by Tara Goedjen
As the ground grew softer, wetter, the old cabins came into view. Overhead the leaves blocked the last dregs of light, turning the clay foundations into shadows. There were a few decaying walls, a gap that used to be a window. Mae weaved through the ruins, passing a crumbling chimney and then the old well. Spanish moss hung down from the surrounding branches, grazing the round stone rim. Just as she walked past it, there was movement ahead. She tensed, peering into the woods. But she could only make out the lean trunks of trees, the clotted undergrowth.
Then she heard footsteps behind her, near the cabins. She spun, saw nothing. A moment later the footsteps were on the other side of the well. A tingle shot through her. There was the sound of something dragging across the mud—it was everywhere, moving through the trees. Someone was circling her.
Cage? His name was on her lips, but she stayed still, barely breathing, her eyes straining in the dusk. The woods were a deep gray, full of shadows. If she could hardly see, maybe this other person, or thing, couldn’t either.
Everything went silent, and then all of a sudden the dragging was back—farther away now.
Mae’s feet were riveted to the ground. She clutched her knife, took another long breath. The footsteps waned, but she held still for a few minutes longer, her eyes searching the woods. The trees around her were so thick it was hard to see. As she stepped out from behind a massive oak, her stomach went cold.
What was that, in the distance?
She gripped the knife tighter and stepped forward. There, some yards ahead, was a rope strung from a branch like a noose. The rope was thick, the dark shape at the end of it dangling a few feet above the ground.
It cut in and out of sight as she moved toward it, branches scraping her arms, her face. When the rope came into view again, she gasped at what was hanging from it.
A cat, slowly spinning in the air.
Her heart ratcheted in her chest. She ran up to it and grabbed the rope, started cutting. After a couple of swipes the animal swung loose. It was limp in her arms, and she set it on the ground where it lay still. She couldn’t see anyone nearby as she crouched down and touched the cat’s fur, her hand shaking. It was the little black stray.
Just that morning it had crawled out of her arms and escaped through the attic window. Surely someone hadn’t just killed it, hung it up like this. And then it all clicked into place and she froze.
A cat for nine.
Mae’s chest clamped up. She didn’t want to believe it. She tried to fill her lungs, to breathe, but her ribs felt trapped. She dropped the knife onto the ground and stripped to her tank top, then wrapped the cat in her sweatshirt. If Cage had done this, then he was sick. He was sick in the head and she needed to—
“Mae.”
She stood, grappling for the knife. She thrust it out in front of her, but no one was there.
“Mae, it’s me.”
And then he was stepping out from behind a tree, his hands up.
“It’s just me,” Cage said, his voice soft, almost coaxing. His face was barely visible in the growing dark, but he looked confused by the knife—his head tilted to the side just a fraction. Was that his trick? He pretended he didn’t know anything, like he was innocent, so she’d feel sorry for him?
“Everything okay?” He stepped toward her. “Thought you’d know to meet at the barn.”
“Don’t come any closer,” she said, thrusting the knife higher. Her eyes had adjusted enough in the dimness to see him. His gaze dropped to the knife and then went back to her.
“Come on, Mae,” he said. “This again?” He took another step—like he thought she didn’t mean it. One more and he could almost reach her. He was getting too close.
“Don’t move.” She pointed the blade at him, her other hand grasping for her bag. “Don’t.” But her voice sounded faint now, weak to her own ears. She felt like she’d been tricked, sucker punched. Her dad didn’t trust him, Elle didn’t, neither did Lance. The list was getting longer, and she’d refused to see it.
“Mae, I—”
He took another step forward, and she swung her bag as hard as she could. The canvas collided with his face and the force of the hammer hitting bone traveled up her elbow. Something came from Cage’s lips—a soft wheezing sound—as he sank to his knees and fell over. He lay on his side, one of his arms at an awkward angle, his eyes shut. She felt a surge of panic. There was blood on his temple, on his dark hair.
“Hey!” The shout startled her and she bit back a gasp. It was her dad. “Hey!”
“Over here!” The yell was closer now; this time it was Childers. Bright orbs flashed, winking out when they were blocked by the trees. They’d followed her. “Answer us!”
Mae looked down at Cage, saw how he was slumped. She should call out to them. She should tell them everything she knew, even though it wasn’t enough yet.
Just as she was about to yell, she heard a small sigh, a rustle. Cage? But he was still on the ground.
“Hey, Fern!” Childers shouted. “Fern, get yourself over here!”
Mae crouched down, her breath trapped in her lungs. Why were they looking for Fern? Was she hurt? Did Cage—
And then came the girl’s answering shout, too close. “What!” The men were trudging over a nearby hill, their flashlights pooling on the ground, throwing streams of light across pine needles and mud. Mae heard the pitter-patter of Fern’s footsteps nearby. The girl came into view and stopped a few feet from the shredded rope, and Mae shrank back into the shadows. Fern wasn’t looking at her, but she was close enough to see her. Something wasn’t right.
“Your mom’s worried,” Childers called out. “Now come on home.”
Mae pressed herself against a tree, hoping Cage was shielded by the bush he’d fallen next to. If they saw him…
“Fern, scoot yourself over here,” Sonny said. “I’m tired of walking.”
Her dad was getting closer, near enough to spot the rope. One of the flashlight beams almost grazed its edge and Mae sucked in a breath, the bark digging into her shoulders. She could see it unfold: her dad pulling a gun, shooting Cage as he lay passed out on the ground.
The light fell on the tree beside the one she was hiding against and she flinched. Another tingle flashed down her neck, holding her voice captive. Surely they’d see the rope. Any minute, any minute—
A shadow shot past. It was Fern, running into the beam of light.
“All right, let’s go home, Uncle Chill-chill!” she yelled, trampling her way over the brush, her curls bouncing in the flashlight beam as she sprinted toward the house. Fern was running away from the rope—almost like she hadn’t wanted Childers and Sonny to see it.
The tingle was back at Mae’s neck, her body’s way of saying This is the feeling of having wool pulled over your eyes. Fern knew something, she was deliberately drawing her dad and Childers away from the dead cat on the ground. Away from Cage.
“Your mama’s gonna tan your hide!” Childers called out. He stopped walking toward Mae and turned to watch Fern, his flashlight pointed at her as she ran in the opposite direction.
“Come on now,” Sonny said. “Girl probably just wants attention.”
Mae shivered. It seemed too much of a coincidence that Fern had been in this part of the woods, the same place where she’d found the cat. But Fern wouldn’t have killed the animal. Even if there was some cruel streak in her, the tree limb seemed too high for her to throw the rope around, and yet…Was she wrong to have hit Cage?
Mae couldn’t make sense of it, so she stayed down, keeping small. She waited in the dark until her dad and Childers were gone. By that time her shoes had sunk into the mud and Cage still hadn’t moved from the ground. She stepped closer and then felt a bolt of fear.
He wasn’t breathing.
“CAGE!” MAE HISSED, SHAKING HIM. He was sprawled in the brush, still lying on his side.
Her heart was fast in her chest, and she tried to remember what to do—she’d read about it after her granddad’s
stroke. Clear the airway, start compressions, rescue breaths. He couldn’t be dead; she couldn’t have killed him.
She rolled him onto his back and put the heel of her hand on his chest, ready to push, and then all of a sudden she felt his ribs lift. She gasped, her heart thudding hard.
“Can you hear me, Cage?”
His lids were fluttering open. She could see the whites of his eyes, his face in a grimace. “Ro?” he asked. Now he was looking over her shoulder, staring so intently that she felt a chill.
Mae whirled, saw a cluster of trees in the moonlight. When she glanced back, his gaze was on her. “Did you—did you punch me?” He sounded dazed. A welt was swelling above his temple.
“Not exactly.”
He rubbed his head and sat up, slowly, like he might pass out again.
“What happened?” he asked.
She decided to go with the truth, even though she felt embarrassed now, as if she owed him an apology. But it wasn’t all her fault—and she still didn’t know what he’d done. She kept her knife close, staying alert.
“I warned you to keep back, but you didn’t listen.”
“My mother says I have that problem.” He tried to stand and swayed instead. Mae scrambled to her feet, wanting to keep her advantage.
“Well, now you’ve got a lot more.” Her voice came out sharp and she watched for a reaction.
But Cage didn’t seem defensive or on edge, or the least bit concerned about the frayed rope hanging beside them. He leaned against a tree for support and sighed out a breath through his teeth. “Mae, I need to tell you something.”
“Tell me about that.” She pulled the flashlight from her bag and pointed it at the rope.
“What about it?” He glanced at it, and then back at her. A trickle of blood was running down his face. “What’s it for?”
He seemed genuinely confused. She beamed the light at his body and stared at him without saying anything, letting the quiet of the woods grow between them. Still looking dazed, he picked up the edge of his T-shirt and wiped the blood at his temple, the muscles in his arm flickering in the light. Nothing in his stance made him seem guilty. He looked baffled more than anything, and wary of her, and another seed of doubt worked its way into her heart.
She flicked off the flashlight and stuck it into her back pocket, letting her eyes adjust again. Maybe he hadn’t hanged the cat. Maybe she’d guessed wrong. There were so many questions to ask—but it’d be smart to get inside first.
“Barn,” she said. “Now.”
He nodded, and she gestured for him to lead, her hand on the knife in her pocket. A minute later they were walking up the hill, the moon lighting their path. The back of his shirt was dirty, and so were his jeans. She watched a leaf flutter past his arm as he pushed the barn’s side door open and disappeared inside.
She ducked after him. The light inside was dim; she found a couple of large flashlights on the counter near the boat and flicked them on, keeping Cage in sight. He had bruising near his cheek, a cut near his temple. She cringed, tried not to show it. “Are you okay?”
“Been hit worse,” he said. “You must have a killer hook.”
Guilt was creeping in. But she’d made a decision in the moment, thinking it was the best one she had. “It was a hammer,” she admitted, feeling even worse.
His eyebrows shot up. “A what?” He put a hand to his head as if reconsidering his level of pain.
“In my bag. I had a hammer in my bag. Still do.” She wanted to apologize but her throat felt tight. Her mind flashed to the stray—it was still outside, wrapped in her sweatshirt, and now she needed answers.
“The note you left me,” she said, holding her bag close. “Did you remember anything about Ro?”
He stiffened. Then he shook his head, quick, like he had something to say but wasn’t sure it’d come out right. “I was hoping to. Thought maybe the book would be a trigger, but it wasn’t.” His hands went to fists. “Mae, did you ever try the ritual?”
She crossed her arms, her body tense. “You saw it in the book….” She felt spurred, ready for a fight. So it was him—it had to be. He was testing her, seeing what she knew.
He stared at the ground, blinking, as if trying to work something out. “Ro mentioned it before, but I—” His voice cracked. “I told her I wasn’t interested.”
She let the question loose. “And are you now?” He glanced at her, his blue eyes giving her nothing. “Tell me,” she pressed. “Did you try it?” Did you slaughter the cat? Because if he did that, then what else was he capable of?
He looked away, running a hand through his dark hair. The skin along his knuckles was raised, bunched up in a row of scars. “I asked you first.”
“Of course I haven’t.” She was the one who should be asking questions, not him. And the magic wasn’t real; it couldn’t be. She only cared about the book because it belonged to her family—because it had belonged to Ro. And whatever she’d written in it might bring Mae one step closer to knowing what secrets she’d been hiding before she died.
But now Cage had doubt on his face, like she was the one who was lying. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Hear me out,” he added, as if sensing she was about to protest. The flashlight was directly behind him, glowing over his skin, his dark hair. “Please.”
Confusion swirled in her stomach. Every time he was around, she felt like this. There was something she was missing. She walked past him to the small kitchen, needing space to think. The faucet was hooked up to a rainwater tank, and she filled a glass. It tasted metallic, gritty, but she drank it all and filled the glass again before turning back.
Cage was watching her with his hands shoved into the pockets of his dirty jeans, his forearms rigid with tension. “Things have happened that I can’t explain,” he said.
His gaze narrowed on her as he walked forward and took the glass without asking, downed it all in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes still on her. “I was gone nearly a year, Mae. A whole year I can’t remember.”
The water felt like it was roiling in her stomach. “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said, trying to draw in a breath that wouldn’t come. She knew exactly what he was saying, only there wasn’t enough air in the barn, she wasn’t getting enough oxygen to think. She hadn’t tried the raising ritual. All she’d done was find the book in Ro’s room. “Whatever it is,” she said, “you’re wrong.”
He leaned toward her, the glass tight in his fist. “How do you know for sure?” he asked. “You want me to just give up on her, is that what you’re saying?” He was six feet of fury, Vesuvius in the flesh. “That the best you got? Just forget about her?” His jaw was working, biting something back.
Don’t flinch, don’t look away, don’t blink—she could hear her sister even now. Ro would stare right back at him, hold her ground, so Mae kept her eyes on his, didn’t move.
“How can you do it?” Cage’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “Keep it all inside? Stand there so calm?”
She didn’t feel calm. Her heart was thudding hard, and she wanted to yell and kick something. She wanted Ro alive just as much as he did.
“You told me she’s been dead for almost a year, Mae,” he said. His neck was tense, his shoulders flexing with anger under his thin T-shirt. “That right, or have you forgot already?”
“A year in a week,” she shot back, her anger fueled by his. How could she ever forget? It was always on her mind, burning a hole in her. It was in everything she did every minute of her life.
“Then why,” Cage asked, his voice tight, “why can’t I remember!” He whirled and heaved back his arm, throwing the glass against the wall.
Mae flinched as it shattered, shards skidding across the cement floor. That was the problem—Cage couldn’t remember. She had no reason to trust him. No one did.
She could feel her heart striking her chest—she could hear it. She took a step away from him. And another, and another, until her hip caught s
omething sharp—the kitchen counter. Glass was cutting the thin soles of her shoes; one of the bigger shards had landed by her muddy Converse. It sparkled, winking off the beam from the flashlights on the counter. She looked up and saw that Cage’s jaw was clenched. His blue eyes were intense, glistening with anger or grief, she wasn’t sure which.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s something I have to do.”
She shook her head—this was the confession she’d been waiting for. “No.” She kept her voice steady. “It’s not real, Cage. It’s…a fantasy.”
His eyes dropped from hers at last, and finally she could breathe again. He swayed on his feet, rubbed his head like it was aching. “What if there’s a chance, Mae?”
Could he be right…? She thrust the thought away. There was desperation in him now, that was all it was. She should get what she came for and leave.
“I need the book, Cage.” Her sister could have written something more in it—it was her best lead. And it didn’t belong to him, it was Ro’s, and Mae wanted it back. She made fists with her hands to keep them from trembling. “Now please give it to me.”
Cage leaned against the sailboat. He sighed, his hair dark against the tarp, his face pinched with pain. “I don’t have it.”
It felt like the breath had been knocked from her. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “The kid, that girl, she took it.” He kicked a piece of glass.
“Fern has it?” Mae’s skin was tingling. If Fern had the book, then…She thought back to how the girl had been standing next to the hanging rope. Surely she hadn’t killed the cat, not on her own. She couldn’t have, she—
“No, Lance does,” Cage said. “He grabbed it off her in the woods. I saw him.”
Mae’s skin went prickly again, like she was standing underneath a humming wire. Was he lying?
Cage stepped forward, his boots crunching over glass. “We have to get it back,” he said. “I have to try every…” He trailed off, shook his head. “Christ,” he muttered. “She believed in it.”
Mae’s heart was thudding faster. A thread of a memory tugged at her—Ro dressed up in the woods, a basket in her arms—and then it was gone, the black door in her mind shuddering on its hinges. “If you lost it, then what does it matter?” She felt hopelessness rising in her chest. What could she do for Ro if she didn’t have the book? Lance and Cage were the last two people to see her; they had to know more than they claimed. They must. And if Cage was telling the truth—if he wasn’t trying to smoke-and-mirror her—then for some reason Lance wanted the book too.