by Tara Goedjen
He can’t help it, he laughs. She laughs too and touches his hand. Her fingers trail softly over his forearms.
“I can only do small things now,” she says. “Blowing a door open, or making the jewelry box sing.”
The sky seems to ripple like they’re underwater. He rubs his eyes—he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but she needs to listen. “Come back with me, Ro.”
Something moves behind her. It’s the wind, fluttering through the bird feathers on the dock. He doesn’t like the stench, and as soon as the thought comes he smells sweetness, like cake in the oven, sweet cream and vanilla, and Ro is reaching for him.
“Just hold my hand for now. I like how it feels, the firmness of it.” She threads her fingers through his, chilling him all the way up his arm. “That’s what life is, it’s feeling things.” There’s metal against his knuckle and he looks down.
“You’re wearing the ring.”
“Our ring.” Her voice is slow, drawling. “Remember that. That’s my message.”
Why is she talking so strange? Her lips are moving, but the words don’t match up. Something twists inside him. “Stay with me.”
She leans in, kisses him slowly, kisses him like she’s drinking him in, and then she stops. He can feel something shifting in the air. She puts her finger to her lips. “Shh.”
The boat pitches, strains against its ties, and Ro slides away. He tries to run to her, but he can’t move; his legs feel paralyzed. Water is lapping against the hull, but it sounds off, like it’s only an echo of water, not real at all.
“Cage?” She’s standing on the other end of the deck, just a few yards from him, but it’s far enough that he can’t touch her. “There’s only so much time.” She’s at the edge of the boat now, still facing him. “I’m right here,” she says. “I’ll always be here.”
Except she’s not moving toward him, no, she’s lifting her foot, and it’s going in the wrong direction, it’s going backward.
“Don’t!” he shouts, but she’s stepping back, and it’s happening all over again, her foot missing its mark, coming down on air. She’s smiling at him like she’s forgotten that she’s going to fall, that he doesn’t save her, that her head hits the dock and splits open, that he doesn’t find her in the water in time—she’s forgotten that this is how she dies, this single step away from him. He yells her name as she disappears over the edge and all of a sudden everything goes black, dark and fluttering and sharp, and claws and wings are scratching at his face. The blackbirds have risen up and swarmed the sky.
BLOOD POUNDED IN MAE’S EARS as she stared at him, fear gripping her chest. He’d fallen at her feet, passed out on the floor of the barn, nearly bringing her down with him. “Cage,” she said, grabbing his shoulder. “Cage, wake up.”
His ribs moved, he was taking jagged breaths. He felt hot, so hot. Maybe he was just sick or maybe it was a concussion from when she’d hit him with the hammer. Should she call an ambulance? Drive him to the hospital herself?
She tensed, uncertain. He’d told her no—made her swear not to—but she couldn’t bear to see him like this, sprawled on the cement. She ran over to the little raft he’d been sleeping on, put it beside him, and then tried to drag him onto it again. If only she knew what to do, or knew a doctor she could call. Fern’s mom was a nurse, but she worked the night shift and she’d tell Childers everything.
If he got any worse…
“Cage,” she said, “wake up.” She could hear the alarm in her own voice and her eyes flicked to the door. He needed help. Could she even leave him like this?
When she looked back at Cage, his blue eyes were wide open. She gasped, startled, and then reached for his hand.
“Stay awake,” she said, hoping he’d tell her he was okay, but he didn’t speak.
A single flashlight beam was still streaming from the countertop near the sink, over the stretch of cement floor. He was looking in the opposite direction, at something in the shadows.
“I’d never hurt you,” he said, but he wasn’t talking to her. She knew he was talking to Ro again, just like he had the whole time he’d been sick. She’d heard everything that had happened; it had spilled from him in his sleep.
She touched his head as gently as she could. There was sweat on his brow, sweat shining in his hair. He didn’t move from where he was lying on the raft.
“Cage,” she said again. She grabbed the washcloth from the bucket beside him and pressed it to his neck, trying to cool him off. “If you can hear me,” she said, hiding the fear in her voice, “just blink or nod, okay?”
He stared into the distance just beyond her shoulder. “Ro.”
Mae clenched the rag tight. “Cage, look at me.”
His blue eyes were unwavering. He seemed possessed—straddling some other world that she wasn’t part of. Seeing him like this made her believe anything was possible, even ghosts, even magic.
“If we’re already dead,” Cage said, “can we die again?” He nodded like he was getting an answer. “Almost a year,” he murmured.
“Stop,” Mae said. “Stop it!” She clamped down on his wrist as tight as she could. “Look at me, Cage.”
He wrenched his arm away and yelled for her sister. Mae threw her hands to her ears. The sound was awful; she felt it all the way in her bones—it was like he was dying, his heart breaking. She didn’t know what to do, so she lay down next to him on the raft and wrapped her arms around him.
“Ro’s here,” she said, and he stopped midshout, his head angled away from her. “I’m right here,” she whispered, “I’m here next to you.”
Just like that his body relaxed and his breath started evening out. His skin felt hot against hers. She glanced past him at the flashlight’s waning beam and then stared at the taut line of his neck, the bulk of his shoulder, the sharp muscles of his arms, his back, and then up again to the dark crop of his hair. After what seemed like a long time, she tilted her head enough to look at his eyes. They were shut: he was sleeping. His jaw was relaxed now, everything was relaxed. He hadn’t killed Ro—it’d been an accident. He loved her sister. He would always love her. He’d made himself sick over her death, digging out in the storm for the rest of the book and finding nothing.
Mae froze, remembering. She slowly reached into her pocket, not wanting to wake him. Her fingertips hit a scrap of folded paper. With everything that had happened that night, she’d forgotten about it. She slid it out now and raised it in front of her.
It was a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper. Ink had leaked over it in the rain, but now it was dry, the paper crinkled, a smudge of dirt from the garden on one edge. She unfolded it and stopped breathing.
Ro’s handwriting was slanted across the page in pink-colored pen. The first part was completely destroyed—the rain had splattered the ink, and she couldn’t make out more than a letter here or there. But halfway down the page it was readable and her eyes widened on a line.
A bird for vision.
Her mind flashed to the trail of ants, to what she’d found underneath Ro’s bed and what she’d seen hidden away in the pantry. She knew what would come next—Blue Gate had already shown her.
A horse for the passage.
A snake for new skin.
Mae’s heart was thudding as she read the rest of the slanted pink writing. A streak of water had run down a crease, taking a few letters with it, but she could still make out the words.
Laid out in a row of four,
only this will open the door.
Then save the most brutal for last:
Chana for a life,
Since all should be equal.
Do these tasks and see the return,
except if the earth has traveled the sun.
The notebook paper was trembling in her hand. Ro had made a copy of the raising ritual and buried it under the gift cherub. The first part—the beginning of the ritual—had been destroyed by the rain, but everything else was legible. And she knew where she could find the r
est. It was in the green book, on the thumbprint page. She could get it back from Lance, and then…
And then what? It was late, she wasn’t thinking clearly. A feeling of hope was sneaking up on her, and that was a dangerous thing. Look where it’d gotten Cage.
He was still deep in sleep, his body warm, nuzzled next to hers. Just for a moment she let herself lean against him, her breathing starting to match his. Everything inside her felt heavy, tired, and what she believed and didn’t believe was blurring together, the boundary as thin as the space between her and Cage, and she felt warm, so warm.
—
Mae opened her eyes, shocked she’d fallen asleep. The redness of the setting sun beat through the skylight, throwing orange rectangles along the cement floor. God, how long had she slept?
She got to her elbows and sat up, and then touched the back of her hand to Cage’s forehead. Warm but not burning up. She stood, trying not to disturb him. His breath was steady, his big hands loose at his sides, the wet jeans and shirt she’d pulled off of him drying on a chair beside them. He wasn’t sweating much anymore. He looked like he was going to be okay. They’d been sleeping for what—all day?
Mae let out a shuddering breath. His fever seemed better; maybe he’d just sleep it off now. She stared down at him, rubbed her forehead. Ro’s sheet of notebook paper was lying on the floor, and she folded it up and put it in her pocket.
Lance had the book, that was what Cage had told her. She bit her lip, the sharpness focusing her mind. Elle was supposed to meet Lance today at the house for dinner, that was what she’d said last night. If he was there, Mae could try to get the book back. Maybe that would be enough to help Cage, give him a reason to pull through his fever, snap out of whatever dream he was lost in. And maybe it’d be enough for Ro too….
“I’ve got a plan,” she whispered, and then she turned and left, grabbing her bag on her way out, suddenly afraid to say goodbye.
Outside in the woods she felt better. The air was muggy—she guessed it was already seven, eight in the evening. When had Elle said Lance was coming over? She rushed down the path toward Blue Gate, trying to convince herself she really did have a plan. She barely watched where she was going; her feet led her home, her mind still on Cage as she stumbled into the wide yard. The grass was soggy from the rain, but now the sky was clear, a red tint across it.
Past the gargoyle fountain was Childers’s truck, and her heart ramped up. Her dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway—he must be out. The house soared above her, pink and bluish in the fading light like something strangled. Her granddad was standing at the attic window, waving. She waved back, knowing he wanted her to come and say hello. That could wait—she needed to find Lance first.
She ran up the porch steps and shoved her key into the lock, stepping inside. The sunset was pouring through the foyer windows, basking the portraits in red. Grady Cole winked at her in the stippled light, and she turned away from him, heading toward the back of the house. The pipes were groaning in the walls—someone had the water on—and the smell of baking bread, buttery and starchy, was in the air. It was her turn to cook tonight, but Elle must have started without her.
Mae rounded the corner. The kitchen was empty, the pantry door shut, lidded pots simmering on the stove, three place settings stacked on the countertop. Maybe her granddad wasn’t feeling well enough to eat? He’d seemed fine yesterday, even leaving one of his notes for her and Elle. Love you, dear little twins. It’d made her smile, but Elle had rolled her eyes. She never took the time to sit with him anymore. Lately, Mae hadn’t either. She should check in on him now, look for Lance in Elle’s room on the way up.
She started toward the back stairs, but then heard footsteps on the other side of the house. Too fast for her granddad, too loud for even Elle. Lance, then? The front door was clicking shut by the time she reached the foyer, half out of breath. Through the window she caught the bright white of his shirt as he strode across the drive toward his dad’s truck.
She threw open the door. “Lance!”
He stopped and turned, a smile spreading across his face. The old fountain was right behind him, his hazel eyes and tan skin a stark contrast to the stone. His shirt was another fitted one and his hair was ruffled and wet like he’d just showered. Even from here she could smell the foresty scent of his cologne. Seeing him made her smile too, and she was surprised at the lightness in her step as she walked toward him.
“Hey there, Mayday,” he called, waving her over to the truck. Was it just her imagination, or was there a raw enthusiasm in his voice, like he was genuinely happy to see her? “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
“Me too,” Mae said. She glanced at the truck beside him, but he stepped in front of her, leaning against the passenger door, his hands tucked into his pockets, completely and totally relaxed. Nothing like the old Lance. The pale guy in the black band shirt who used to follow Ro at a distance until he could close in. Mae had liked his T-shirts before, the way he’d always wore a different band’s, but his shyness had eclipsed everything—it had been a wall between him and the world, and only Ro had been invited in.
“What’s up?”
Mae felt a jolt of nerves and tried to mask it. She liked this friendly side of him, this new Lance she was just now getting to know. Coming on too strong about the green book might put him on the defensive. She stalled. “Seeing you at the house again is almost like old times.”
Lance shrugged. “What can I say? I like Blue Gate. Like the Coles even more.” He smiled, his dimples flashing. Out here, standing close to him in the sunlight, she felt like she was seeing him for the first time. His eyes were green around his pupils, rimmed by a golden brown that exploded outward, like a dying star.
“It kind of feels good to own that, actually,” he said. “I was way too shy before to admit it.”
Curiosity got at her. “What changed?”
He looked toward the house. “When someone you love dies, it makes you think about life in a different way, I guess. You would know.”
Everything inside her went still. It was the way he said it—like he really cared how she felt, what she’d been going through. How had she lived next to him all these years and not known this side of him?
“Whenever I’m around you, I want to talk about Ro,” he said. “Your turn to talk first.”
“Is that how it works?” She gripped the bag strap at her shoulder. The air was thick with humidity, and her hair felt hot against her neck. She noticed Lance watching her, a smile on his face, and held her bag tighter. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Good,” he said, and laughed. “Otherwise I’ll end up running my mouth and you’ll never get a word in edgewise.”
“I don’t mind.” Except she did. The question was on the tip of her tongue. Cage had sworn that the green book was with Lance, but now she felt like she was accusing him of stealing. She blew out a deep breath, her heart going staccato in her chest.
“You should see your face,” Lance said. “You’re always thinking about something, aren’t you?”
“Usually.”
“And your brain just goes tick tick tick tick in the night and you can’t ever sleep. Have I got that right?”
She liked nights for thinking, when no one else was awake. And she hadn’t gotten enough sleep lately, not with worrying about Cage. “I could use some more, that’s for sure.”
“You and me both,” Lance said. “Come here just a minute.” He stepped forward and slung his arm around her shoulder, the gesture so quick she was pulled against the truck with him. “That’s better. You looked too uptight.”
“I like it that way,” Mae said. “Keeps me alert.”
Lance laughed again as if she’d made a joke. The truck felt warm on her back, and Lance’s arm was warm too. Out here in the brightness, the idea that he had the book seemed hard to believe. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding. He probably had no idea what it was. The charcoal drawing in the tunnel, the dead
animals in the pantry, the hanged cat in the woods—those sorts of things didn’t belong in daylight. They were sepia-toned, from a different era; they didn’t mix with the scent of Lance’s cologne or the gleam of custom paint.
He tilted his head to meet her gaze. “Hey, you okay?”
She needed to hurry before she lost her courage. “I wanted to ask”—she could barely get the words out, barely even take a breath—“if you have a book of Ro’s.”
Lance raised his eyebrows and then smiled again, disarming her. “I have a lot of books from her,” he said. “What are you after?”
Her stomach tensed and she swallowed down her nerves. “It has a green cover. A green leather cover,” she added.
“Which one?”
What did he mean, which one? She glanced at the house, but no one had come outside yet. “It was a book from our family.” She stopped then, unsure of how much to say. She felt awkward. If he’d opened the book, he already would have known to return it, and if he hadn’t, then…She pulled away from him, facing the truck now, putting distance between them. Lance was still leaning back, looking like he had all the time in the world.
“It has a list of names inside it,” she said. “You couldn’t miss it.”
His eyebrows crinkled up, and he rubbed at his curly hair. “You know what? Fern came across something the other day in the woods. Could be what you’re talking about.” He went around to the driver’s side of the truck and she followed him. “I left it in here. Been planning on dropping it off at your house, since we found it on your property and all.”
He opened the door and leaned over to reach into the truck, giving her a view of the twin pockets of his blue jeans. When he turned, the book was in his hands. “Is this what you want?” he asked.
There it was, right in front of her. Her heart was going so fast in her chest she thought she might faint. “Thanks.” She grabbed it, tucked it into her bag, and then glanced at the house—no one was at the windows, her granddad hadn’t seen them.