by Norah Wilson
“To think I felt sorry for them for just trying to survive.” He lifted his bottle in a salute. “Just like the pussy you always said I was, huh, Seth?” He took another slug of vodka and grimaced.
Brooke grimaced too, but not in sympathy over the vodka burn. She’d been here that night. The night Seth died. And she’d been alone, something she hadn’t told a single soul.
She’d been snooping around Seth’s bedroom window when she’d heard the boys’ raised voices coming from the stable. She hadn’t been close enough to make out the words, not with all the stamping and shrilling the horses were doing. Of course she’d moved closer, but the argument had ended before she could get the drift of it. Then Bryce had stormed out of the stables and gone back to the house.
“It’s my fault. All my fault.” Bryce’s slurred words drew her back again. “If I hadn’t fought with you, tried to stop you, we wouldn’t have spooked those Heller-ruined horses. You’d still be here.” He took another drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bitches. Lying bitches!”
The horses grew more and more frantic, but Bryce seemed oblivious. He was probably reliving Seth’s death, she realized, hearing the horses’ agitation as a horrifying soundtrack.
“If I’d just let you go after them, you’d still be here and they’d be dead.”
Bryce swiped at his face, and Brooke realized he was crying. Dammit. Much as she’d had nothing but hostility for the guy, she felt terrible watching his grief. Then he drew himself up and she could see the hardening in him right before her eyes. His next words confirmed it.
“Well, I can’t bring you back, Seth. But I can bring those Hellers down. I swear I’ll do it. I’ll stake them out. Every move they make, I’ll be watching. And when they take to the sky, I’ll be waiting for them. And if I’m right…if I’m right about Maryanne…I’ll be waiting for her too! I’ll find out…one way or another.”
Oh, God, he knew! He totally knew everything!
Bryce put the vodka bottle down and went around the desk. As Brooke watched, he started putting the shell reloader to work.
Shit. She had to tell the others!
Brooke shot up and away, racing for home faster than she’d ever soared.
The moment she cast back in, she leapt up. Her heart was banging so hard in her chest, she had to pause a moment to catch her breath. Only the discipline they’d learned in the last few months allowed her to descend the attic steps quietly, and then the main flight of stairs. She turned the lock on the front door and slipped outside, leaving the door unlocked. Her feet silent in the snow, she raced to retrieve her cold car. She parked it in the lot then let herself back into the house. Only then did she climb the stairs to the room she shared with Alex and Brooke.
Bursting to share what she’d found out, she let herself into the room. But the bedroom was in darkness, and she knew they were asleep just from the quality of their breathing.
Argh! No way could she sleep without sharing this information.
She moved first to Maryanne’s bed, directly opposite. As she reached for Maryanne’s shoulder to shake it, she remembered her injury. She paused, and in that moment it occurred to her that she should let Maryanne sleep. Alex too. It might be the last peaceful sleep they ever had at Harvell.
She dropped her keys on the dresser, stripped off her clothes, pulled on her PJs, and crawled into bed to stare at the ceiling. Sleep claimed her much quicker than she’d have thought possible, but her dreams were not restful.
In her dreams, Bryce waited outside Harvell House in the dark with his shotgun.
Chapter 28
How Dare She?
Maryanne
Maryanne was awake.
Her first impulse when Brooke had come into the room was to jump up, snap on the light, and demand to know where the hell she’d been. That seemed to be almost a mantra in this room these days. Of course she suspected—oh geez, she knew—where Brooke had been tonight. Certainly not at the bar, or at least not longer than she’d needed to be to make that call. As the night had worn on, Maryanne had grown all the more certain of it, although she’d still been too sore to climb up to the attic to check. She might have asked Alex to do it, but Alex had crashed early, sleeping like the dead.
Brooke had cast out alone, in defiance of the pact they’d made. And Maryanne would bet her last dollar where Brooke had gone—straight to the Walker farm.
Leaping up to confront Brooke now would only wake Alex and possibly draw attention from other quarters in the silent house. So with jaw-clenching restraint, Maryanne pretended to be sleeping as Brooke tossed her keys on the dresser. She kept her breathing even when Brooke approached her. Even with her eyes closed, Maryanne could feel Brooke’s looming presence over her, and for a moment, she was certain Brooke was going to shake her shoulder to waken her. But then she retreated, obviously deciding that whatever was on her mind could wait until morning.
Maryanne thought about rolling over and pretending to wake before Brooke got settled. Of course, if she were honest with herself, she’d admit she didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, and it had nothing to do with waking Alex.
Again, the phone vibrated at her side under the covers. Contrary to the lie Alex had given Dani, Maryanne’s phone was working fine. She’d never kept it so close in all her life as she had in the last two days. But despite the number of calls, it was never a local number—never the local number she hoped for. Never Bryce.
Was he still thinking he’d go on with the charade of having gone to the game? Surely not. It was all over Mansbridge what had happened on Friday night at the Walker place. He would have to know that. Was he waiting for Maryanne to slip up? Or to outright admit what he surely at least suspected—that she was a caster? Or a Heller, as he called them—a soul stealing she-devil from hell?
Under the cover of too many blankets, Maryanne looked at the incoming call. It wasn’t Bryce’s number. It was her parents’ number in Burlington. With a stab of guilt, she let it go to voice mail. Again.
Maryanne had pretty much stopped answering her parents’ calls when she’d come back after Christmas. Lately even emails were too much for her to bear, and she deleted almost every single one without ever opening them. Every few days—usually in the middle of the night—she would send a text message to either her father or mother. Something stupidly quick and to the point: I’m fine. Will call later. Though she really wasn’t, and she never did.
She just couldn’t pretend anymore to her parents that everything was all right, or at least getting better. That she was innocent in the death of their baby. Not with Jason haunting her. She heard his voice almost all the time now, even though she didn’t let on to the other girls. Sometimes it was just a whisper, other times a bone-chilling scream. Maryanne’s parents didn’t know that she was responsible for their little boy’s death. That while his life had strangled away on the blind cords, and he’d cried out to her, she’d ignored him. Ignored that niggle in the back of her mind that something was wrong.
Poor Jason. He had to have been terrified, and he’d died crying her name. Me-anne, Me-anne, Me-anne. Now, after his death, his spirit came to haunt her. It was almost too much for her to bear. And she knew she couldn’t stand to see the torment on her parents’ faces. Hear it in their voices now, or see it in their words ever again. She just couldn’t. It had been hard enough at Christmas; it was impossible now.
Maybe she’d never be able to look into their grief again, knowing what she’d done. Maybe she’d never go home again. Even as the cell buzzed one final time before going to the message system, she couldn’t answer it.
She damn well could answer Bryce’s call, though—if he bothered to call her.
It was driving her crazy, trying to figure out how much he knew or didn’t know. If he cared for her still. At all.
She hadn’t a clue about any of it.
Brooke groaned in her sleep. Yes, in her sleep! That girl could drop off like a stone as soon as her head hit
the pillow.
Maryanne, on the other hand, knew she would not sleep a wink tonight. She’d been running on such a sleep deficit lately that she’d napped that afternoon. Her intended half hour nap had turned into a two hour snooze. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but not so much now.
Up, awake, and just lying here. Wondering about Bryce. Worrying about everything. Still pissed off at Brooke.
Pissed off enough to take Brooke’s car?
Quietly, Maryanne threw back the covers. The motion made her shoulder scream, but not quite as much as earlier today. At least she could lift her arm a bit now. Gritting her teeth, she slipped out of bed. She’d lived in sweats all weekend while she’d coddled her shoulder, and Alex had helped Maryanne into fresh ones last night after her shower. She was grateful for that fact now. It meant she didn’t have to fumble around in the dark getting dressed.
She grabbed Brooke’s car keys off the dresser, shoved them into her pocket, and made her way quietly out of the bedroom.
She was down the stairs in seconds. Her shoulder protested again as she slipped on her coat and sneakers, but it was just a sharp twinge now, not the white-hot agony it had been. The grandfather clock in the living room started to bong out the time—midnight—but Maryanne slipped out the door of Harvell House before it had sounded even three times. She unlocked Brooke’s Intrepid and slid behind the wheel, closing the door as softly as she could.
Maryanne’s heart thudded faster at what she was about to do. Brooke would have a fit if she knew, both that Maryanne was taking the car and for where she was taking it.
“Well, too bad, Brooke,” Maryanne muttered.
Without further hesitation, she keyed the ignition and the engine purred to life. Ten minutes later, she was driving along the deserted Route 560.
Even as she watched the center line slide by in her headlights, Maryanne had to shake her head at her actions. What was she doing, heading over to see Bryce this time of night? After what had happened? She had to see him. Had to know what, if anything, he knew. And what, if anything, remained between them. On that thought, her hand went automatically to her pocket. Yes, the cell was still there. Still with no call or message from Bryce. But she’d bite the bullet—and bite back on her pride—and call him once she got to the Walker place. She’d ask him to come out and talk.
That was the plan.
Except as she swung into the Walkers’ driveway, she could see that every light in the house—every single one of them—blazed. Light poured from the windows out into the dark night, making the whole place seem alive. Savagely alive. Maryanne felt an inexplicable tinge of alarm. An alarm very much like what a dark caster would feel venturing into so much brightness.
She approached the house, her disquiet growing. Something must be very wrong.
She caught her breath. Maybe Bryce was more injured than anyone had known. What if he was really hurt?
She was now almost oblivious to the dull pain that throbbed in her chest and shoulder as she jogged toward the house. The motion-activated porch light shot on as she neared the front door, adding to the spotlight effect. Hannah and Howard Walker would think she was crazy arriving so late. Unless they weren’t home? And that suddenly seemed like the likely scenario as she heard the loud music pounding from inside.
Maryanne rang the doorbell. Twice, then a third time, but no one came. The music was obviously too loud. Or maybe he’d seen her approaching and was ignoring her.
“To heck with that,” she muttered. “I won’t let him ignore me.”
She banged on the door with her fist, but only once. It flew open. Whoever had come in last—almost certainly Bryce—hadn’t latched the door behind him.
“Bryce?” Maryanne stepped inside. “Bryce, are you home?” she shouted over the booming speakers. No one responded.
She bit her lip in indecision. Okay, she was here. She’d come all this way—did she dare go further? Before she could mouse out, Maryanne went looking for Bryce, not even bothering to kick her sneakers off or shrug off her coat. He had to be in the house somewhere.
She checked out the kitchen. It smelled of pizza and sure enough, the remnants of a half-burned pepperoni and cheese sat on the counter. That wasn’t what sent the tingle up Maryanne’s spine, though, as she stood there. It was the nearly-empty vodka bottle. Had Howard Walker drowned his sorrows again earlier this night? Oh that poor man! That poor family.
“Bryce?” Maryanne called out again as she made her way to the den. There was a fire in the fireplace. Not roaring, but not died down to embers either. Someone had been in here not too long ago. A DVD played on the television—an old Clint Eastwood western. It was muted but running. Even Hannah Walker’s small aquarium in the corner of the den was lit up with its little blue and yellow lights. It wasn’t just the lights that were turned on in this house—everything was!
Something was definitely wrong.
Maryanne’s knees were starting to feel like jelly as she made her way up the stairs. She went to Bryce’s room first. The bed was made, his hockey gear was piled in the corner, and the room was empty. Both bathroom doors were open and those rooms were empty too. She only poked her head into Seth’s room, not wanting to be ‘caught’ in there again after how pissed off Bryce had been the last time. But also not wanting to be with all the other memories in there. After knocking as loudly as she possibly could, Maryanne checked out what had to be the master bedroom. No sign of Bryce’s parents. As she stood there, she felt an odd niggle. It could have been the music’s pounding or the blaring lights, but there was a feeling there, as if someone was willing her to get out. She did.
Maryanne closed the door and stood in the hallway, staring down at the end of it. One room left. One she’d never been into. Its door stood ajar. She walked slowly down the hall, calling to Bryce once again, but again there was no answer back.
The door creaked as she pushed it wide open. Only then, when she heard the door’s squeak, did it strike her that the loud music had stopped downstairs, the CD having played through to the end. Surely if he were in the house, he could hear her now. Maryanne was about to call out one more time to Bryce, but she stopped herself as she looked inside this huge, well-lit room.
Maryanne felt places. She always had. This room was just as big and high-ceilinged as the master bedroom, but differently shaped. Oddly shaped. Not so much a length or width to it so much as a depth. The huge, old wooden furniture stood deep in the room, as if one had to make up their minds and purposefully stride to get to any piece of it. Despite its pleasing colors and spaciousness, there was nothing welcoming about the room that Ira Walker must have shared with his wife.
Maryanne walked into the room.
The bed was beautiful. Positively grand with high pillars on the corners of the bed frame that had probably supported a canopy at one time. There was a hand-stitched quilt on it, an intricate design of small flowers and lace that Maryanne couldn’t help but run her hands over. The quilt had to be old, but it felt crisp to the touch. It was definitely well cared for. At each side of the bed stood a small bedside table. One held only a well-worn Bible, or well-thumped, as Brooke would say. On the other stood three candles in delicate holders and an unpolished grey stone with a hole in the center, strung with a length of copper chain.
Her gaze moved to the lone framed picture on the nearest tall dresser. A man and a woman stood in what had to be the old gazebo at Heritage Park. Flowers in the foreground; trees in the back. His arm was around her, but awkwardly, as if someone had posed them for the picture, and she didn’t look too pleased about that either. Maryanne picked the picture up and sat down on the bed, feeling the heaviness of the solid silver frame in her hands.
Her pulse quickened as she stared at Ira Walker. Not just because he was the original Heller hunter—the one who’d been Connie’s tormentor for so many years, the first keeper of the journals devoted to how to bring them down, but because he looked so much like his grandson, Bryce. Uncannily so. Eve
n with the advanced years on the man, Maryanne could see it. The same facial structure, intense eyes, strong set to their stance. No wonder Connie had blurted Ira’s name when Bryce had stormed into Seth’s room last fall. No wonder she’d so been afraid. There was one difference, though—at least to Maryanne. There was an icy hardness in Ira Walker’s eyes. One that made her shiver just looking at the old photo.
She turned her attention to Ira’s wife—Bryce’s grandmother—and something lurched in her memory. She looked familiar too! But why? She’d died years ago, so Maryanne couldn’t have seen her around town. Still, she couldn’t shake the sensation that she’d seen this woman before.
Maryanne put the picture down on the bed beside her. She glanced around. There, in the corner! A chest. Why she hadn’t noticed it before was beyond her. It was old and ragged, almost mottled in its appearance, and therefore out of place in this elegantly furnished room. Yet, it did belong there. No, not just belonged. The trunk felt somehow like it owned the room. At that exact moment, that trunk owned Maryanne, too.
She had to know what was in it.
She was on the floor in front of it in seconds, running her hands over the lid. The initials V.W. were engraved in a small, tarnished plaque above the unlocked hasp. Maryanne opened the lid.
Under the bright overhead light, the trunk’s contents shone up at her like colorful diamonds. Or like sunlight on the river on a bright summer day.
Crystals. Her eyes adjusted to their brilliance. Heart pounding, she touched one of the stones and shivered. Then she started to explore deeper. The trunk appeared to be packed in layers of individual wooden boxes, none very big, and all but the top layers were covered with thin squares of gauze. The stones weren’t haphazardly placed. On the contrary, each little wooden nest held the same kind of stones. The layered and stacked boxes were perfectly carved for this trunk. Some held a few stones, some held many, and a few held just one.