A shiver rippled through his thin frame. He snapped the book shut with a frustrated grunt, and stood. May as well go to bed. It was hopeless to figure out what was happening, and what creatures might be out there. There were too many possibilities.
He pulled the curtains open a crack and peered out. The back yard was still empty. He slid the sash open, unzipped his pants and peed out into the back yard, and as quickly as he could manage zipped up and closed and locked the window again. He started to unbutton his shirt to change for bed, but his hand froze as he worked the top button.
Because something had said his name.
“What?” His own voice sounded airy, weightless.
Ben.
“What?”
There’s something you must do before you sleep.
“Who are you?”
One of the things in your book, but one who means you no harm.
His heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribcage. “Which one are you?”
There was a hint of amusement in the response. I think I will leave that for you to discover for yourself.
“Why are you helping me?”
Because it is what I do. The same as all the other creatures. We all act according to our natures.
“I know. That’s what Lissa and I thought.”
You were right. And now you have a task to do.
“I tried to,” he whispered. “I can’t figure out who all the monsters are, and why they’re here. I’m not smart enough.”
Not that. There is something else, and only you can do it.
“What, then?”
You know that Jackson is planning to hurt some of the others.
“Lissa and Z.”
Them especially. But he won’t stop there. He’s waiting for a sign, a sign that is soon to come, and he will start.
“Ragnarok.”
That is the name that some have given it. It will do.
“What can I do about it, though?”
You must stop him.
“Me? How? He has a gun.”
He is asleep now, in your friend’s house, in an upstairs room. You are quiet, and know how to slip in. You and your friend did it many times, remember?
“The outside cellar door.”
Yes. It is unlocked. Jackson has not discovered it yet.
“Why do I need to get into the house?”
You need information about what he is planning. The others will not act on your word alone. They need proof. It is there, in the house.
“The notebook.”
Yes.
“Gareth talked about it. What’s written in it?”
Enough to tell the others what Jackson is planning. To allow them to take steps to stop him when the time comes.
“Where is it?”
Usually he is careful to put the notebook back into his backpack, and bring it into the room where he sleeps. But tonight, he and the woman argued, and he became angry, and his anger made him forget it on a side table near the front door. He brought his backpack up to his room, but has yet to discover his mistake. You must go into the house, get the notebook, and bring it back.
He frowned into the shadows. “Who are you?”
There was no response, but near him, almost close enough to touch, a column of iridescence appeared, shining, hanging in the air. As he watched, it formed itself into the shape of a woman only a few inches taller than he was. She had flaming red hair tied with a bright green ribbon, slanted green eyes, and ears that tapered to points. She was barefoot. Her clothing was gauzy and emerald green, and fluttered slightly as he watched, even though there was no wind.
“You’re another one of them,” he breathed.
Yes.
“So you’re not all evil monsters.”
Do I look like one?
“No.”
She smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. Well, then.
“How long do I have?”
I cannot be certain. He wakes during the night sometimes, and he will quickly realize that he has mislaid it.
“What about the other things that are out there?”
The other evil monsters, you mean? There was mockery in her clear, bell-like voice, but she was still smiling.
“Yes.”
There are none close by the house at the moment. I cannot guarantee how long that will be the case, however. I do not control them, nor am I all-knowing.
He should ask more questions, but he thought about Jackson, asleep in Jimmy Acosta’s house, and the secret notebook in which Gareth had seen him so furiously scribbling. He pictured what would happen if he got there, picked up the notebook, then turned to see Jackson standing there, gun drawn….
He nodded. It was with some surprise that he heard his own voice say, “Okay. Sure. I’ll do it.”
Go through your window. There is too much chance of meeting someone if you go through the front of the house, and they will ask questions, try to stop you.
“Okay.”
A hundred questions bounced through his mind. How did she know all this? Why did she expect him to trust her, just like that? Why was she helping him at all? Was she trying to lure him into a trap?
What you must do, you must do quickly. Her voice had an edge of anxiety to it, and he pushed his questions aside.
He picked up his flashlight, then pulled the curtains open, lifted the sash, and climbed out, making sure not to drop his bare feet on the place he’d peed on earlier. Then he looked up, and saw her spectral radiance glinting from the glass in the window.
I will follow behind, unseen, as far as I can.
He padded through the back yard, down the tile path in front of their swimming pool, then back onto grass. He jumped over the little raised bed garden that marked the border between the Ingersolls’ yard and the Acostas’. Then along the side of the house, to the slanted pair of doors Jimmy’s dad told him had once been a coal chute, back in the days when there’d been a coal-burning stove to heat the house and cook over. He grabbed one of the handles and pulled.
Just as she’d said, it was unlocked. He looked down into the inky darkness of the basement, which in the day would be Mister Acosta’s friendly and familiar woodworking shop. He shone the flashlight’s weak beam down the hole. It illuminated almost nothing.
What if Mister Acosta left his toolbox on the floor, and he landed on it, and there was a loud crash? It was much harder to get up through those doors than down through them.
He squinted, but still couldn’t see anything more than about three feet away. The darkness in the basement absorbed the light as if it were a real substance, something cloudy and shadowed and heavy.
He sat down on the edge of the coal chute, swiveled on his butt until he was feet-first, and let himself slide down onto the cool concrete of the basement floor.
There were no obstructions. Mister Acosta had been something of a neat-freak, and Ben’s feet didn’t even contact the roughness of a splinter or a stray flake of wood. He felt his way forward. At the far end of the room was a staircase, covered with indoor-outdoor carpeting, and at the top a door that opened into the utility room.
Every squeak of the floorboards sounded impossibly loud in the silence, and he waited to hear footsteps coming to investigate. None came. He turned the door handle as quietly as he could manage, and the door swung on noiseless hinges.
The utility room opened onto the kitchen. At least here, there was some moonlight to guide his feet. He smelled the smoky scent of chilis, and it made tears start in his eyes. Missus Acosta grew and dried her own varieties of chili peppers— the kitchen always held a trace of the fragrance.
But now, it would fade away. Disappear, just like they had. Gone, vanished into nothing.
He forced his thoughts into another track. Save the memories for later. He had a job to do.
Through the living room, and then into the foyer. He knew exactly the table the red-haired woman was talking about—he’d put his shoes under it whenever he visited Jimmy. Missu
s Acosta was a stickler for no shoes in the house.
There, on the top of the table, was the notebook.
He swallowed hard, and looked around, half expecting his earlier imaginings would have come true, and he’d be facing the dark eye of a gun barrel. But no one was there, and there were no sounds from upstairs. He picked up the notebook and retraced his footsteps, trying hard not to run, concentrating on setting each foot down as quietly as possible.
Back through the kitchen and utility room, down the stairs into the workshop, and up to the rectangular opening of the coal chute, visible as a slightly lighter space against the interior darkness. He knew how to get out—he’d done it before. Climb on the work bench, reach up and grab the lip of the door, and shimmy up the wall. It wasn’t hard.
It remained to be seen if he could do it silently.
He tossed the notebook up through the opening and heard a clunk as it landed on the grass. Clambering onto the work bench, he caught the lower door frame and used the roughness of the stucco wall to give his feet purchase as he pulled himself up until his belly was across the lip, his body half in and half out of the house.
He tumbled out onto the grass, then sat, waiting for the inevitable shout of “Who’s there?” or “Hey, you, what are you doing?” Or, worse, the report of a gun. Nothing happened. He picked up the notebook and stood, brushing grass clippings off his butt. He turned around and quietly shut the door to the coal chute.
There was a distant crash, like the breaking of a glass. He whirled around. The noise came from Jimmy’s house—perhaps from the living room, which faced the other direction—but it meant someone was awake. He froze, teetering on the edge, not sure whether to hide or to flee.
Then a voice spoke.
You found it.
At that moment, he was really glad he’d peed earlier, because he was pretty sure he’d have wet his pants if he hadn’t.
It was the voice of the red-haired elf woman.
He struggled to get his breathing back under control. “Yes.”
Good. Go, quickly. Back to the house. Do not hesitate. Show the others the notebook. You know which ones.
“Z and Lissa.” He was already running toward the hedge that formed the boundary between his yard and Jimmy’s, knowing that in its black shadow he would be less visible.
Yes. They need to be forewarned. It will still be difficult, what they must do, but at least, with some knowledge, they will—
The voice stopped as if it had been cut off with a switch.
“They will what?” The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He tried again. “They will what?”
Silence.
“Hey? Are you still there?”
All he heard was the sighing of the wind in the trees, the distant murmur of the ocean.
He turned and jogged lightly back down the driveway, trying to keep himself calm, but by the time he got to the raised bed garden, he was running full-tilt. He leapt across it and dodged around a lilac bush. The window of the guest bedroom was still open, beckoning him, the curtains fluttering in the spectral moonlight.
A bony hand clapped across his mouth, and another came across his chest. The notebook flew from his hands and landed face down on the grass. He was twisted around, unable to make any sound but muffled whimpers, until he was looking up into the malign, wrinkled face of an impossibly old woman with a checkered scarf, a long nose, and a pointed chin. She gave him a toothless smile, and then lifted him without any apparent effort, tucked him under one arm, and turned away into the night.
6
THEY TURNED AWAY from the blind woman, hardly daring to take comfort from her words. For she had said that they had a chance, that some might come forth from the forest and see the light of day. And only those who found their own strength would find the gate at the other side.
Hours slipped into days slipped into weeks. When their water ran low, they always found a dark stream from which to fill their water skins; when they had no food, a tree laden with fruit would hang over the path, or one of their archers would stumble upon a deer that seemed to stand waiting to be shot. The forest was caring for them, some said, but others knew better. The powers that had stood there from time immemorial had their own reasons and their own knowledge, and no love of humans. For every traveler who slept soundly after filling his belly on fresh apples and roasted deer meat, there was another who went down to the river to drink and was never seen again, or who stepped aside from the path for a moment and vanished like a night breeze.
—
WAKE UP.
Jackson opened his eyes, instantly on alert, but he had been so soundly asleep he couldn’t at first figure out who had spoken.
Get up. Now.
A thrill of fear pulsed through his body. The Voice in the Place Where The Answers Are had never spoken to him before without his going to seek it. What was this?
He swung his bare legs out of bed, stood, and walked to the window. The bedroom he shared that night with Olivia looked out over the Acostas’ back yard. He scanned it, looking for something moving in the moonlight, something that would explain why the Voice had come to him that night.
“What do you want?”
No response.
The ghostly grayscape below was still. The sea breeze blowing in through the half-opened window raised goose bumps on his chest and arms. He stood at attention, waiting for further information, every muscle in his body tense as a bowstring.
He was waiting for the Voice to speak, but when it did, he still jumped at how it cut through the silence.
Go downstairs.
He glanced over his shoulder at Olivia. She was a formless lump under the covers, only the barest movement showing the slow pace of her breathing.
“I’ll get dressed—”
He felt the slap coming right before it landed—a disturbance in the air as an invisible hand swung toward his face. There was no sound, but his head rocked back, and he raised his own hand to his stinging cheek.
No. Fool. You have already delayed too long. As you stand there, your chance to stop him is dwindling.
“Stop him? Stop who?” He was already marching toward the open bedroom door, his feet silent upon the carpet.
The boy. While you slept, he has crept into the house.
A sweat broke out on his shoulders. Ben? Why would Ben break into the house in the middle of the night?
He reached the bottom of the stairs, a dark corner the faint moonlight could not illuminate. He felt his way forward, splayed fingers brushing a wall, a hung photograph, a recessed shelf. They slipped over the surface of something cool and glassy—a vase or a bottle, most likely—and a moment too late, he reached out blindly to grab it. It teetered, then fell to the floor and shattered.
He stopped, held his breath, listening for movement. All was silent.
Clumsy idiot. Can you be trusted with nothing?
“I didn’t mean to—” He stopped. No. Making excuses was for the weak. He stiffened his backbone. “Where do I need to go?”
Outside. The boy is already running back to his house. Follow him.
“I’m naked.”
The Voice held a sneer. Which is more important? To stop him, or to risk someone seeing your skin?
He swallowed, took a step toward the door, and found one of the shards of glass with his heel. He winced, reached down, and touched the spot. It was already sticky with blood, and the sharp edge of the splinter protruded from his skin. He pulled at it. It came out, and he flicked it away.
A cool hand pressed into the small of his back, propelling him forward.
Go! Fool! You have nearly missed your chance already!
He made it to the door without any further injuries. The click of the bolt shooting back was loud in the silence. He peered out, his habit of caution doing battle with the urgency of the Voice’s commands. The front porch was empty. He stood for a moment, his cut heel already aching, the chilly breeze brushing his bare skin.
“Where?
”
Where do you think the child will go? Back to his house and his friends.
“Why am I after him?” He was already trotting down the stairs and onto the dew-covered grass of the front lawn.
The Voice answered, He has taken the notebook.
Adrenaline gushed into his bloodstream. “What? How?”
But he knew. The memory of that afternoon came flooding back. After he spent an hour on the front porch writing, Olivia had come down into the living room, repentant for her part in their argument.
“Come on.” She’d taken his hand, pulling him to rise from the chair on the porch. He let her succeed. He needed to still any talk they might have about his motives.
He was aware Gareth had seen him writing earlier. The Voice had warned him the other man was watching, that the amiable and harmless-looking young doctor was far more aware than he seemed, and had already grown suspicious even after an acquaintance of less than a day.
If Gareth knew, it was likely the others knew. He didn’t seem the type to keep his worries secret. And that meant it was not time to cut ties with Olivia. He needed an ally, and she was still useful as a link to human needs and drives, as a way of making him seem like one of them.
“I’m sorry I upset you earlier,” she said. “It’s dinner time. Aren’t you hungry? I bet the others are eating.”
He nodded. “You’re right, I’m hungry. We should go.”
But he had still been holding the notebook. He briefly considered going up to put it back into his pack, but that would look odd, would draw her attention to it.
So he put it on the little table right inside the front door, intending to retrieve it after dinner, and had completely forgotten to do so. Now Ben had broken into the house and found it, taking advantage of not one but two mistakes—leaving the notebook where it could be found, and not securing the house before he went to bed. What door or window had he left unlocked? He was certain he’d checked them all.
He’d fucked up. The knowledge washed over him like an icy flood. There was a flaw in the elaborate machine he’d created and called a self, a crack in the finely-tuned clockwork. The knowledge he could make such a catastrophic pair of mistakes was as deeply horrifying as the much more present danger Z or Lissa might read what he’d written.
The Fifth Day Page 29