Sawkill Girls

by Claire Legrand

  Marion shook her head, now emitting a stream of increasingly loud whimpers.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Peter demanded.

  “I’m getting help,” said Quinn, hurrying away toward the police station.

  Grayson whispered to Zoey, “What do we do?”

  “I have no clue.” Zoey tugged on Marion’s shoulders. What had even happened, to trigger this? She had been fine, until—

  The world slowed, sharp and clear, as the answer came to her.

  Marion had been fine, upright, and healthy—until Val arrived.

  “Make it stop.” Marion clutched Zoey’s hands to her heart, her eyes wide, her neck straining. “Please, Zoey.”

  Zoey shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know how. Come on, I’ll take you home—”

  “Please! It’s ripping me apart!”

  “Zoey?” Val knelt beside them, her voice surprisingly soft. “How can I help?”

  And Zoey felt such a wave of electric rage crest within her that she actually thought for a second: If I push off the ground, I’ll rocket up into the stars.

  Instead, she pivoted around on her heel and pushed Val away from Marion.

  Hard.

  Harder than she’d meant to.

  Harder than she’d thought possible.

  The instant her hand came into contact with Val’s chest, blazing energy jolted up from the ground through Zoey’s skinny legs to her angry-coiled belly to the hot flat of her palm.

  And Val flew—flew—back from them, like she’d been caught in a shock wave. She skidded twenty feet away, past the picnic tables and into the flower bed, flattening a clump of pale snapdragons.

  She slumped there in her leggings and hiking boots, bringing a shaky hand to her head. She met Zoey’s gaze with wide, bright eyes.

  Peter and John stood in shocked silence.

  Grayson touched Zoey’s elbow gently, like he was checking to make sure she was real, that this entire impossible moment was real.

  “Zoey?” Val whispered, like a hurt child.

  Zoey’s eyes filled with tears in a hot, blinding second. She tugged Marion to her feet. Grayson helped, then slung Marion’s right arm over his shoulder. With a quiet moan, Marion turned her cheek into Grayson’s chest.

  Meanwhile, Peter hurried to Val and was helping her sit up. He shot an ugly glare at Zoey. “You’ve got three seconds to get out of here before I come for you, Harlow.”

  “No,” said Val, staring after them with an expression Zoey couldn’t decipher. “It’s all right. Let them go.”

  Zoey didn’t need to be told twice. She turned, Grayson following, and helped Marion stumble up the hill to the road. As they climbed, the echo of Val’s voice lingered against the nape of Zoey’s neck, following them home like a pair of curious eyes.

  THE ROCK HAD TO MOVE QUICKLY.

  The beast’s hunger was climbing once more, and faster than the Rock, even with its veins full of eons, felt equipped to combat.

  The Rock allowed itself a moment of despair: Would this world to which they had all been born ever be free of war?

  Then the Rock remembered it was no longer alone:

  First one girl, and now two.

  A pair of daughters, bright and blazing.

  Daughters who listened. Daughters with shoulders strong enough, with hearts soft enough, to bear the long weight of battle.

  The Rock would need one more.

  A beginning, a middle, and an end.

  Marion

  The Promise

  “I think Val has a crush on me,” Marion said quietly. She sat on Zoey’s bed, sandwiched between Zoey and the wall, a cup of water clutched in her hands.

  Zoey faced away from her, holding a wooden baseball bat Grayson had found in his truck, and staring down Marion’s bedroom door like she was convinced it would, at any moment, admit their doom.

  But at Marion’s words, she turned around with eyebrows raised. “Excuse me, what now?”

  “I mean . . .” Marion flushed. It did sound ludicrous—a goddess crushing on a plain-faced peasant? “I guess I could be wrong, but the other night, we took a walk on the cliffs beside Kingshead, and the way she talked to me and looked at me made me wonder.” Marion took a sip of water. “Is Val gay? Do you know?”

  “Ever since I’ve known her she’s been dating some empty-headed Sawkill boy,” Zoey replied. “So, if she’s gay, maybe she doesn’t know it yet, or she’s in denial. Or maybe she’s bi. Or maybe,” said Zoey, her voice coming out slightly strained, “instead of pondering Val’s sexuality, we could talk about how thirty minutes ago I went Jean Grey on her ass.”

  They fell silent, listening to the sounds of Grayson clattering around in Zoey’s kitchen downstairs. It was his thing, Zoey had explained. When Grayson gets stressed, he bakes. Or cleans. Or both.

  “What did it feel like?” Marion asked at last. “When you . . .” She mimed what Zoey had done, thrusting out her hand with her palm flat and rigid.

  “Energy shot up from the ground and into my body,” Zoey said tightly. “It was like every jolt of adrenaline I’ve ever felt in my life, all bundled up into one second. My heart’s still pounding. Jesus.”

  Marion glanced at Zoey, noticed her bright eyes, and gently nudged her knee. “It was pretty awesome.”

  Zoey laughed, wiping a shaky hand across her face. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

  “When Thora talked about the Collector, did she ever talk about girls who could do . . . that?” Marion asked.

  “Or girls who heard voices and weird noises?”

  Marion flinched. “Yeah. That, too.”

  “No. Not that I remember. They were just monster stories. Nothing about superhero girls in them. Just . . . just missing girls.”

  After a long moment, Marion asked quietly, “How many girls?”

  “Twenty-three,” Zoey answered at once.

  “And none of them were ever found?”

  Zoey hesitated. “No. But that doesn’t mean—”

  Marion waved her silent with one hand and clutched her starfish necklace with the other, her eyes filling up fast. “Over how many years?”

  “I’ve looked back about a hundred and fifty years. It gets harder to find stuff earlier than that.”

  “I guess twenty-three girls over one hundred and fifty years isn’t . . . too bad? That’s like, what, one girl every six or seven years?”

  “Yeah,” Zoey said flatly. “Not too bad.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  Marion didn’t feel entirely convinced.

  She closed her eyes, took another sip of water, and listened to the sounds of Zoey’s breathing. Her own breathing felt erratic, thin; it was difficult to sit still beside the furious tension emanating off Zoey’s tiny hunched body.

  When Marion opened her eyes, she saw one of the tiny moths with the black-eyed wings peel itself off the ceiling and alight on the black-and-orange mass of Zoey’s hair. It perched there, wings moving in rhythm with Zoey’s breathing.

  Its little moth whispers came to Marion like the rustle of meadow grasses. She knew what it was trying to tell her: Safe.

  “I know,” she told it, and squeezed her eyes shut, because it was humiliating and terrifying to be talking to a moth and absolutely believing it could hear her.

  “What?”

  Marion cracked open her eyes. The moth was gone. Zoey was glancing back at her. “What’d you say?” she repeated.

  “Do you remember the . . . not-Marion?”

  Zoey shifted, hugging herself. “Yeah.”

  “I see these moths.” Marion ran a hand through her hair. “There were hundreds of them, when I woke up and found Charlotte gone. Maybe thousands. I think . . . I think they’re trying to talk to me.”

  Zoey watched her, wide-eyed. “Like the bone cry?”

  Marion nodded slowly. “Maybe they’re related, but I have no clue what that means or why, or what to do, or why these things are happening to us and no one else. But . . .” Marion took a
deep breath and pressed on before she could talk herself out of it. “I do think I can get us some answers. Maybe about the moths and the not-Marion. Maybe about Charlotte and Thora, too.”

  “How are you going to do that, exactly?”

  Marion looked Zoey straight in the eye. “Val. I’ll get close to her, spend time with her. If she doesn’t have a crush on me, fine, I’ll just insist upon our friendship until it happens. She won’t turn me away, she’ll feel too sorry for me to do that. Or if she doesn’t feel sorry for me, she’ll feel like she has to at least act like it. But if she does have a crush on me . . .”

  Marion hesitated. A cluster of images flashed through her brain: Val’s lovely clear skin, her full mouth, her long, lean runner’s build, how warm she felt pressed next to Marion on the cliffside bench.

  “What,” said Zoey, “you’ll seduce her or something?”

  Cheeks burning, Marion squared her jaw. “If it’ll get us answers, then yes.”

  Zoey blew out a breath. “You could maybe get access to rooms at Kingshead that no one else knows about.”

  “And maybe find out about that room underneath the library.”

  “And also get to know her mom, and fish around for information.” Zoey shook her head, glanced out the window. “That woman has got to have like a hundred sketchy dealings going on at any given moment. You don’t get to be that rich by being a good person.”

  Suddenly, Marion remembered Val’s words: I know how it feels, to be trapped like that.

  “Based on the conversation I had with Val the other night,” Marion said slowly, “I wonder if Ms. Mortimer is up to something terrible, and Val’s maybe involved but doesn’t want to be.”

  Zoey snorted. “Val is seventeen years old. If she’s caught up in something terrible, she’s old enough to do something about it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s entirely fair—”

  “Don’t feel sorry for her.” Zoey tore her eyes from the window to glare at Marion. “If you’re going to do this, you have to promise me that: Don’t let her fool you. Don’t let her change you.”

  Marion bristled slightly. “Nobody can change me without my consent.”

  “That’s what Thora always said, too,” Zoey replied, her voice thick, “and look what happened to her.”

  For a long time, neither of them spoke. Marion felt like her thoughts were inching dangerously close to a precipice past which lay an abyss that howled only one word: Charlotte’s name.

  She sniffled, blinked her eyes, wiped her face—then felt the mattress dip as Zoey scooted close and hooked her arm through Marion’s.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful,” Zoey whispered fiercely. “I know you miss your sister, but she wouldn’t want you to get hurt, too.”

  What a delight it was, to have been protected by Zoey twice over, and to now feel buoyed by the warmth of Zoey’s strong body next to hers. To feel safe, and worried-after, and even a little bit treasured—not for the comfort she could provide, but for the very fact of her existence. To feel that Marion the grave little mountain had, at least for a time, another mountain to lean against.

  Without Zoey, Marion would have bashed her skull open on Lucy Mortimer’s doors.

  Without Zoey, the world would cave in.

  With Zoey, though, maybe—maybe—the world would keep spinning.

  Marion whispered, “I promise,” crooked her pinkie finger over Zoey’s, and squeezed.

  Zoey

  The Second

  The next morning, Zoey awoke to an empty house and a note pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet:

  Zo—

  Back for lunch at noon. Do dishes, please, and start a load of towels.

  Love,

  Dad

  Zoey crumpled the note in her hand.

  Sure, she’d wash the dishes.

  Then she was going to snoop.

  If Marion could scheme and seduce, then Zoey could get off her ass and find that damn book.

  And, maybe, experiment with whatever new talent for throwing heavy objects she apparently possessed?

  She shook her head. Focus, Zoey.

  After she started the dishwasher, she brought the trash to the garbage can by the fence, opened the lid, and dropped the bag inside. She stood there, hands on hips, breathing just a little bit hard. She’d slept terribly and hadn’t managed to stomach breakfast. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt her palm slam against Val’s chest. She saw Val skidding into the flowers, and the horrified stares of John and Peter.

  “Whatever.” Zoey shook out her body, her fingers and toes. “Whatever.”

  It was fine. Everything was fine.

  And it would be better once she had that book in her hands.

  Her phone beeped. A text from Grayson:

  You all right, Zo?

  Zoey replied:

  Fine.

  Another text came almost immediately, but Zoey ignored it.

  She stomped through the yard, back to the house. She stewed in the kitchen until the towels were done, then threw them in the dryer, then stewed some more until they were dry, then folded them, then took the stack that belonged to her father into his bathroom and placed them in the proper cabinet.

  And then, as she passed back through his bedroom, thinking about where to begin her search, she saw that the stack of books her father kept on his dresser had fallen over—the books he was reading, the books he would soon begin to read. A cascade of books across the top of the dresser, and one spine-up on the floor next to the wall.

  That was an odd thing, given her father’s irritating tidiness. But then, it was an odd time on Sawkill, and perhaps not even Ed Harlow had wanted to stop and clean up his books on the way to search for a missing girl.

  Zoey straightened the books on the dresser, then leaned down to pick up the fallen one. Glanced to the right on her way back up. Froze.

  Leaned slowly back down.

  In the chasm between the dresser and the wall, there was a door. A door cut into the wall, fastened shut with a tiny silver combination lock.

  Zoey set the book on the dresser and stood there for a moment. Maybe it was like the not-Marion. Maybe it was a not-door. She’d look again, and it would be gone.

  She held her breath. She looked again.

  No, still there—a door, hidden behind a dresser Zoey wasn’t sure she could move. She stood there staring at it, wiggling her fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to summon up the same furious, electric sensation she’d experienced behind the police station.

  Come on, come on, she muttered—half-ready for the return of that incredible strength, half-dreading it. Some dresser-shoving power would come in real handy right about now.

  But her arms, her hands, her skin all remained disappointingly mortal.

  She sighed and glared at the ceiling. Whatever strength had surfaced before, it apparently was no longer interested in helping her. Maybe it had been like one of those situations when a mother, in a fit of maternal fury, lifts up a car to save her baby? Was Zoey the mother and Marion the baby?

  She shook her head. Focus.

  She had to move the dresser. She had to. She checked her phone: eleven thirty, and a text from Grayson, and another from Marion. Her father would be home at noon.

  She ignored the texts, slipping her phone into her pocket.

  She considered emptying everything from the drawers; the dresser would be easier to move. But she doubted her ability to put everything back in its place, and her father would notice.

  Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe she’d confront his sorry ass the moment he walked in the door.

  But . . . just in case.

  With the dresser full, it took her a solid five minutes to move it away from the wall. She crouched in front of the door, stared at the combination lock. Four numbers.

  She tried his birthday. Her birthday. Her mom’s birthday. Her grandparents’ birthdays. Every permutation of the numbers she could think of. She tried the code that locked his p
hone, the code that locked her phone. The code for the garage door. His ATM pin code, which she’d learned while spying on him when she was eleven. He’d never changed it.

  She glanced at her phone: 11:38.

  “Come on.” She slapped her hand against the wall.

  Then it hit her.

  Shaking a little, she entered the numbers on the lock:

  9-6-3-9.

  Z-O-E-Y.

  Surely not?

  The lock clicked open.

  With a tiny laugh, Zoey pulled on the latch. The door opened to reveal a wooden staircase leading down into darkness.

  Shaking a little more now, she called Marion, and didn’t move until she heard Marion’s voice: “Hey, Zoey—”

  “Yeah, hi. Listen.” Zoey sat on the edge of the threshold and swung her legs through. Her feet met the stairs. “I found a secret room in my dad’s bedroom, and I’m going inside.”

  Silence. Then Marion said, “What the hell?”

  “My thoughts exactly. Will you stay on the phone with me? In case . . . I don’t even know.” She laughed, feeling her way down the alarmingly steep stairs. No fancy light bulbs in this secret passageway. Dark flat carpet lined the walls. Zoey felt like she was climbing into the throat of a beast.

  “I’m right here,” came Marion’s voice. “Keep talking. Tell me what you see.”

  “I’m putting you on speaker, FYI. I need the flashlight.”

  “What do you see?”

  “A bunch of stairs.” Zoey glanced back over her shoulder, at the dim square of her father’s bedroom. “I guess my house has a basement?”

  She followed the bobbing light from her phone, then hit the bottom stair. The floor was dirt, covered with loose wooden planks. The air felt damp, like after a soft rain.

  She searched the room—packs of bottled water, boxes of supplies, a first aid kit.

  Guns, hanging from racks on the wall.

  “Cool, cool,” said Zoey, sounding a little shrill. “My dad is a secret survivalist, I guess?”

  “What are you seeing?”

  “Water, supplies, some automatic rifles, I think? You know. Typical bunker stuff.” Zoey crept carefully around the room, her heart pounding in her ears. “Can I just say that I’m really disturbed by the number of secret rooms on this island?”