by Alex Gordon
No getting out, period.
You didn’t tell her. Blaine held a shadow walking stick, which he used to point at Lauren Reardon’s Outback. Matthew’s daughter. You could have told her all about me. You could have told her all the things you did, you and Matthew and Constance. James and Virginia. All the little tricks you pulled to try and stop me.
“We did stop you.” Loll reached into his coverall pocket. It was still there, the wire circlet, the charm that Matt had taught them to make. The others had stopped using them after Matt left, said that they didn’t do any good. But he had always kept one with him. The Lady’s all-seeing eye. A poor substitute for the crows that had abandoned them, the good part of the world that had cast them aside. But now it was all he had. “We did stop you.”
Only until Matthew Mullin deserted you, and you realized how small was your power without him. I simply allowed myself a chance to heal, and bided my time.
Loll pulled out the circlet, which he had fashioned from a piece of coated wire. It had looked brand-new when he put it in his pocket a few hours before. But now the red plastic sheath had faded, cracked away in places. “At least I’m alive.” He let the thing drop to the floor, hoped the fear that twisted his stomach didn’t reveal itself in his voice. “Alive, like you want to be and can’t ever be.”
For now.
“She can’t save you—she doesn’t know anything. Matt never taught her.”
She is intelligent, and she has power. She can learn.
“Who’s going to teach her?” Loll surveyed the garage. He had turned off half the overhead lights to save money, and he sensed movement in darkened corners, heard the skitter of running feet. Tiny feet, light as feathers, quick as rats. “It’ll take years. You don’t have the patience.”
I’ve waited almost two hundred years. What’s a few more? Blaine pushed away from the doorjamb, his coat flowing around him as though he moved underwater. But I do need to begin, and you know what that means, don’t you, Richard?
Loll took up the hammer again, kept it below the level of Phil’s truck to hide it from sight. “No, I don’t—why don’t you tell me.”
It’s too late, Richard—put down the hammer. The smile in that voice, as hard as a fist. You should have told her everything when you had the chance, but you let your hatred of her father stop you. So predictable. I could set my watch by you, if I needed one.
Loll started to edge around the back of the truck. Stopped. The footsteps had slowed—he could hear them, soft on the cement floor but growing louder, from whisper to murmur, as though someone crept toward him.
Someone. Or something.
Are you thirsty, Richard? A flicker of black, and Blaine stood in the center of the garage. Perhaps you would like a drink before we continue.
Loll caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned just as a small figure emerged from the shadow of the second pickup. Little Bella Petersbury, long brown hair in ringlets, the lacy hem of her white dress dragging on the floor. “Unca! Unca!” She tottered toward him, cradling a bottle of whiskey like a doll.
Loll backed away. He thought Bella a ghost at first. But then he saw the shadow trailing after her. “She’s dead. She’s at Petrie’s, on a table. Connie picked out the coffin. White lined with pink. She came here after and told me all about it and she cried and cried.” He wadded the rag and threw it, hitting the child in the face. “Get away from me.”
Bella stopped. Blue lips quivered, and tears spilled down her sunken cheeks. “Unca?” She held out the bottle. “I haffa gif’ for you.”
Loll stared at the honey-brown liquid, his mouth watering even as anger gripped him. He raised the hammer, but stopped when Bella cringed.
Go ahead, Richard. Hit her. Blaine leaned against Reardon’s Subaru, cane swinging back and forth like a metronome. She still has form and substance. You could hurt her if you tried. Just pretend you’re Lucas. Pretend she’s you.
Loll stepped back as Bella once again drew closer. Her eyes shone too dark and cold, and her hands looked more adult than child, the fingers longer and thinner, the nails red and tapered. “What the hell did you do to her?”
Nothing she did not wish done.
“What the hell can she wish for? She’s a baby.”
If it comforts you to believe that, then by all means do so. Blaine pointed his stick toward Bella. Look at her. Look at that baby. The light in her eyes—it’s positively feral. He laughed, the deep, rich toll of a funeral bell. Give me a child until she is seven, and I will give you such cruelty as you have never seen. But I don’t believe it will take that long with this one—she possesses a certain predisposition.
“Takes after her mama, you mean,” Loll muttered. A slinky little bitch, Ashley Petersbury. One of Jorie Cateman’s pack. Like mama, like daughter. He looked at the hammer in his hand, felt the pain of long-healed wounds. Like father, like son.
Now you understand. Blaine cocked his head, shadows swirling like an oil slick on water. I don’t change people, Richard. I simply encourage what’s already there. Like a gardener, coaxing tiny shoots until they flourish and bloom. A shift of light, and he stood within arm’s length.
Loll tried to back away, but his feet felt stuck in place. His breathing quickened as he fought whatever held him. It had gotten colder—his hands ached from it. It had grown darker as well. Blackness filled each corner and crevice of the garage and streamed across the ceiling, the floor, like shadows cast by things unseen.
I so wanted it to be James Petersbury to tempt you. Blaine stood shoulder to shoulder with Loll now. He had been your friend for so long. He knew your struggles well. It would have amused us so, to watch him lead you back down the tangled path. You’re the least of them, Richard. Son of a brutish drunkard, a brutish drunkard yourself. What resistance can you muster? What wondrous feats could you possibly perform? A hint of a face became visible in the murk, the gnarled features of a damned thing. Give up. Give in. Accept your fate.
Loll stood still as the words battered him. He looked down at the thing that had been Bella—she smiled up at him, baby teeth black and dull as old oil, and held out the bottle.
“Uncle.” Her voice came clearer now, darker and deeper. A woman’s voice.
Loll took the bottle—the glass felt greasy, gritty, as though it had sat collecting dust on some shelf for years. He tried to read the label, but the lettering shuddered and smeared into a blurred mess. But the cap twisted off like any other, and the whiskey smelled like every lost day he had ever forgotten until that moment.
He raised the bottle, tipped his head back. One swallow. Another. Then he filled his mouth with as much as it would hold, spat it in Blaine’s face, hurled the bottle at Bella. “Go to hell,” he shouted over the child’s wail as he ran past them, through the garage to the office and out the door.
Night. No stars or moon, no lights from the diner, the hardware store. Icy rain stung Loll’s face, ran into his eyes, down his neck, and inside his coverall. He slowed to a trot and tried to close his jacket, but his fingers had gone numb and he couldn’t feel the zipper to close it.
Run. He let the jacket flap open and picked up speed. Down the road, past darkened houses. How could it be night already? Where had the time gone? Blaine. Matt had tried to explain to them how he could play with time, wind it and unwind it like string on a reel.
Loll pressed a hand to his side, the stitch that knifed him with every stride. He sucked in air, great frigid mouthfuls, but his lungs still burned. His leg muscles. Run, you old drunk. Down Main Street, toward Old Main Road. If he could get out of Gideon, he’d be all right. If he could get out—
Shortcut. Through the woods. It would trim a half mile, maybe more, and he needed all the help he could get. Fat, that’s what he was. Lungs full of cigarette smoke. Shoulda drove. Stolen Phil’s truck. Too late now.
Too late.
“Didn’t tell her nothin’.” Loll huffed, every word a gasp. “What good—would it do?” He splashed along t
he river for a good fifty yards, hunting for a narrow spot where he could cross. Found one and waded in, felt the current tug at his ankles like claws.
One step. Another. Then rocks shifted under his weight and he stumbled, fell, howled as something sharp cut into his knee. Scrambled to his feet and limped to the opposite bank, arms outstretched for balance.
Warmth flowed down Loll’s leg. Blood. He had hurt himself bad, but he had to keep running. Otherwise, he would catch him, and that would be worse than bad.
So hot. Night had turned to day again. No more rain. Only sun, the heat of summer. Loll pushed himself despite the pain, the ragged ache in his chest. Branches whipped his face and snagged his T-shirt, caught on the pockets of his shorts. He looked down, caught a glimpse of chubby knees scabby with mosquito bites, the fresh gash bright against his pasty skin.
Then he heard, coming up fast from behind. The crash of branches and the grunting. The curses.
“The woods won’t hide you, you little bastard.”
Faster. If he could reach Old Main Road, he’d be okay. If he could—if he could—
“Come back here and take your punishment like a man!”
The crack of leather sounded. That meant the belt. A snake of brown cowhide, a silver buckle like a snap trap.
“I am going to air you out. Do you hear me, boy?”
Keep running—that was the trick. If he stopped, his father would catch him. If he stopped.
Don’t stop—never stop—keep running through the trees and over the fence. He jumped across the ditch and out onto the road and into the light—
—bright, bright light, bright as the sun—
—and heard a horn like the howl of an animal, headlights bearing down like two glowing eyes—
CONNIE WATCHED LOLLY cross the river. He changed as he passed over the water, from his grown-up self on one side to a young boy on the other. That was Blaine’s doing, of course. He controlled the woods now. Soon he would control Gideon itself, and that would be that. The end of everything.
She called out to Lolly even though she knew he couldn’t hear. Asked the Lady to take care of him, even though she knew it made no difference. Moments later, she heard the screech of air brakes, felt the shudder of impact as though her own body had been struck. Felt wetness course down her cheek, touched it, tasted it. Tears. Still human enough to cry. Some comfort there, at least. She hadn’t become one of them yet.
“Gone like his daddy.”
Connie looked toward the riverbank, the shade that flickered like dark flame. “How would you know? Lucas Loll died before you were born.”
The thing that had been Ashley Petersbury stepped into what passed for the light. “I know everything now. All your secrets. Everything you and ol’ Jimbo used to hide from me because you thought I was too stupid to understand.” She looked like something from the covers of the vampire books she had once devoured, too-thin and lank-haired, her skin white as bleached bone. “I even know more than Jorie now. I should visit her some night, surprise her.”
“She might turn out to be more than you bargained for, missy.” Connie edged away from the riverbank even though the current streamed colder than any she had felt so far. Ashley had been obnoxious enough when alive. That she had gotten even worse after death just didn’t seem possible. “Jorie Cateman’s a spiteful little thing, but Leaf wouldn’t have married her if she didn’t have talent.”
“He promised that I would be more powerful than her. That was my gift for helping to bring him ol’ Jimbo, because I’m his favorite.”
“If you’re his favorite, why ain’t you with him? Why’d he take little Bella instead of you?”
Ashley’s chin tilted up and she folded her arms, like a stubborn child refusing to eat her peas. “He’s saving me for something special.”
“He’s saving you, all right.” Connie felt the water, which had turned thick as syrup in places. Red as blood. Just ol’ Lumpy, she figured, letting her know that he knew what she was up to.
“You bet he’s saving me, and I will be there for him when he calls. Change comin’.” Ashley clapped her hands, the sound muffled by the heavy, still air. “Won’t be no stopping it.” She twirled in place, the folds of her gown barely fluttering. “Be nice to get out of these woods. Back into the world again. It’s warm there. And there’s bleeding and pain and despair, and I will feed on all of it.”
Aren’t you the cheery one. Connie started to tell Ashley to go away, but before she could open her mouth, the thing had already vanished into the trees.
She scanned the bank, saw no one else, wondered if they were all off planning something or if they had finally gotten bored with taunting her. Well, all but Jim. He had taken to hiding from everyone, though whether out of shame or guilt, she had no idea. Angry as she was at him, she wished he would visit. There still had to be some part of him that she could reach. They were the last real Petersburys, weren’t they? Norma didn’t count, or Junior, or idiot Ashley and the babies. Just her and Jim, working with Ginny and Lolly and Matt. Now there were four of them on the dead side, and she wished like a wishing thing that she knew where Matt was. If he was here in the wilderness, why couldn’t she sense him?
She paused. For a split second, the current in which she stood felt warmer, the water as quick and bubbly as it would have been on the living side. Then the moment passed and the cold returned, the thick tumble of whatever in hell it was that flowed in this dead river. But she knew what she had felt. For that thinnest slice of time, she had not felt the monster’s power.
She needed help, someone on the living side to tell her what was going on. Lauren. Where are you, girl? If only she could reach her without Blaine or any of her idiot family finding out. If only . . .
After she left the garage, Lauren wandered with intent toward the town square. She stuck close to shelter—trees, doorways, the odd trash bin—in case she needed to slip out of sight. Kept a lookout for vehicles, faces in windows, anyone else who happened to be out for a stroll on this foggy, drizzly morning. Judging from her reception the previous night, half of Gideon wanted to kill her, and most of the other half wouldn’t have lifted a finger to stop them. Strange feeling, to be the focus of such hatred. Hard for her to comprehend that her father had grown up with these people, and that they had nursed their animus for so long.
So here I am, walking around with a target on my back. Lauren ducked into the doorway of a shuttered beauty shop, and scanned the nearby buildings. The diner appeared quiet, with only a handful of cars in the parking lot. A couple of pickups stood parked on the street in front of the hardware store. No people, though. Lolly had been the only person she had seen since her arrival.
She stepped out of the doorway and crossed the street to the square proper, a desolate oval of browned lawn. In the center stood an ancient wooden gazebo surrounded by shrubs. Someone had taken the trouble to prep the shrubs for winter by covering them with mulch and plastic cones, but this only emphasized the bareness of the rest of the space, the state of neglect.
The steps leading up to the gazebo creaked and sagged under Lauren’s weight. The interior had all the charm of a bus shelter; food wrappers littered the floor, and a six-pack’s worth of empty beer bottles stood lined up against the far wall.
A crack like a gunshot sounded and Lauren stilled, heart pounding, then scuttled to the gazebo entry and looked toward the diner. In the parking lot, a man stood behind an old Corolla, looking down at the tailpipe.
Lauren waited for the man to drive away. Then she leaned against the gazebo wall, and brushed off the flakes of chalky white paint that broke loose and fluttered over her clothes. The wood beneath had gone silvery and cracked with age, and she scraped off a large chip—as she did so, she pressed her fingers to the bare wood, and felt—
—furnace heat that blistered her skin—pain like razors slicing deep—smoke black as pitch that roiled around her, filled her lungs, suffocated her, and saw—
—a woman standing in
an upper window, framed by fire, screaming a name—screaming for help—until the flames cycloned around her and she vanished—
Lauren looked around the gazebo. She sat pressed against cold wood, opposite the spot where she had been. The paint she had peeled away lay crushed and powdered on the floor, while the wood she had touched showed smooth and bare, a wound with the scab torn away.
She checked her fingertips. They looked pale and undamaged, but they tingled, as though she had touched something hot enough to burn.
She sat still for a time, cradling her hand. It had all seemed so real, the pain and the heat, the strangling stench of the smoke. The woman. She had been young, a teenager. Blond, her hair gathered at the nape in a large bun, her dress or blouse dark steel blue, face smeared with soot and tears, eyes round with fear.
Lauren thought back to the moment when Dilys had asked her to hold her father’s book. The gentle scent of cut wood, there and then gone as though carried on a breeze. But this emotional hammering had been as brutal as a physical assault, had ended in a death that had seemed as real as if she witnessed it in person.
She breathed deep, chill damp to drive out the memory of fire. Checked her watch. Two hours had passed since she left the Waycross place, assuming time still behaved and whatever inhabited the woods had not yet taken over Gideon itself. I need to get back. Waycross would be furious with her, but she would accept whatever the woman threw at her just to have a roof over her head and four sane walls surrounding her. Shelter. Refuge.
She pondered her options. Back to Lolly’s. She would have better luck there than at the diner. She would ask to use the phone, wait outside for whomever Waycross dispatched to collect her. She rose, waited for her knees to steady. Walked to the gazebo entry and found Tom Barton looking up at her from the foot of the stairs.
“Mornin’.” Barton looked as ancient and rickety as the gazebo. He still wore the same battered clothing he had the previous day, this time topped with a red rain jacket that looked as though it had spent some time as a painter’s drop cloth.