by Sarah Diemer
You just have to be faster, Violet said.
Faster than what?
Surely not…
A sinking feeling drowns my ribs in a wave of fear as we come to the end of the long, low hall, dark save for the handful of Wisps knocking against glass bulbs affixed to the walls. Isabel’s hand is on the doorknob as she turns back to look at us, her grin chilling in the yellow-hued light.
“We have a courtyard at Black House, Lottie,” she whispers. “That's where we play." She nods toward the door beside her. "You run across the courtyard toward the other door, on the opposite side, and pass through it. You win when you get inside.”
"And you lose if you don't," Anthony snickers.
“This is so stupid. This is so stupid,” says Violet through clenched teeth. “We don’t have to do this, Lottie!”
Gerda sneers at Violet, then reaches behind her own back, undoing the buttons of her dress. She steps out of the smooth red garment, leaving it upon the floor like a shed skin, and straightens the thin white slip clinging to her body.
“I’ll go first,” she says, smiling widely. Anthony opens the door, and Gerda steps forward. We all do, peering behind her out of the door into the blackness. After a moment, my eyes adjust: I can see, across the small courtyard, the door Isabel was talking about, rounded at the top and built of dark wood, and clearly visible, even in the night.
We all seem to glance up at the same time, heads tilting back on our necks, eyes wide. My heart, knocking against my bones, doubles its efforts, hammering hard enough to hurt.
There, perched upon the roof, silhouetted against the absoluteness of night sky, is a Snatcher. That’s the only thing it could be, with that wicked curve of beak, its hooded wings hunched around its skeletal form, the white bones practically glowing in the darkness, like a contorted grin of moon.
Violet’s breath puffs out in quivering wheezes. “Don’t—” she begins, but Gerda yells out something unintelligible, something loud—perhaps a scream, or a battle cry—and then she darts out the door, bare feet thrusting her across the courtyard.
She’s starkly visible in her white shift, like a moving beacon of light, and instantly, the sharp shadow detaches itself from the Black House roof, wings arching as it dives toward her.
Until now, I've only glimpsed the Snatchers in fits of panic, tearing over earth and pavement to escape them, but here and now, sheltered by the doorway, I watch this creature, several times the size of Gerda, drop like a stone toward her, impossibly fast, certain to reach her before she flings herself through the opposite door. Its individual claws are jagged and longer than my hands, curving toward Gerda, poised to grasp. The wings are massive, feathered night, absorbing the feeble light, but it’s the skull that stills my roving eyes, that stops my heart's hammer.
There is nothingness where the Snatcher's eyes should be, and I wonder if it's to that sort of nothingness that they carry Sleepers, a place of nonexistence, of oblivion.
The beak unhinges like scissors snapping open, and the scream that arches out of the maw toward Gerda is a sick, sickle thing, caught upon the air, hanging there.
But Gerda is fast—faster than I thought—and, as the Snatcher lunges, she hurls herself through the closed door on the other side of the courtyard, gone.
She made it.
She won.
The Snatcher pulls up, pumping its wings so quickly that they churn up the thin dusting of snow, twigs, and dead leaves. It turns its head toward us, empty eyes seeking us out, as if it might try to pluck us out of the alcove, but before it changes course, Anthony slams the door shut.
There’s another scream, a terrible scream that saws through the wood of the door, and then all we can hear is a rush of wings buffeting the sky, rising, moving away.
“Oh, it’s angry tonight!” Isabel squeals, bouncing in place. Her eyes flash at me. “Who’s next?”
“I’m not going to do it.” Violet’s voice is shaking, but the words themselves stand firm in the air. Isabel turns toward her, mouth curved as she advances on the smaller, trembling girl.
I take a single step and stand between them, my hands fisted at my sides.
“She doesn’t have to take a turn. But I will,” I say, staring Isabel down. A strange, cool peace descends upon me, then, draping over my shoulders like a cloak. I uncurl my fingers, look down at my palms. Nothing has changed; the two black lines are there as before.
But something’s different… Clearer, sharper.
“I’ll go next,” says Anthony, shoving me aside, and then he’s wrenching the door open, tearing across the courtyard without a moment's pause.
Violet grips my arm, breathing fast, and she drags me down to her ear as Anthony bellows something I can’t quite make out, as the Snatcher takes off from its perch again, arcing toward him.
“Why are you doing this? You don’t have to do this,” Violet says, her voice rising up to a thin whine.
I shake my head once as Anthony reaches the opposite door. He has the nerve to yank it open, rather than just passing through. But he made it, escaped the Snatcher. He was fast enough.
Again, Isabel slams our door shut as the Snatcher turns, watching us with intention, and without eyes.
Violet's right.
I don’t have to do this.
Fear races across my skin, morphing and changing as Isabel begins to undo the zipper of her own dress, letting the blue, luminous thing puff down from her shoulders, revealing the pale blue slip beneath. I tug at the edges of my dress’s sleeves, my thin dress that clings to me, that I can still be fast in.
I’m afraid.
Of course I’m afraid.
But there's something else stirring within me, too.
Isabel wrenches the door open.
Outside, the Snatcher wheels over the courtyard, pumping its wings and screaming with poisonous sharpness into the Nox-black night.
“Are you coming?” asks Isabel, turning, eyes wide and goading in the darkness.
Violet lets my arm go, steps back, holding herself, and I move forward, my legs stiff beneath me, everything pounding—my blood, my breath—as I stand beside Isabel in the open doorway.
The Snatcher is curving overhead now, its maw open, the sound firing from its throat a cross between anger and pain. I notice something as it circles, as I stare: the top part of its right wing is crooked, like the structure beneath it was broken once, and healed.
I swallow, still staring. Somehow the imperfection makes the monster seem more real.
“Ready?” Isabel whispers, and all that I am intensifies, pinpointing and shifting until I hear her shriek, “Go!”
And I go. We go.
The light disappears as the darkness swallows me, gulping me down into the pitch-black night, my feet stumbling over the earth and rubble beneath. The sky tears overhead as a punch of wind pummels me, the thunderous whoosh of gigantic wings turning toward me, so loud in the stillness, loud like my heartbeat, like my breathing, like my boots connecting with little stones.
I run, moving through the thick blackness, pushing it away, refusing it—the dark and the fear—and a great joy moves through me: I’m fast. I’m going to be through the door in two breaths. I’m fast, faster than Isabel, faster than Anthony was, or Gerda, and I’m evading the Snatcher, the stupid, slow Snatcher, that could never dream of catching me, if Snatchers ever dream.
And I trip.
And I fall, sprawling, my chin banging against the ground in a great explosion of color and searing pain as I tumble end over end until I land on my back, staring up at the absoluteness of black and the slash of white that moves through the darkness toward me.
I've lost.
Isabel's already passed through the door, has opened it from the other side, is peeking out at me.
It’s going to get me. I recognize that distantly, as if from a place outside of myself. I can’t move, pushed flat to the ground by the force of the wings. I hear, far away, Violet screaming: “Lottie! Lottie, get up!�
� But I can't get up, so I simply stare up and up and up at the Snatcher, at the holes in its skull, its eyeless gaze pinning me. I want to shut out its searing whiteness, its crushing blackness, but I can’t… I can only watch, breathing in and out, as it spreads its wings and alights upon the tattered awning that arches above the door in the courtyard, causing Isabel to gasp and close the door further, so it's only open a crack, her large eye peering out.
I sit up, panting.
The Snatcher…landed.
It spreads its wings, stretching them overhead, shaking them out. Black feathers glisten in the halfhearted light filtering out from the hallway where Violet stands, gaping.
The Snatcher stares down at me, still, claws gripping the awning ribs.
It stays there, unmoving. It does nothing.
It doesn't come for me.
I hear footsteps pounding against the ground as I rise to my feet, keeping the Snatcher in front of me. Violet collides with my shoulder, gripping my arm so tightly that the pain jolts me awake, out of my trance. She tugs on me with a strangled sob, and I back away slowly, dragged every step by Violet. The Snatcher watches me, head and beak tilted to the side, the hollows of its eyes empty and black and pure nothingness, but watching me all the same, until it turns its head toward Violet, and it rises on its haunches, as if it's about to leap, to dive again.
Violet heaves me back through the door I ran out of, banging its solid weight shut behind us, making it rattle on its loose hinges.
She presses her head to my shoulder, squeezing me tight, sobbing.
Three forms move down the hallway toward us, and even in the blur of silent hysteria, I recognize them: Gerda, Anthony and Isabel, having come around Black House from the other side of the courtyard.
I stand, waiting for them, strangely still, as Violet weeps against me.
Isabel, looking thin but fierce in her short blue slip, marches up to me, whispers, “What are you?”
Fear brightens her eyes as she watches me carefully, back against the wall, her friends gaping beside her.
I don't speak, look away, patting Violet’s shoulder gingerly.
Outside in the night, beyond the door, the Snatcher screams, and I listen to it, my body and my heart numb.
Chapter Four: Harming
Isabel won’t even look at me.
I huddle in a corner of the ballroom in Black House, arms clasped around my knees. I watch the Sleepers mingle, hands on shoulders, lips on cheeks, on lips, touching one another, laughing as they bring out small pairs of shears that gleam in the light of the Wisps. I watch as they cut their hands, as they press delicate black feathers against the oozing wounds, as—instantly—the Sleepers become writhing creatures, bizarre creatures, arching upon the floor until they still, slumped and unconscious, their mouths fixed with eerie smiles.
Then, after a few moments, they shake themselves, come back into themselves, get up, eyes tear-filled, murmuring about how beautiful, how altering, how important it was, that Mem.
How worth it.
And how they must have another.
Isabel is on the other side of the room, speaking with Miss Black, whose mouth cuts a small, still line across her face. Her dark eyes narrow as they settle upon me, measuring me up.
Beside me, in a quivering heap, Violet pillows her head in her arms. She's staying near me, her hip pressed against mine. But she won’t look at me, either.
I wish Charlie were here.
How long will it take her and Edgar to Fetch for two houses? Have they been gone too long? Should we be worried about them? Should someone go search for them?
I start to ask Violet, but the words catch in my throat at the sight of tears slipping from the corners of her eyes.
My insides turn and twist; it's sickening, uncomfortable, and I can’t find any comfort, anything good to think about, anything else to think about besides the fact that the Snatcher refused me.
It refused me.
That’s what I heard Isabel say when she went running back into the ballroom, straight to Miss Black.
I was refused. By a monster.
My thoughts spin in tight, dull circles, rehashing every detail I remember, from the beginning, from the stream and the woods. And Charlie.
She found me in an odd time and place.
Nox doesn’t work on me, doesn't do anything for me.
I can’t Mem.
And the Snatcher didn’t even want me, though I lay defenseless and immobile, the perfect prey.
What does that make me? What am I?
Isn’t that what Isabel asked me, back to the wall, her eyes—normally slitted, scornful—wide with fear?
What are you?
I don’t know. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know…
My forehead against my sleeve, eyes tightly closed, I’m so lost in my downward spiraling thoughts that I don’t hear the front door creak open, don't feel her, Charlie, come back into Black House, back into the sanctuary of Snatcher-proof walls and doors.
But the Sleepers in the ballroom—those who aren’t Memming, anyway—welcome the returning Fetchers with a congratulatory shout.
I open my eyes.
Edgar and Charlie stand together beneath the archway, a frightened man held between them, his eyes wider and darker than the hollows in a Snatcher’s skull. He struggles in their grasp, and Charlie drops his arm, moving into the room to lean against the wall, panting. But Edgar grins, letting the man go, too, and whispering something near Charlie's ear, patting her on the shoulder. She returns his smile, though hers is tired, fleeting.
I gaze at the man, the new Sleeper, as he staggers on stiff legs, taking in the sights before him with haunted eyes. I wonder if he'll ever stop shaking.
I have stopped shaking, though I feel so numb inside, I can't feel much of anything, besides a cold, deep-lodged dread. Still, I'm glad for Charlie, relieved that she's back safe and that the Fetching, this time, was a success.
Violet is on her feet in a heartbeat, practically vibrating in place as she reaches down, taking me by my hands and dragging me up to my feet, too.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she murmurs, dropping my hands, crossing over to Charlie, leaving me behind, leaning against the wall. I’m too tired to argue with her, though I know Charlie will tell her no. We can't leave, not now.
Charlie and Violet…they’re normal Sleepers, and normal Sleepers have to fear the Snatchers. Normal Sleepers don’t go out at night, ever, except to Fetch.
Because that's just how things work in Twixt.
For everyone, it seems, except me.
That first Snatcher, when I woke up beside the stream… Was it after Charlie, then, never me? And last night, the Snatcher only took the new Sleeper, only her.
Too many questions scrape at the edges of my heart. I want to test it. I want to walk out the front door right now, challenge the Snatchers that must circle above Black House in the darkness, waiting, watching. Patient. Hungry for Sleepers.
Violet whispers something in Charlie’s ear, whispering fast and forcefully, and Charlie's brown eyes, hooded with exhaustion, go wide. She straightens her back, her wondering gaze finding me across the room, and I can’t bear it, the way her forehead is wrinkling now, the way her mouth opens, though no words pass her lips.
I need to tell her myself, need to talk to her myself. So I push off from the wall, move across the floor, taking small steps, biting my lip, twisting my fingers together, trying to hide the black lines in my palms from my—and her—sight.
“You played Faster?” Charlie asks, her gaze skipping over me as she runs a hand through her hair when I step closer, as if she's nervous. “Lottie, you could have been—What were you thinking?”
It comes out, all in a rush, before I can stop or second-guess myself. “I tripped, and the Snatcher came after me. It didn’t want me, Charlie, didn’t take me,” I whisper as Violet grips Charlie’s arm, nodding her head, insistent.
Charlie stares. At me. She’s sur
prised, at first, but then it's unmistakable. What was written so plainly on Isabel’s face is spelled out on Charlie's features now. Except Charlie tries to hide it, to spare my feelings.
But I see it. It’s there.
Fear.
For a split second, Charlie is afraid of me.
“Don’t—” Charlie whispers, grasping at my wrist as I push past her and Violet and Edgar, angling for the front door. “Lottie, listen to me.”
I do listen, pausing as she tightens her fingers on my wrist. My heart pounds.
“It’s all right,” she tells me, though she doesn’t sound as if she believes anything's all right, and it's not. I know it's not. I breathe out, clenching my jaw, staring down at the ground. The single tear that escapes my right eye traces down my cheek, and in that heartbeat, Charlie steps forward, drawing me to her, squeezing tightly.
I choke back a sob.
Maybe I’m afraid, too.
“What’s wrong with me?” I whisper, so that only she can hear. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, holds me tighter. “I promise, we’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll figure it out together.”
I close my eyes, bury my nose in her shoulder. She smells of metal, of cold night air. I inhale, sigh.
“Trouble…” Edgar mutters, and I straighten, stepping back from Charlie, wiping the tear from my chin as Miss Black and Isabel approach. Miss Black’s jaw is set, but Isabel’s eyes still betray her fear, and she curves away from me, leaning toward the wall.
“Charlie,” says Miss Black, clipping the word, “what is she?” Right to the point. I stare at the black lace fan angled toward me, now shut tightly, as if it might be used as a weapon.
“She’s a Sleeper, Miss Black,” says Charlie, slipping her hand into mine.
“The Snatcher refused her. That does not happen. You know that does not happen.” The words are spoken with finality, as Miss Black shakes her head. “She cannot stay in my Safe House. Whenever anything…changes in Twixt, terrible, terrible things follow behind. You know that as well as I do, my dear. She must leave. Presently.”