Soulstice

by Simon Holt

  Reggie had finally gotten a look at herself in the side mirror of the sedan. The vision was shocking—a hole in the middle of her forehead, all the hair on the left half of her head shaved completely off, the rest a dark tangle. Her scalp riddled with welts from the electrodes. She ran her fingers along the bald side of her head.

  Aaron grabbed her hand.

  “It’ll grow back.”

  He parked the car on an isolated cul-de-sac near Reggie’s house. Quinn had fallen into a deep sleep, his breathing slow and even. Aaron and Reggie stood beside the BMW’s rear door and looked in at him. Reggie reached through the open window and found Quinn’s weak and fluttering pulse. He stirred, but didn’t wake.

  “I think he’s just exhausted,” Aaron said.

  “It might be worse than that.”

  “Well, we can’t take him to the ER in town, and I don’t want to risk any local phone calls,” Aaron said. “I’ll drive him to Boston.”

  “That’s over two hours away. And we can’t just dump him in the city—”

  “I know, Reg.” Aaron sighed. “I’ll bring him by a homeless clinic or a shelter, then call in a report to the cops that he’s there.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Park it in the school lot? Look, I’ll take care of it. Right now, you need to go home. Get cleaned up. Check in on Henry.”

  She nodded and hugged him before he clambered back in the car.

  “Aaron?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry… about everything. I was horrible, and so stupid.”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Thank you. For saving my life. Again.”

  Aaron grinned at her.

  “I’m getting pretty good at it, aren’t I? I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Try to get some sleep.”

  The car sped away, kicking up a cloud of dust. The morning was already getting hot and sticky against her skin. Sparrows and magpies argued in the brush. She needed to get home.

  Reggie cut through the woods and came out in her backyard. Treading stealthily, she came up onto the deck and opened the sliding glass door. Unlocked, thank God. She entered and closed it behind her without making a sound. With any luck, Dad was still asleep. She definitely needed to do something about her appearance. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed she was gone.

  She tiptoed across the kitchen and out into the hall toward the stairs. But as she passed the living room Dad called out to her.

  “Reggie.”

  He was sitting alone on the couch in the dim light. Reggie had no choice but to go to him.

  “Have you been here all night?” she asked meekly.

  “I have.” His eyes widened at the sight of his daughter, and he jumped to his feet. “Reggie—oh my God! Your head—what happened to you? Are you hurt?”

  Reggie felt so tired, so weary. She had no more lies left in her, no covers. She sank onto the sofa next to her father, and she could not stop the tears.

  Dad put his arms around her.

  “Please, Reggie. Did someone do this to you?”

  She nodded, sniffling.

  “Tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together.”

  Reggie hesitated only a moment more, then launched into the story of the Vours, from the first time she’d picked up Macie’s journal to Eben’s death less than an hour ago. Dad listened attentively, nodding and only asking the occasional question as she spun the tale of Sorry Night and told him the dark side of Cutter’s Wedge. It all came out in a rush, a torrent of words—but it felt so good to finally speak the truth that she couldn’t stop.

  Dad was silent for several minutes when she had finished. “So Mr. Bloch… he’s dead?”

  Reggie’s face constricted. “Yes.”

  “And Henry?”

  “I think he’s going to be okay, Dad. He’s strong.”

  “He sure is. And so are you.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” Reggie said. “They’ll come after me again. This isn’t finished. I don’t know how to keep fighting—”

  Dad pulled Reggie into a hug and held her tightly.

  “Oh, Reggie. Don’t you know that I’ll help you fight?”

  They stayed like that for a bit, and Reggie felt like she was five years old again, running to her father after waking from a nightmare. This nightmare wasn’t over, she knew, but maybe they could all make it through it, together.

  EPILOGUE

  Reggie slept the entire day. Dad had helped her up to bed and checked on her throughout the day, and finally near dusk brought a tray of food up to her room. The sight of his daughter lying there, so scarred and ravaged, nearly broke him. He sat down on her bed, and Reggie’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Hey, kiddo. I thought you should eat something. I brought you some soup.”

  Reggie smiled at him and sat up, taking the tray. The comforting aroma of steaming chicken noodle soup filled her nostrils.

  “Did you get a good sleep?” Dad asked.

  Reggie nodded. “Where’s Henry?”

  “He’s playing at a friend’s.” Dad fell silent, though it looked like there was more he wanted to say.

  “Dad, what is it?”

  “Reggie, I’m just—I’m just so sorry. This is all my fault. I had no idea what was going on.”

  “No, it’s not your fault. You can’t feel bad—the Vours have most people fooled.”

  Dad kneaded his hands together.

  “I don’t want you to worry. We’re going to get you the help you need.”

  Reggie took a bite of soup and stared at him questioningly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you took my sleeping pills, Reg,” Dad said, taking her hand. “And, God, look at your wrists. You’ve been cutting yourself. And this thing with your hair. You’ve been mutilating yourself to get my attention. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it earlier, Reggie. I was so preoccupied with Henry, no wonder you acted out.”

  Reggie pulled her hand away from her father.

  “Dad, no, I told you. Those pills were for Quinn. And my wrists—that’s from the cord that Dr. Unger tied them with. The Vours are real! Daddy, you have to believe me!”

  “I believe that you believe it,” Dad said. “We’re going to get you better, Reggie, trust me.”

  He glanced at the door, and Reggie followed his gaze. A man and a woman in Thornwood uniforms stood just outside her bedroom. They smiled pleasantly, and Reggie felt her insides churn.

  “No! No!” She jumped up, spilling the soup all over the bed. Her father got hold of her in his strong arms and held her close.

  “It’s going to be okay, baby girl. It’s going to be okay. I told you, I’m going to help you fight this.”

  Reggie bucked and thrashed against him, and the hospital staffers came forward. The woman held out a syringe.

  “This will calm you down, dear.” As Dad held Reggie, the woman plunged the needle into her arm.

  Reggie felt the medicine surge through her and her limbs became numb. She looked searchingly at her father.

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “I know you’ll hate me for a while, but we need to get you healthy,” said Dad. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room.

  Reggie went limp as the orderlies got her downstairs and onto a stretcher. They rolled her out to an ambulance parked in the driveway. She moaned and screamed incoherently, her cries disturbing the quiet evening street. A neighbor out for a jog eyed them suspiciously, and a homeless-looking man with ripped clothing and whitish blond hair stumbled down the sidewalk toward them.

  “Don’t worry, she’s okay,” Dad called to the neighbor. He peered at the homeless man as he staggered by. He wore a strange look of horror on his face, and Dad saw that he had a red gash across his throat. “She’s fine, buddy. Keep moving.”

  Reggie’s unfocused eyes fell on the man. She knew him. How did she know him? Then it hit her.

  “Help me!” she groaned. “Mac
h—”

  But before she could say any more, they loaded her inside the ambulance. Her father kissed her, and they slammed the doors shut. Tinted windows lit the ambulance with steely gray light, and an IV bag swayed over her head as they backed out onto the road. Through the window she thought she saw the man pull out a cell phone; he stared anxiously after the ambulance as it drove away.

  “The Tracers,” Reggie rasped with the last of her energy. “They know. Machen knows. Aaron will know. They’ll come for me.”

  “Try to relax,” the man said. He bent over her with another syringe. Reggie fought to keep her eyes open and saw him empty a hypodermic filled with swirling black liquid into her arm. It felt cold and filthy in her veins.

  Somebody help me! her mind screamed, but her lips wouldn’t form the words.

  “There, there,” cooed the woman. “It’s just a little shot. What are you afraid of?”

  The fear continues in BOOK 3 of

  THE DEVOURING

  COMING FALL 2010.

  WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?