Unhooked

by Lisa Maxwell

  It hasn’t even been an hour. Our boxes haven’t even arrived yet.

  She turns on the landlord, her eyes fierce. “Is this some sort of joke? Because it’s not—”

  “It’s just a painting,” I tell her gently, touching her shoulder before she can finish.

  She flinches away, her words forgotten. She never wants me to touch her when she’s like this—I should know that by now. Still, her rejection stings.

  “This room used to be a nursery.” I can feel the old man lurking too close behind me. “Course, it’s been a lot more since, but no one never could bring themselves to get rid of the wee folk.”

  My mom turns back to the mural. “I can’t stay here,” she whispers in a ragged voice. Her unease feels like a living thing snaking through the room, but I don’t understand her reaction. The mural is beautiful, charming even. “And I can’t work here. Not with them watching and—”

  “Mom,” I say gently, before she can work herself up too much more. “It’s okay.”

  She turns on me, her eyes wide and wild, and I sense Olivia stiffen beside me. She knows my mom can be eccentric, but I’ve managed to hide most of this from her. Two years, and Olivia has only ever seen the aftermath. She’s been there when I turn up exhausted and at the end of my rope, and she’s never asked the questions I know she wants to ask when she lets me stay the night at her house.

  “You see them, don’t you?” my mom asks me in a strangled whisper.

  “I see them just fine,” I assure her. “We all see them. It’s a painting. That’s all it is.”

  She shakes her head, her mouth set tight as her eyes dart between the mural and me. “I can’t work here,” she says again. “Not until they’re gone. I won’t stay here.”

  “You don’t have to.” I try to reach out for her again. “We can go back to Westport. It’s not too late.”

  “No.” Her eyes are hard and almost accusing as she takes another step back, jerking away from me again. “It has to be here. It’s been arranged. But this room . . .” She’s no longer looking at me. She has eyes only for the wall, and I know what she’s thinking—she needs to work. Hers might never be calm or easy paintings, but those canvases are the way she keeps herself centered. She needs to create, or she will lose herself bit by bit to her fears and delusions.

  “I can’t,” she whispers over and over as she shakes her head, and I know that if I don’t stop this, things are going to get bad, fast.

  “We’ll get some paint to cover it, then,” I say, trying to calm her down. I look to the old man for assurance. He gives a halfhearted shrug, which is close enough to permission for me. “Olivia and I will stay up here tonight, okay? Tomorrow we can talk about painting it or going somewhere else.”

  I hold my breath and wait as my mom stares at the mural for a long unsettled minute. Part of me hopes she won’t agree, that she’ll decide this place is all wrong, but then she gives a small nod.

  “We can paint over them.” She finally looks at me again, and I see her slowly coming back to herself. “We need to stay here,” she says, her blue-gray eyes serious.

  “We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight Olivia and I will sleep up here. It’ll be fine. Right, Liv?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Allister. We’ll be great,” Olivia says, stepping forward and giving my mom a quick hug. My mom doesn’t pull away from her.

  “See? All settled.” I touch my mom’s shoulder again, feeling her muscles quiver as she forces herself to not jerk away from me like I’m one of the monsters she imagines. I pull my hand back and give her the space I know she needs as I try to ignore the bone-deep loneliness I feel in a room filled with people.

  “Is there a way to turn this thing off?” Olivia asks as she walks over to get a better look at an antique sconce hanging over the bed. The lamp is an elegant twist of glass that reminds me of a fluted flower. As she examines it, the orange-red flame throws a strange glow across Olivia’s upturned face. Like the lamps downstairs, it’s burning even though there’s plenty of daylight left.

  “It ain’t safe to turn it off—” the old man starts with a growl, but then he stops short, like he’s just said something he shouldn’t have. “Old lines and all. Never can tell what would happen,” he finishes, his voice only a bit softer. “Besides, it’s tradition to keep it burnin’.”

  “Leave the lamp be,” my mom says softly, her voice still filled with worry.

  I look over to find her staring at the fairy wall again, one hand slightly outstretched. I can’t tell if she’s reaching for it or pushing it away.

  “I assume everything’s in order, then?” the old man says.

  When my mom doesn’t answer, he eyes me.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to smile. “Thank you.”

  “Right.” The old man seems satisfied enough as he leaves us alone in the attic room.

  “He’s not serious about the light, is he?” Olivia asks, her brows bunched.

  “I think he was,” I tell her. Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain that there’s always something in each of the places we’ve moved to. Rows of stones carved with protective runes. Lines of salt or iron nails buried at the four corners of the property. Crystals hanging from the windows or, this time, lights that must always remain burning.

  “I guess we should start bringing up the bags,” I say, glancing at Olivia.

  “He’s not going to get them for us?” she asks, and her confused expression is almost enough to lighten my mood.

  I shake my head. “It shouldn’t take us too long. The rest won’t be here until tomorrow anyway.”

  “Right,” Olivia says, shooting me a concerned look. I give her a subtle nod to let her know I want a second to talk to my mom before I follow. “I’ll just get started then,” she tells me, heading toward the stairs.

  I hesitate, waiting to see what my mom will do. But she only seems to have eyes for the fairy wall. It’s like I’m not even there.

  “We could still go back, you know,” I say, taking a step toward her. “We could get you some help. I’m sure Olivia’s mom knows someone at the hospital who could—”

  My mom glances at me, and the look on her face makes the words die in my throat. “We’re safe now,” she whispers. “Everything will be fine.”

  “We were safe in Westport,” I say with more bitterness than I mean to let slip. “I was happy there.”

  My mom frowns, like she doesn’t really understand why I’m pushing her on this. “I know you were, but . . .” She doesn’t finish her thought, but her brows pinch together. “This is the right thing to do,” she says finally. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  This is where I’m supposed to say, Of course I trust you. But I can’t. Maybe in a few weeks, after the rawness of being torn away from the life I’d dared to make for myself has eased, but not yet. “This won’t be the last time, will it?” I ask instead.

  My mom has never said any of our moves would be the last. She’s never even pretended, and I’ve never asked—only hoped. But this move is different. This move doesn’t feel like me and my mom against the world. This move feels like me and my mom against each other. This time, I need to know.

  She gives me a wobbly sort of smile, and in that moment I understand Olivia was right. If I stay with my mom, my future is destined to be a series of never-ending moves. It will be a life without any true home or any lasting friendships. And if I leave? If, once I’m eighteen and legally free to go, I walk away? I’ll lose the only family I have. Because my mother will never stop moving. Not as long as she believes there are monsters chasing us.

  When I start to turn away, she catches my hand. “Gwen,” she says, turning my name into a plea, like she understands where my thoughts have gone. She lets go of my hand long enough to take a bracelet from her own wrist and slip it onto mine. “You’re nearly grown, you know,” she says, brushing my damp hair back from my face. “It’s time you have this.”

  I pull my arm away from her and examine the
bracelet. It’s one I’ve never seen her go without—blue-gray stones almost the exact color of her eyes. They aren’t quite round, like pearls, but they are smooth and almost translucent. When I was little, I used to love running my fingers over the cool, wobbly stones as I counted them.

  “You don’t have to,” I say, because I’m not sure I want this. It feels too much like a bribe. Here, have this bit of glass and forget all the things I’m pulling you away from. All the things you’re leaving behind.

  “Take it,” she insists. “Your father gave it to me, and now I’m giving it to you.”

  “My father?” I glance up at her, surprised. She’s never told me that about the bracelet.

  “He wanted me to keep you safe, Gwen,” she says, which is the only explanation she has ever given me for anything when it comes to my father. As far as explanations go, it stopped being enough a long time ago.

  “If he wanted me safe, he shouldn’t have left,” I toss back.

  My mom’s face pinches into a scowl, and her whole body goes rigid. “He didn’t want to leave,” she says. “He did it to protect us. To protect you.”

  Of course. Because it’s always been my fault that the love of her life left.

  I start to pull off the bracelet, but she stops me by putting her hand over mine. “No, it’s yours now. Don’t ever take it off. Promise me.”

  Not a gift, then—a shackle. Another burden I’m supposed to carry for her. I frown but don’t argue. There’s no point in it.

  Olivia finds us locked in uneasy silence when she returns with one of her carry-ons and my duffel. “Everything okay?” She glances at me for the answer.

  “Fine,” my mom replies. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  “I brought up your bag,” Liv tells me.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, glad for the excuse to turn away from my mom. The bracelet feels so much heavier on my wrist than the small stones should feel.

  “I suppose I should help with the rest,” my mom says to no one in particular.

  When my mom’s finally gone, Olivia glances at me. In her expression I can see the questions she wants to ask, but she hands me the bag instead. “Rain stopped,” she tells me. “Want to go for a run?”

  When the others had gone home from the pub and it was just the two brothers, the boy leaned forward eager to know more. “Do you kill many?” he asked. His brother smiled, his crooked tooth winking in the dim light. “Tons,” the soldier said. Perhaps, if the boy had been paying attention, he would have noticed his brother’s eyes weren’t laughing. Perhaps he might have realized it was like they no longer knew how. . . .

  Chapter 3

  BY THE TIME WE CHANGE and make our way down the front steps, the evening air is still damp, and a light mist has settled over the streets. Neither of us says much as we work through a few stretches on the sidewalk in front of the house.

  When she feels like she’s ready, Olivia glances over to me. “The map I looked at said there’s a park not far from here,” she says. “Want to check it out?”

  “Lead the way,” I say, glad she hasn’t brought up anything about my mom’s behavior.

  She gives me a sure nod and takes off.

  I follow without a word, and with the first few steps, I start to feel the tension draining out of my muscles. For the past week, ever since my mom announced we were moving, I’ve felt like I was holding my breath and waiting for something even worse to happen. But as my shoes connect with the uneven sidewalk in a steady tempo and my arms swing at my side, I feel like I can breathe again.

  Running is how Olivia and I met. When I first moved to Westport, we’d see each other on our separate routes, and then somehow we started leaving together and following the same route. Eventually we started talking and discovered we had more in common than the running. Her parents might be rich, but they aren’t there for her any more than my mom is for me.

  We never really talk while we run, though. She runs with a focus I don’t have—a better mile time or more calories burned—I’m not exactly sure what drives her. But I run because when I’m pushing myself, when I’m only worried about the next mile or if I can make it back without stopping, I don’t have to think about anything else.

  At one point I glance over at her, and she gives me an almost smug smile. She’d known I needed this, and she’d been right.

  By the time we’re both breathless and exhausted, the sky has gone darker, and a wet fog has settled over the park. “Which way do you think the house is?” I ask when we come to a place where a couple of paths intersect.

  Olivia considers the options. “I don’t know. I’m all turned around,” she says, just as we hear the soft rumble of thunder off in the distance. “But if we don’t hurry, we’re going to get caught in that. Come on.” She loops her arm through mine, and we pick a direction.

  Her steps are brisk, and my tired legs struggle to keep up with her long strides. We haven’t gone very far when she stops. “I think I see someone,” she says. “I’ll go ask.”

  “Olivia, wait—” I start to call, but she’s already off, jogging toward the person she thinks she’s seen.

  There’s not much else I can do but follow her. But when I see who she’s found, I slow my steps.

  With her long tangle of white-blond hair and the jewelry cluttering her wrists and fingers, the girl Olivia’s found reminds me of a very pale gypsy. She’s wearing a long skirt and a purple velvet turtleneck that seems strange for June, even on such a cool day. And I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off about her. Maybe it’s her eyes—it looks like she’s wearing deep, glossy black contacts that give her an almost alien appearance. Or maybe it’s that the way she’s looking at Olivia seems too intense—it reminds me of the way a hungry animal would watch its dinner.

  I barely catch myself as I stumble at the abruptness of that thought. That’s exactly the crazy sort of thing my mom would think. The girl’s kind of odd-looking, sure. But she doesn’t really look dangerous.

  Taking a deep breath, I force myself to catch up with Olivia, but when I’m only a couple of feet away, I stop short again. It’s such a small thing—the flick of dark eyes as the girl glances at me, and then the flash of teeth as she smiles knowingly. Certain.

  It’s not the obvious fakeness of her brittle excuse for a smile that stops me from taking another step. No, that would be understandable. Explainable. What stops me cold and makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle in warning is that the gleaming white teeth peeking from behind the girl’s lips look like they’ve been filed down to jagged points.

  I force myself to blink the image away. I have to be seeing things. It must be a trick of the light or the fog, because it’s not possible for a beautiful girl to have a grin as sharp and wicked as a shark’s. But if I’m starting to see things . . .

  I open my eyes, and the girl’s teeth are once again hidden behind her plump lips. She looks normal . . . mostly. Strangely dressed, but normal. I must have imagined it.

  Just like your mom, a small voice deep inside me whispers.

  No, I think, silencing that voice. I am not like my mom. I wouldn’t be like my mom. I would get help. I would get better. And, besides, this is all perfectly explainable. What I saw is just the effects of too little sleep. Or maybe I’m just keyed up from a good run.

  But I can’t shake the feeling that the air suddenly feels more dangerous than it did a few minutes ago. Real or imagined, I feel so uneasy that I don’t want to stay anywhere near the girl. Even though my legs feel like jelly, I want to turn around and run, and I want to keep on running until I’ve put days between us. The feeling is so strong, so sure, it takes everything I have to force myself to walk the final few steps to where Olivia is standing, still talking to the blonde.

  But Olivia’s not acting like there’s anything at all strange about the girl. She’s not staring at the girl’s teeth or backing away from those predatory eyes. And she doesn’t seem to notice that the air around us feels sud
denly alive with dangerous electricity.

  You are overreacting, I tell myself. Not that it helps.

  I can’t make myself pretend that everything is fine. I want to get away from the girl. I need to get away from her. Now.

  “Come on, Liv,” I say, tugging at her sleeve. “We need to go.”

  Even as I speak, I can feel the eyes of the blonde on me, sharp as needles digging into my skin.

  Olivia pulls away. “But she was just telling me—”

  “We’ll figure it out on our own,” I say, tugging at Liv again. The prickling across my skin is suddenly sharper, more painful, and when I look up, the blond girl is staring at me openly now. Her eyes are such an unnatural black that panic spikes in me, and my heart feels like a winged thing trapped in my chest. It’s enough to spur me on, and with another sure tug, I finally get Olivia to follow me toward the main path.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Olivia asks, pulling her arm away.

  Now that I’m away from the blonde, the panic I’d felt in the girl’s presence has eased some. “I don’t know,” I say honestly, glancing back to make sure we haven’t been followed. “I just had a feeling about her.” I know it’s weak as explanations go.

  “A feeling?” she says doubtfully.

  “I can’t explain it. I just—” I falter, unsure of how to explain what I felt without sounding like I’ve lost it completely. I’m still not sure whether what I saw or felt was even real. I settle on an apology instead of an explanation, but before I can even get the words out, the pricking sense of danger I felt near the blonde returns.

  All at once, the air smells of ozone, that almost electric scent that signals a storm is near. But it isn’t rain I’m sensing. There’s something more dangerous sifting through the air around me, brushing its cool fingers against my skin and ruffling the hair at the nape of my neck.

  Then I hear something.

  If I wasn’t already on edge, I might have missed it completely. The sound is faint at first, like the rustling of dry leaves kicked up by the wind. But there is no wind. The fog hangs undisturbed in the air around us, even as the sound grows.