by Неизвестный
A hint of a trail, possibly a goat trail, gave her the first touch of genuine hope she'd had since the owl snatched her off the roof. The orb glowed brighter, along with her spirits. Maybe her whole purpose for being on the island was to serve as a sacrifice to some evil force, like the innocents that had been tossed into the volcano. But maybe, just maybe, if she could get to the cave and through the door, she might get to live.
Once on the trail, she ran faster.
She knew, from her track and field training, how far she could run safely, and she was already past that point. The honey must have helped. Where she'd gotten to was already an impossibility.
The thing that pursued her was making a steady rumble now, a constant noise, getting closer.
The noise suddenly stopped, so she did as well, and she looked around to see the jaws of what was about to eat her. Something even darker than the woods lay in front of her, blocking the path.
The dark thing didn't move, and the noise started again, behind her this time, so she ran forward, as fast as her depleted legs could take her.
A pink ribbon on a tree branch nearly smacked her in the face.
A ribbon. She'd found the way, and she was heading straight for the mouth of the cave.
After she ducked to run under the jagged edges at the mouth of the cave, she dropped to her knees and grasped through the straw and the dirt on the cave floor, seeking the chalk. Was there more chalk? There'd been a handful of pieces, and she'd used one piece the first time, and another, shorter piece the second time. Opal remembered Edwin picking up the remainder of the chalk and pocketing it. Or had he? Was her mind playing tricks on her? She couldn't remember.
The daemon—she thought of it now as a daemon—grew closer, smashing through trees by the sound of it. Wood splintered and cracked, and she remembered the pile of smashed wood tables and chairs inside the chocolatier's. What sort of creature reduced furniture to kindling?
Opal pulled the orb from within her clothes and held it out like a flashlight, trying to keep her body between the bright glow and the opening of the cave, but knowing it was likely futile to do so.
She searched the cave for chalk, going all the way to the back, the orb lighting her way. The door she'd chalked twice before was barely visible, and though she tried, the wall offered no passage.
“New plan time,” she told herself, though nothing came to mind. “Assume there is no chalk in the cave. Now what?”
My everything for a piece of chalk, she thought, and the absurdity made her let out a strange giggle. Such a small thing, such a stupid thing, and now she was going to die, for lack of a piece of chalk.
“I could really use one of those broken shells,” she said to the orb, which didn't answer back.
Even though she was sure she had no chalk or white shells on her, as she didn't even have pockets in these clothes, she checked all over herself, and inside her shoes and socks.
All she found were the lumps of wax tucked into her waistband, still sticky with honey. She let them drop from her hands to the ground.
The daemon crashed around outside, grinding and crunching. She wondered if it was clearing huge swaths of forest, and why. What chance did a fifteen-year-old girl have against it? The giant owl had seemed to know far more than Opal, and yet now it lay dead, its throat slashed.
A shape on the cave's wall beside her moved, and she let out a frightened noise. It was just her shadow.
Her shadow moved without her.
Once before, her shadow had moved, pointing at the broken shells on the shore, when she'd first arrived on the island. She'd written the phenomenon off as stress and dehydration, but now her shadow was moving again.
The shadow pointed at something.
The lumps of wax.
“I don't think Aunt Waleah's going to care that I didn't bring home the wax,” she said.
The shadow moved again, pointing at the wax, and at something else. She held the glowing ball above her head to see. The backpack wasn't there—presumably it had left with Max—but the two sharpened sticks she and Peter had brought to the cave their first visit lay across the ground near the vent. Two days ago, she'd made those sticks herself, when they were on the path, and the goats in the woods had sounded like a threat.
“Those are just wimpy little sticks,” she said to the shadow.
The shadow pointed again at the wax.
“The wax… does something to wood. Strengthens it. So what you're saying is…”
She picked up the wax and the sticks, and began to apply the wax.
“Well, Shadow of Mine, you may have a point. This wax really brings out the grain of the wood. It's so pretty.” She let out an insane-sounding laugh. “The daemon can use these to pick its teeth after it eats me.”
The stick in her hands was changing, though—becoming stronger, with no flex in the green wood. The point became sharper, sharper even than the knife she'd used to carve it.
After she'd used up the bigger chunk of wax, she grabbed the other stick and applied some wax, starting from the point.
Between the movement of the polishing and the warmth of the cave, she felt energized, like she might be able to go further. Her bicycle was at the edge of the Drylands, so if she got through the desert, she could cycle the rest of the way to Ystad.
She'd arm herself with the sticks and keep running, following the pink ribbons back to the road. Running was better than being trapped in a cave with no exit.
Opal started to tuck the orb back into her shirt in preparation for running out of the cave, but she froze.
She held the orb aloft, between her and something else.
She breathed in.
The daemon was at the cave entrance.
She stopped breathing.
It was inside the cave, with her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Max
When Sheriff Max regained consciousness, the crowd in front of West Shore Castle was already dispersing, covering their faces with scarves and hoods to avoid being identified—not that everyone didn't already know full well who they were.
Max's head was throbbing like a three hour drum solo.
Ocean gave her a hand up. “Good work, Boss,” he said. “That was quite the blast.”
“That wasn't us.”
He looked disappointed. “Darn. Because that was really cool. I had the strangest dreams when I was out. I dreamed I was flying with the great owls.” He waved his arms like wings.
Max squinted at the shadows around her. “Light a lantern, would you?”
A moment of cursing later, Ocean had the lamp up and running, illuminating an ugly sight.
The anti-witch group had fled the scene, effectively scared off by whatever blasting spell the witches had cast, but their damage was already done. A corner of the castle lay in ruins.
“They finally killed someone,” she said, observing the red splashes on the crumbled stones.
“Not in that section, they didn't,” he said. “I had a quick look around in there while you were napping.”
“But there's blood.”
“Jam,” he said. “That was a cold storage room.”
She bowed her head and gave a silent prayer of thanks. Even though there were no reported injuries yet, she was responsible for keeping the peace. She should have predicted this happening, and prevented the attack, rather than ride up as the catapult was being used for the third time. If anyone had been hurt, she'd never have forgiven herself.
Ocean gathered the nets they'd shot over the crowd. Much of the lovely landscaping at the front of the castle, from the rose bushes to the night-blossoming lilac, had been trampled. Forlorn triple-blooming tulip-bells lay smashed on the ground, no longer ringing their pretty bells.
Ocean said, “Should we go in through the smashed hole, or ring the front doorbell?”
“Doorbell seems more proper,” Max said.
Before approaching the door, they did a quick search of the gardens to make sure nobody wa
s injured.
The world seemed incongruously peaceful, as outdoor spaces often did after human violence. Nature didn't care about hate, not unless the hate set a fire.
Only the sheriff and her assistant remained to make noises in the night air, as well as some frogs in a nearby pond, beyond the shifting maze. The amphibians made their crocko-ribbit noises as though nothing unusual had happened, and to them, nothing had, except for the hour they'd all been unconscious. Frogs had their own worries, though, and were unconcerned by unscheduled naps.
On the front steps of the West Shore Castle, Ocean rang the doorbell, and sheriff and assistant stood, patiently waiting for someone to let them in.
Ocean said, “I feel like we should have brought something.”
“Like flowers or chocolates or a bottle of mead?”
He shrugged. “Something.”
The teenaged girl who opened the door was tall, with black hair and glowing, golden-hued skin. She wore a long, gray robe, and her eyes were huge with fear.
“Sheriff,” she said, and Max remembered the girl's name—Zara.
Max said, “As you're probably aware, there's been an incident.” They both glanced over at the catapult on the front lawn. “Or, several incidents.”
Ocean said, “Miss, does anyone inside require medical assistance?”
Zara shook her head, but didn't open the door to invite them in.
“Since we're here, I'd like to collect young Peter Barker,” Max said. “His mother appreciates whatever assistance you've provided, and I'll take him back to town with me.”
Zara still didn't budge.
“What about Opal Button? And Edwin Taxman? They were… uh, headed this way, and I presume they arrived earlier this afternoon.”
“They already left,” Zara said. She stepped back and closed the gap in the door.
Max did something she loved to do, which was put her foot in the door to prevent it from closing. Then she did the other thing she loved to do. She pointed at the shining, five-pointed star she wore on her vest. “As Sheriff of Ystad, I demand access to the premises, and to bring my assistant. Now, you can open the door nicely, or I can walk a few paces over and climb in over the rubble, but I won't be too pleased about it.”
Zara shuffled back, letting them in.
Max said, “Where is everybody?”
Zara swallowed hard. “On the roof.”
“Then, let's go to the roof.”
They trailed along behind Zara, through dimly-lit hallways. Glowing rats skittered along in front of them, and Ocean stopped to stare, wide-eyed, at the multi-legged insects crawling over the walls.
Max said to Ocean, “Don't touch anything.”
He'd been reaching for a glowing spider, but stuck his hands in his pockets.
As they walked, Max patted the hand-written letter in her pocket and started by asking some soft questions.
“So, Zara, any travel plans for the summer holiday? Maybe a sail around for some sightseeing?”
“I don't know,” Zara said.
Ocean gave Max a quizzical look, but didn't interrupt.
Max moved on, saying, “And your parents? They're still running the bakery in town, aren't they? I wouldn't imagine they get much of a break.”
“No,” Zara said, turning back briefly to give a shy smile. “Mom wants to travel, but Dad wants to wait for retirement, not that it'll ever happen.”
“I've always been curious about other cultures,” Max said. “And languages. What languages do you speak?”
“Just English. Languages aren't really my thing. I'm not like Delilah.”
“Oh?” Max said. “Does she speak anything exotic, like French, or Russian?”
“Both,” Zara said.
“So, was it young Delilah who was doing the translating for Edwin, when he was corresponding with the Russian girl?”
Zara stumbled on the staircase she was leading them up. “I don't know,” she said, not making eye contact.
“I think you do know,” Max said calmly as she climbed the stairs, her breathing getting louder from the effort. “I have a letter in my pocket, written in Russian. You know what I think? I think it was written by young Svetlana shortly before she was killed. I believe the letter may shed some light on what happened.”
Max would have continued with her theory, which she was making up as she went and rather pleased with herself about, but Zara had already crumbled. She sank down to sit on the steps and put her face in her hands, weeping, which was understandable, as she was only fifteen, and, as far as Max knew, not a sociopath.
The other witch, Delilah, had caught Max's attention back when she'd been teaching at the grade school, before she became sheriff. Even at seven, the pale, redheaded girl had been quiet and cruel, and classroom pets were always meeting their end when she was in charge of their care. Max had gone to the sheriff's department the year Delilah was accepted into the witches' program, and the idea of the little girl getting to do magic had been gnawing at the back of Max's mind for years. Power in the wrong hands never ended well.
Stopped on the staircase, Max said, “We can protect you,” as she patted Zara's shoulder.
Ocean gave Max a look that said he doubted that very much, and Max shrugged, though she wanted to believe it. What else could you say?
They were nearly at the top of the stairwell, and in front of them lay a door that led, presumably, to the roof. They had climbed at least five flights of stairs, by Max's count.
Zara looked up at them with glistening eyes. She whispered, “Don't go through that door.”
Ocean put his hand on the door's handle and looked back at Max. “Trap? I'm wearing my lucky underwear, so how about I go first?”
Max shook her head and drew her gun. “My friend, I adore you, but you're too cocky for your own good. Give the door a good push, then you duck down and wait for my all-clear.”
He nodded once. “Now?”
She held the gun up the way the previous sheriff had trained her to do. “Now.”
The door opened with barely a creak, and she stepped out onto the moonlit roof, sweeping the gun from side to side.
In amongst the potted plants was a writhing mass of people, held together with… vines? The lump was all women, the elder witches. A few were moving, so they were alive, which meant they could wait a few minutes.
A man was talking. Edwin. Max spotted him, seated on a bench, with one of the witches, both of them with their backs to the door.
He was saying, “You have to explain to her, that's not how love works. You can't make someone love you.”
The girl said, “I've tried. There's no talking to her, and she twists your words until you start to think you're wrong and she's right. I get so confused by her. Zara says we need to do what she says, or we're all dead.”
“Let's untie everyone,” he said. “You're only making things worse by letting this go on.”
Max steadied herself and shouted, “Freeze! Put your hands in the air!”
The two on the bench put up their hands as asked.
“Now Edwin, you stay right where you are. You, Carly, turn around!”
Carly turned slowly.
“Where's Delilah!”
Carly said, “What?”
“You heard me. Where's Delilah? I'm hoping we can talk her down and I don't have to shoot her, but I will shoot her, especially if she starts to cast some sort of magic.” As she was speaking, Max moved forward, closer to Edwin and Carly. She stumbled on something, low to the ground, and glanced down to see what she needed to step over.
Delilah, the pale witch, lay on the ground, her eyes closed and her red hair fanned out around her.
Max jumped back and pushed at Delilah with the tip of her boot, her gun trained down. “I don't know what you're playing at, but I will shoot you, Delilah. Now, get up slowly, and know that I have you in my sights.”
Edwin spoke to Max, saying, “Sheriff, she fainted there a little while ago, when I confronted her.
”
“Fainted? Well, that makes my job easier. Let's get her tied up. I know I've got something or other on me to do that, a cable tie, or zap strap, whatever they're called. Ocean? Ocean, where are you at? Come up here and help me subdue the young suspect. Ocean?”
Max turned to see what was taking the guy so long. She caught a glimpse of eyes as Zara came at her from the darkness of the doorway, and then something struck her head, hard.
As she crumbled to the ground, Max remembered that little Delilah had a best friend back at the school. The girl she'd been inseparable from was Zara.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Zara
One week earlier; the day of Opal's arrival to the island
Zara placed the cuts on her skin in a place the scars wouldn't be seen, across her abdomen. Delilah refused to cut herself, so Zara had to take double the pain. Carly wasn't with them, because there were some rules even she refused to break, and the ban on blood magic was one of them.
If someone had been in the woods near the cliffs on the east side of the island that day, they would have seen the two young witches appear suddenly, as if from air.
Delilah carried the supplies in a shoulder bag, and the girl was so frightened, she was practically cowering. As Zara got her bearings, Delilah glanced around fearfully, her hands shaking. Teleporting was off-limits magic, banned on the island, and so taboo that some witches didn't even believe the spell was possible.
They teleported straight from town, where moments earlier, they'd been questioned about the disappearance of some fireworks. Zara was not pleased with how easily her plan to intercept the Russian girl was nearly ruined. Stupid Carly had threatened everything with her little prank. They didn't even want fireworks, but as a result, Zara and Delilah had missed their planned train out to the woods.
In order to get to the spot in time to intercept Svetlana, they'd had to use some of their supplies on themselves, just to get there. Zara's stomach would be covered in cuts before the day was through.