Between the Spark and the Burn

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  I told him everything was going to be all right.

  I told him I loved him.

  I told him to never, ever, ever do that thing again, the thing that he had done with Anthony. He promised he wouldn’t. He promised me with his whole heart.

  ≈≈≈

  The wind screeched through the window and I jerked out of sleep.

  Raw and naked and not a stitch.

  Both of us.

  What had almost happened before, after the bully last summer, and again in the Lillian shack . . .

  The water sliding between us, over us, under us, pushing us together, Violet White and the Sea King, like in the story, except there was no story, not yet, no story of shacks and sailors and shanties and shipwrecks and ravens and wrists and seaweed and sand . . .

  It had almost happened again.

  River was tucked into my side and he was smiling in his sleep and he had no idea what he was doing or what was going on.

  And it was as I lay there, still as death, skin to skin with a mad Redding boy . . . that I put two and two together. That I connected the dots.

  “You need to be careful, girl.”

  It was the scar. That was the first thing. I’d seen it when he was sleeping in front of the fire after being in the sea. A scar on the left side of his chest, right over his heart. I’d thought it was a shadow until I’d run my finger over it. He’d opened his eyes, and something . . . flickered . . . inside them, and inside me. But then a moment later I’d forgotten all about it. Almost like I was meant to.

  “The Devil is holding your hand, girl.”

  The second thing.

  In the hallway, after I’d crawled out of Neely’s arms and was on my way to River’s . . . someone called out my name. I turned to find him standing outside his door, shivering in a fresh flurry of snow that blew in from a crack underneath one of the Hollow Miner’s windows.

  “Neely woke up,” I said.

  Finch nodded, and smiled.

  And then the smile disappeared.

  “So you’re going back to River.”

  “Neely asked me to,” I said. “River needs me more.”

  He held my gaze, and then nodded. Slowly. “Forget about River, and forget about Neely. What do you want, Vi? Who is it that you need?”

  I walked down the hall, right up to him. I put my hand on his heart, felt the pulse underneath. “You are so good. How did you get to be so good? My grandmother Freddie used to say that everyone has a little evil in them. But not you. Why is that?”

  He took my hand, and his eyes were clear and bright and true. “Being good is as easy as being bad. You just have to put your mind to it.”

  And I laughed, a small, soft laugh, and had warm feelings about him . . .

  Though something had seemed wrong, even at the time. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  The third thing.

  Freddie’s diary. Will becoming Freddie’s dead brother and then becoming Will again. And River, turning into my mother in the guesthouse kitchen . . .

  Pay attention, Vi. Don’t sink back into it, don’t let it in . . .

  I turned over, shifting slowly so I didn’t disturb River. I sat up, and pressed my toes into the cold, cold floor.

  “Edith, you have the Devil sleeping in your hotel. Did you know?”

  The storm beat against the windows and whined to be let in.

  “Vi, where are you going?” River whispered.

  “Nowhere,” I lied. “I’m just going to get a shot of cognac from the bar. I’ll be right back.”

  “Violet?”

  “Yeah?” I looked at him over my shoulder.

  “I love you.” River looked at me. Straight at me. Sane as sunshine. “I love you. I love you as certain obscure things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

  “That’s one of my favorite poems,” I said.

  And then I dressed, left the room, and walked down the hall.

  “Neely.” He sighed in his sleep, and didn’t move. I shook his shoulder, pressing my fingers into his soft, bare skin. How I hated to do it. He needed the sleep, damn it.

  Shut up, Violet. You don’t have a choice.

  I shook him again. I felt the ridge of his scar under my fingertips. “Neely, wake up. It’s important.”

  “What is it, Vi?” Neely yawned, and gave me a sleepy smile. “Did you hear the wolves howling again?” He reached out and pulled me down to the bed, sleepy, sleepy.

  I cuddled up into his arms and thought about just staying there and not saying anything about anything. Ever.

  “I need you,” I whispered, a few minutes later.

  There was a long pause. And then Neely sighed. “Is this about River?”

  I shook my head. I put my hand to his face, my fingers on his new bruise. “Can you get dressed?”

  Neely knew something was wrong. He’d woken up all the way now and the sleepy look was replaced with worry and strain. But he didn’t ask any questions. He just slipped on his clothes and followed me down the hall.

  We listened at the door.

  Silence. No talking, no sheets rustling.

  I didn’t knock.

  I turned the knob. Quiet, so quiet. Quiet as Poe and The Tell-Tale Heart and the very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep.

  I pushed open the door. Stepped one foot in, then another. I saw curly black hair lying next to red. Quiet, quiet, quiet, I walked over to them. Neely followed.

  Eyes closed. Breathing soft. It was now or never. I pointed at the red hair, turned to Neely, and nodded.

  He looked at me, uncomprehending. But he nodded back. He inhaled twice, short and quick. His eyes half closed in a wince and I felt the air sizzle around me.

  I looked down. Down to Finch, sprawled on the bed, his arms around Canto.

  At first I thought it was a trick of the eerie blue blizzard light outside, streetlamps reflecting off the snow.

  Finch started to . . . shimmer. And then grow blurry. And then shimmer again.

  I blinked. Rubbed my eyes.

  Finch had . . . stretched.

  He was a foot taller, toes sticking out of the blankets and touching the bed frame.

  And his body was no longer Gene Kelly strong. It was skinny. Skin and bones skinny. Ichabod Crane and Uriah Heap skinny.

  The red hair, though. That stayed exactly the same.

  I pressed my fist to my mouth but I didn’t scream. Neely put his arms around my waist and pulled me back into the corner of the room, into the shadows. “This whole time, this whole damn time,” I whispered, over and over. But it hadn’t caught up to me yet, was still lying in wait, gathering its strength . . .

  I saw Brodie’s eyelids flutter. And then close again.

  Finch was Brodie.

  Had always been Brodie.

  I felt sick, shivering, mucky, sweaty, sick. There was a roaring in my ears like I was underwater, drinking in the sea, like Roman, like Canto, like Finch—

  Neely started to shake. His whole body, shaking like leaves on trees. And I thought maybe he was crying at first, but no, it was just the shaking. “He’s my half brother. He tried to kill you. I should have known,” he whispered. “He could have killed us at any time, could have killed you, could have killed River—”

  I tried to picture myself holding one of the knives, the one I’d grabbed from the picnic basket before waking up Neely, tried to picture myself sticking it in, through skin, through muscle, between bone, ignoring the screams, and the flailing, and the blood, pushing back the fear, I had to hit his heart this time, I had to get it all the way in . . .

  I couldn’t do it.

  I didn’t have to stand over him, didn’t have to see the red hair, to know.

  I couldn’t kill Brodie.


  Because he wasn’t just Brodie. He was Finch now too.

  Remember. Remember Sunshine and the bat and the blood on Jack’s back and your gushing wrists and your lips on his . . .

  I slid out of Neely’s arms.

  I would do it.

  I would.

  Freddie, I’m going to do it.

  I can’t stop, I can’t think, I can’t let the fear fill me up, I can’t let the doubt in, Neely is staring at me, he’s still shaking, don’t think about Neely, Vi, just go, go, go, red hair, don’t look, don’t look at Brodie’s face, what if he looks like Finch, don’t look, Vi, see his wrist? Look at his wrist, keep looking at it, slide the knife across, just slide it across, do it . . .

  Now—

  I did it. The knife slipped over his skin, like it was dancing, a thin red line . . .

  . . . and then Brodie’s eyes were open and he was screaming and Canto’s eyes were open and she was screaming and everything was blur and chaos and Neely was there and I dropped the knife and scuttled backward, Neely beside me, our backs against the wall, like an execution, and Canto was sitting up and staring at Brodie and still screaming and then Brodie was staring at his wrist as the blood came and my only thought was, What have I done? What the hell have I done?

  “You cut him.” Neely’s eyes weren’t looking at me, only looking at Brodie, just Brodie. “Why didn’t you ask me first? Damn it, Vi. Why didn’t you ask me first?”

  “Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it, brother.” Brodie held his bleeding wrist in his left hand and then he was right there in front of me, naked from the waist up, River-style, and it made him seem even younger, somehow. The pajama bottoms hung limp on his skin and bones, and he was tall and lank and red hair, just like before, just like last summer . . . but he didn’t have the cowboy hat and his drawl had faded and I didn’t know what to think or who he was or what to believe.

  “Hello there, Violet White. Long time no see. For you that is, not for me. I’ve been seeing you every day for a week.” Brodie grabbed a thin white T-shirt from a drawer, wrapped it around his wrist, gritted his teeth, and pulled it tight with his left hand.

  The boy who left me to die was standing in front of me. A boy who slit wrists and drove girls to suicide and turned my friends into rats and set people on fire and . . .

  . . . and sacrificed himself to the sea in place of a girl he hardly knew.

  Maybe Brodie would kill me now. Maybe he would kill me and make it stick.

  “Which is the real one, Vi?” Neely whispered. “Which is the real one?”

  And I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. I wanted to slap Brodie across the face, smash, palm to cheek, over and over, until he changed back into the forest boy, poof—

  Canto was out of the bed now and watching Brodie, eyes vast, staring and staring and staring and looking more and more broken every damn second that passed.

  I heard a new sound. A new scream. Not my own and not Canto’s.

  Sunshine.

  She and Luke. Standing in the corridor. How long had they been there? They’d taken a room across the hall from Finch’s. They heard everything, everything since Brodie woke up howling after I slashed his damn skinny wrist. Sunshine threw up on the floor in front of her. I saw it. I smelled it. And she was cradling her head and Luke was holding her in his arms and saying my name, over and over . . .

  “So you figured it out.” Brodie smiled at me.

  And his smile was cocky and leering on the surface . . . but underneath it was calm and quiet.

  How could it be both?

  “Took you long enough, Vi. The scar . . . I couldn’t quite get rid of that, even with the spark. You cut me deep, you did, last summer. But hey, I cut you too, so I called it even. But here you are, at it again.”

  Brodie put his slashed arm in the air, and I could see red spots on the white shirt, the wound bleeding through. He began to spin around, but there were no boots this time, only his bare heels, and his heart didn’t seem to be in it, and it wasn’t remotely the same.

  He stopped spinning. He came over to me. His left hand went to my chin, his fingertips touched my neck.

  Neely’s fists twitched. I saw them from the corner of my eyes. If he hit Brodie . . . Don’t hit Brodie, Neely . . .

  “You see, Violet, I’d about had all the fun I was going to have in Inn’s End, and I was getting bored, when I came upon this boy in the woods. He had red hair just like me, so of course I was interested. I spied on him for a few days. Realized he was all alone, and that he spent a lot of time talking to the ghost of his dead grandmother. I learned plenty.”

  Brodie dropped my chin and winked at me in a pleasant, amiable way. “Finch wasn’t afraid of my flock of ravens like the rest of the town. They wouldn’t attack him for some reason, spark or no. And I have to say, it pissed me off. So finally I just strolled right up to him in the woods, and smashed a rock into his left temple. Down he went. Then I reached inside his head with my spark and . . . squeezed.” Brodie brought his hands up in front of my face, fists clenched. “I didn’t know if it would work, but it did. I squeezed all his wits right out, squeezed them out until he was as slack-faced and stupefied and senseless as a whore on gin.”

  Brodie paused, as if taking time to enjoy the memory.

  I felt Neely’s fingers grab mine.

  Luke held Sunshine in the hallway; she was white and limp and just . . . gone. Brodie glanced at them, and nodded, just to show he didn’t care.

  “So there I was,” he continued, his eyes lighting up, right up, “laughing and whooping and kicking Finch’s body in and just, you know, reveling in my success, when I heard those damn Inn’s End–ers approaching. Quick as a cheater’s wink, I sparked myself up to look like Finch. I ran back to his cabin and hunkered down nearby and let them catch me. After all, I figured I could always undo it later, and I wanted to see what would happen anyway. See if they would turn on their own.”

  Brodie laughed. And it was fast and mad but also sane and soft and how could it be both at the same time?

  “And then by God I catch sight of you and Neely in the crowd at the church. It couldn’t have worked out better if I’d wished for it. All along I’d planned to head back to Citizen Kane after Inn’s End, planned to spark myself up to look like Luke or Jack and see what happened. Granted, I probably couldn’t have kept it up for as long—this shape shifting works better the more I look like the person I’m shifting to. Still, that would have been a fun few days, no doubt.” He paused. Smiled. “Then I find out you two are heading to Carollie, and, you know, perfect. I’d just come from there. I drowned some hotshot local boy and then I sparked up River and drowned him too. I left the hotshot dead but I brought River back. I knew the two of us Reddings would work together someday. It was fate.”

  Brodie drowned River.

  River died like Finch, and came back . . .

  The blood from Brodie’s wrist had soaked through the shirt and was dripping on the floor now, little plops, every so often, but enough, enough.

  I’d hurt him more than he was letting on.

  Please let that be true . . .

  No, no, I don’t want that to be true at all . . .

  “You didn’t seem to like my mad cowboy all that much, Vi.” Brodie walked across the room and leaned against the door frame, five feet from Luke and Sunshine. He stretched, and looked even taller. “None of you did. So I thought I’d try something different. I aim to please.”

  “But you let yourself get drowned,” Canto whispered, and she shook her head, shook it again and again, her black curls swishing across her shoulders. “You let River drown you.”

  “I’m a Redding. Nothing can stop me. Not one damn thing.” Brodie paused, and his green eyes . . . flickered. “Besides, I’d already been drowned once. River drowned me before I left Carollie and went to Inn’
s End. I let him. His glow was different after the big blue sucked out his life and I wanted to see if death would change my spark too. And it did.”

  Brodie shimmered . . . shifted . . .

  And he was Finch again, just for a second, one, two, three. Gone.

  “You know,” he said, his voice sounding like Finch’s, though the mouth it came out of was Brodie’s, “I always wondered what it would be like to be part of the Citizen Kane group after watching you all last summer with your bonfires and your espresso . . . I’ve had the time of my life these last few days. Better than sparking people. Better than burning people up. Better than standing in the forest on a clear autumn night with the moon in the sky and the wolves at my feet and the smell of wood smoke in my hair . . .

  “But I guess the joke’s on me.” Brodie held up his dripping wrist. He stared at it for a second, and kept on talking. “I took on that kid’s looks and his personality came too. Didn’t know that would happen. My spark changed when I was down in the deep, when the sea held my life in its palm. Which came first: the spark or the Brodie? I’m not scared, I’m a fucking Redding, except my spark, that might scare me, sometimes it scares me. My ma said I was born with a Great Rage inside me, but Finch made that disappear . . . I always thought skinny is as skinny does, but sometimes, sometimes I forget I’m not Finch. Here Canto is the new Sophie, and River is as mad as a damn hatter and four times as interesting as he ever was, and I have all my options in front of me, everything I ever wanted . . . and yet all I want to do is just . . . keep on being . . . Finch . . .”

  There were red drops all over the floor and Brodie dropped his arm, thud, like it was made of lead, and his breaths were odd, uneven, weak.

  “And then Neely starts getting his bruises,” he added, his voice sounding less and less Brodie and more and more Finch, quiet, serene. “Got himself his own spark. That was a surprise. I figured I’d have to change my plans now, now that . . . but I couldn’t seem to stop being Finch, I . . .” He looked at Canto.

  “Did you kill the real Finch?” Canto asked, and her words were shaking but her body wasn’t, not anymore. “Did you kill him all the way, like you killed Roman?”

  Brodie was wheezing now. He still leaned against the door frame, but it wasn’t a cocky, bored lean. It was like he couldn’t stand up on his own. “What do you think, kids? I let Finch take over for too long. It’s time for some real fun. Any requests? I was thinking of setting Echo against Jack and Sunshine, for starters, the whole town, make people think they’re infected, something grotesque and whimsical, you know, something that would end in panic, and blood . . .”