming from the shadows in her room or only in her mind . . .
She clamped her hands over her ears to block the sounds out. Her head throbbed, and her body convulsed with chills. She saw the dawn come up. She saw the slate-gray morning creep in.
Oh, Helen, Helen, where are you — what happened last night —
She had hoped that when daylight came, she'd remember that it had all been a nightmare. She had hoped that when daylight came, she'd forget the conversation she'd heard last night.
But she didn't quite forget.
And she couldn't quite remember.
And now it played over and over in her brain, distorted by horror and exhaustion, running together, three voices in one, and she couldn't tell anymore who had said what, she couldn't recall every single exact word— Olivia — Antoinette — it's her job — I've done it, she's good —/ don't want her hurt — take care of her — take care of her — take care —pounding in her head, torturing her, until she couldn't stand it— couldn't bear it anymore—
Those sounds . . . those horrible sucking sounds . . .
In the name of God, what is going on?
There is no God, Olivia, if there was, He would have saved me, but He didn 't save me —
No, Helen saved me, Jesse saved me, Skyler saved me —
"Save me!" Olivia screamed, and she bolted up in bed, her heart exploding in her chest.
The room was empty and still.
Did I fall asleep? Did I finally fall asleep and I didn 't even know it?
She stood for a moment, swaying, by the bed, her hand automatically reaching for her thigh. For some reason it felt more sensitive this morning, and she moved her leg out cautiously. Dizzy. . . Vm so dizzy . . .
She reached for her clothes on the chair and then she froze, her hand in midair.
The clothes were dry. Dry and clean.
But that can 7 be —/ was wearing them last night —/ had them on when I went to the cabin — when I went with Helen —
She dressed hurriedly, examining each piece as she put it on. Same skirt. Same blouse. Same flimsy material. Someone must have come in while I slept. . . only I didn f t sleep . . . did I?
She leaned into the mirror and inspected her skin. Traces of dried mud . . .
That proved it, then. She had tried to wipe all the mud off last night with her wet clothes. That proved she had been to the cabin.
But there are always traces of dirt I manage to miss when I clean off at the washstand at night. . .
Deeply disturbed, Olivia went straight downstairs to look for Helen. She searched casually through all the rooms off the hallway, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. The dining room was empty when Olivia finally went in. She stared at the fat links of greasy sausage and put her plate back down, feeling nauseated.
"Now how do you expect to stay nice and healthy if you eat like that?"
She hadn't heard Skyler come in, and she jumped as
he slipped up behind her. He kicked out a chair with one foot, lightly dropped into it, then folded his hands together on the tablecloth and watched her complacently, his smile lurking just below the surface. That was you I saw last night in the cabin . . . wasn't it, Skyler?
"We have a lot of work ahead of us." He stretched himself, long and languorous. "And it's such a perfect day to do it, don't you agree?"
Olivia met his eyes steadily. "Have you seen Helen?"
Skyler looked politely blank. "Well, she's always lurking around somewhere, isn't she? Listening through keyholes? Peeking through cracks? Such a bad ... bad .. . habit."
Olivia's heart quickened, but she forced herself to seem unconcerned. "I just wanted to ask her—about washing my clothes."
She could feel his eyes going over her, as if there were no clothes at all between the two of them. The wet sounds . . . sucking sounds . . .
"You can give them to me," Skyler said. "I'll take care of it."
"That's not what I meant. I meant... to see if she had washed them. Already."
"Why, Olivia, I do believe you're blushing. Still so modest," he scolded gently, "and after all we've been through together."
"Shouldn't we just go?" She stood up, confusion, repulsion, fear all coursing through her at once— it was real wasn't it —/ was there, wasn't I — and you were there, too, Skyler — you andMathilde and Jesse — only I can't remember what you said anymore —/ don't understand what you meant —
She looked into Skyler's eyes. A curious weakness
spread through her. Her pulse raced at twice its normal speed, and he smiled as if he knew.
He stretched himself to his full height, opened the door, and made a sweeping bow.
"After you."
There wasn't time now to look for Helen. Distraught, Olivia followed Skyler through the gardens, her thoughts as gloomy as the weather. The air was swollen with dampness, thick with the suffocating scent of flowers, as if the humidity had squeezed out all their perfume, then tainted it with mold. The statues wept, the benches moldered away, and the sundials kept no time. She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to steel herself for what was coming.
Even then she wasn't prepared. The sight of all those dripping graves sinking into the soggy earth depressed her even more. The air had a putrid stench to it. Skyler leaned down and dislodged something from the mud, and to Olivia's horror she saw him hold up a decomposed bone and pitch it into the weeds. I can't do this, she thought— I'll go mad, completely and totally mad, if I have to look at this another minute —
She saw one of the shovels propped against a tree, its blade wedged into the soft ground.
She saw Skyler leaning over a tomb, his back to her, his head down.
Olivia stared at the shovel. At the blade. It had a pointed edge. It looked sharp.
Slowly she swung her eyes back to Skyler.
He was looking right at her.
Smiling.
"Do it," he said. "I dare you."
Olivia turned away and leaned weakly against a
tree. It was steamy hot, and her clothes pulled and clung. Reluctantly she glanced back at Skyler. He was busy working again, bent close to the ground, and his arms were smeared with mud up to his elbows.
She watched his hands, his quick, strong fingers pulling stubborn weeds from the cracks, hands at home with the earth and the mud and the unpleasant things that had to be done . . . wet sounds . . . sucking sounds . . . "Take care of her". . . "I'm coming. . . I'm here. . ."
She walked casually over to the pile of tools beneath the tree. She glanced back at Skyler but he didn't look up. She picked up the garden shears and stuck them in her waistband. She pulled her blouse out over them.
Skyler paused. She could see his hands tangled in a clump of weeds. His muscles tensed, and the weeds yielded.
"What are you standing around for?" Skyler growled. "Find yourself something to do."
She felt a twinge of panic. She wondered if he'd seen her pick up the shears.
"Work on the mausoleum," he said. "It's the most important."
Olivia stared at it. She remembered the storm . . . the screams ... the cries for help . . .
Maybe I dreamed those, too . . .
But no — I'm not the one who imagines things . . . that's Mama ... she's the one who sees things that aren't ever there — the demons—the devils — the b
ad, bad things coming after her —
"Doesn't it bother you," Olivia mumbled, "working here? Working here with all these dead things?"
There was a long silence. Skyler kept his back to her.
"Why should it?" he said at last.
"Because it's so horrible. Can't you feel it? The smell that only death can have. The way it looks— only death can look like this."
He made a sound deep in his throat. "What about the taste that only death can taste like?"
"I wouldn't know," Olivia said coldly.
She didn't actually see him move. It was more that she sensed his shoulders stiffening . . . locking. There was a pause, and then his short, harsh laugh.
"Then you don't know too much about death at all, do you?"
"Maybe you'd be surprised," Olivia said.
"I seriously doubt it."
He jammed his trowel hard into the ground, then turned around slowly. He held up his hands, each one dangling half of a fat, writhing slug.
"Oops," he said softly, that smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "How could I have been so careless?"
Whirling away from him, Olivia went to the far side of the cemetery and began ripping out weeds with a vengeance. She could hear Skyler at the opposite end, repairing some of the damaged tombs, but she didn't look at him. The graveyard grew hotter and steamier. Bending over a particularly stubborn vine, she gritted her teeth and pulled, and as it gave without warning, she tumbled onto her back, only to look up into Skyler's face as he towered over her.
He was staring at her intently, green eyes narrowed.
Wet . . . sucking. . . moans . . . they were real. . . they were real —
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hair had come loose, and her hands trembled as she brushed it back from her forehead. For a moment she thought he was
Richie Tankersley Cnsick
going to say something, but he stepped over her and moved away. She saw him head off several feet between a row of tombs, and she picked herself up, brushing the mud off as best she could. She was covered with insect stings and mosquito bites, sweating and prickly and hot.
Skyler pulled off his shirt. He wiped it across his face . . . down his arms. He tossed it into the grass.
"Why are you staying here?" he asked.
Olivia straightened her clothes.
"Why not?" she shrugged. "It's as good a place as any to work. Why do you stay here?"
His eyes narrowed again, yet his face was carefully composed.
"I have to," he said simply.
He took a step toward her. He stopped.
"It's where I belong, you see." His voice sank, a deep, hoarse whisper in his throat. "Have you ever felt that way, Olivia? That you belong to something? That you can never get away from it—no matter how hard you run—or where you run—because it's meant to be just. . . that. . . way?"
She couldn't tear free of his eyes. The cemetery was closing in on her in great pulsing waves of unbearable heat.
"Take care of her" — moans . . . wet . . .
"You know why you really stay. Don't you, Olivia?"
And he was closer now, walking so slowly that he didn't seem to be moving at all, pinning her with his calm, knowing stare. She felt her heart begin to race—furiously, violently—and she couldn't move, couldn't back away from him—
"Because one of these times . . . you're mine^
Skyler stopped in front of her. His eyes went slowly, deliberately from her head to her feet, and a muscle
clenched tightly in his jaw. Sweat trickled down his bare chest.
"Haven't you ever wondered"—his voice was low and dangerous—"just why there aren't any rats in this cemetery?"
His green eyes glittered. He leaned in close to her throat.
"Because I eat them," he whispered.
And in his cold calculating eyes, Olivia saw what he was going to do.
"No!" she screamed.
He shoved her to the ground, pinning her body with his own, and though she fought and kicked, he held her as easily as a trapped bird. She could feel her skirt around her waist, his lean body on her bare legs, and as she tried to cover herself, his lips traced a path of fire down her neck and over her breasts, and his mouth began to open . . .
Writhing beneath him, Olivia tried desperately to reach the shears she had hidden, but Skyler caught her hands again and twisted them behind her. Her back arched helplessly, her breath coming in quick, short gasps. His strength was terrifying and effortless, and as she tried to scream again, his mouth drank in her cries, her very breath, his hands exploring her, sliding between her thighs, beneath her hips, lifting her up, hard, hard into himself—
"No . . . no . . ." Olivia moaned, screams turned to whispers, ground wet beneath her back, grass wet between her legs, his lips, his tongue, the dripping wet heat. "No . . . Skyler . . ."
"Skyler, let her go!" The voice shouted, and through a pounding haze Olivia saw the figure standing at the edge of the cemetery, saw Jesse standing there, his gaze sad and furious all at once.
Skyler swore violently and rolled off, and as he stood there trembling, Olivia's hands fumbled weakly at her skirt.
"Get out of here!" Skyler warned. "This doesn't have anything to do with you!"
"Leave her alone," Jesse said calmly. "I mean it."
And her fingers closed around the garden shears, even as Skyler's hands closed around her arms, jerking her to her feet, dragging her toward the mausoleum. Her eyes swept the enclosure but Jesse wasn't there anymore, not anywhere, just the graves and the trees and the moss fanning restlessly, the warm sultry breeze blowing all the dreams far, far away . . .
And she seemed to have no strength, no will at all, stumbling along between the rotting slabs and falling up the marble steps, no no, not the mausoleum, what are you doing, what are you doing to me —
"I'm not finished with you," Skyler growled, and the gate was open, the sound of a key in a lock, and Olivia's hand gripping, lifting, thrusting—
She heard him cry out.
She saw him stagger backward, his hand groping absently for the handle protruding from his stomach.
She saw the gush of blood down his front, pouring down, down between his legs . . .
And he looked so surprised, Olivia thought, so surprised and rather amused that she'd actually done it, that she'd actually done what she'd said she would.
And then Skyler began to laugh.
To Olivia's horror he threw back his head and laughed and laughed, the deep hoarse sound rattling in his throat, echoing on and on through the rotting graves where no one else could hear.
His breath caught abruptly.
It sounded like a sob.
Without warning the door of the tomb crashed open.
Olivia felt the rush of dank air as Skyler flung her inside.
"Skyler!" she shrieked.
But there was only the door groaning shut as the last sliver of daylight disappeared.
more. The air was stagnant with decay, and she wondered how long it had been since something living had disturbed it. She was afraid to put out her hands, afraid of what might be next to her in the dark. She crouched there and drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them and rocked back and forth . . . back and forth . . .
/ killed him. I said I would, and I did.
Again she saw Skyler's eyes . . . their quick flash of agony, their stunned disbelief.
She heard Skyler's laugh, hanging faintly in the still, still air . . . staying behind to keep her company.
She could hear it as if he were holding her again, as if he were pinning her there in the blackness . . . the husky sound of it, shivering through her veins and down her spine and into the cold, damp floor.
And it was beneath her now, and around her, vibrating the air, slithering into her mind . . .
Only it wasn't Skyler's laugh anymore, it wasn't Skyler's laugh getting louder and louder, quivering in the dark, restlessly stirring the long-sleepi
ng dead.
It was the rumble of thunder.
It was the murmur of voices.
"Who's there!" Olivia cried, and as her frightened eyes peered off into the blackness, she could actually see it beginning to swirl and dissolve, fading to a soft, sheer gray. The mausoleum seemed to rouse itself, shift itself, coming into hazy focus . . . walls of sealed openings with the faded names of the dead . . . huge stone vaults crumbling upon the floor . . .
Someone was in here with her.
She knew it as certainly as her heart bursting in her chest, as the scream exploding in her brain— let me out let me out let me out —
The grayness began to lighten even more. She could
see long, wavy shadows along the far walls, rippling in time to the thunder, exploding in pale bursts of lightning, and then she realized they were human shadows—reaching from the narrow space of floor between the vaults, weaving and swaying and pulsing, whispering in urgent tones . . .
Olivia stared, entranced, scarcely even noticing as a vague shape pulled out of the darkness beside her. Sensing a movement at her shoulder, she turned her head to see someone materializing from the swirling grayness of the locked doorway, and as her lips parted in a soundless cry, she saw the figure hesitate and draw the immediate shadows around itself like a cloak.
"Mathilde," she breathed. "Mathilde . . . what are you doing . . ."
But Mathilde didn't seem to hear.
She moved swiftly past Olivia into the room, and then she stopped, lifting her arms and sweeping more of the darkness away.
Olivia could see her, could see her clearly, Mathilde's long, flowing skirt, Mathilde's low-hanging blouse, she could see Mathilde's light brown skin and her exotic eyes gleaming and her black, black hair rippling in waves down her back. And yet, as Olivia continued to watch, Mathilde seemed strangely diaphanous, her lithe body blending with the softly flowing air, and Olivia could see the wall behind her and also through her, the mist swirling within her, everything separate, yet touching and whole.
Olivia felt powerless to look away, and she wondered why Mathilde wasn't answering, why she didn't even seem to be aware of Olivia's presence there by the door. But the door's still closed . . . the door's still locked . . . how did she get in . . . Olivia opened her
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