by Cyn Balog
“I don’t know her anymore,” I sigh. “She left me. To come here, I guess. I guess this place was more important to her than her family.”
“I understand. So you don’t want to see her, then?”
“I do,” I say immediately. “But the one guy who’s supposed to take me there is under orders not to.”
“You mean Trey Vance?” she asks, pursing her lips. “That’s shortsighted of your mother. Her powers are fading, but she denies it.”
“They are?”
She laughs so unexpectedly and loudly that I throw back my head, banging it hard against the tree trunk behind me. She looks at Jack, who has been leaning against a tree trunk, examining his fingernails, but suddenly springs to attention when her eyes fall on him. Then she touches my hand. Her hand is so cold, clammy. Instantly I think of my mother. “Kiandra, we need you.” She motions behind her. “Jack will explain things to you.”
“Wait,” I say as I realize what she is about to do. “Don’t leave me with—”
I stop because, at the same time, I want to be left alone with him. She flings her hair over her shoulder and walks away until all I can see is her white dress, glowing in the pale blue light of the moon.
Jack comes toward me, and my heart starts thrumming as he does. He grins like he knows what he’s doing to me. Like he relishes me going crazy for him. He touches my chin. His finger is surprisingly warm, and with that simple touch he sends electric shocks through my body. I know I’m quivering from head to toe. I know it’s visible. My cheeks redden even more.
He sits down on the grass, cross-legged. “You’re afraid of me?”
When my mouth opens, my teeth are chattering. I’m not afraid of him, but I know I should be. And that’s what I’m afraid of. “Trey,” I whisper. “He says you’ll hurt me.”
He leans forward. “I won’t hurt you. Unless you want me to.”
I stare at him.
He grins. “I’m joking. I am not out to hurt you.”
“Why were you practically dragging me across the river this morning, then?”
“I was only helping. You’re being lured to the water. You wanted to go across, but you’re afraid. And you needn’t be. Once you’re over there, you’ll see.”
I eye him suspiciously. “You didn’t have to drag me. Anyway, I thought it’s Trey’s job to take me across. Not yours.”
He laughs. “And I’m not allowed to help the kingdom out?”
“You almost killed me,” I mutter.
His face is grave, regretful. “Do not say that. I am not some kind of monster. Trey has good reason to hate me, though, I suppose. He’s thinking of something that happened a long time ago.”
“What happened a long time ago?”
“You’ve heard how he died, yes?” he asks. “Your friends told those horribly inaccurate ghost stories around the campfire a few nights ago. Were you listening?”
“How could I not? And I saw it, as it was happening. I saw him fall into the water. I saw him drown.”
“Ah. Your powers allow you to see those things.” He presses his lips together. “You didn’t see who killed him, though.”
“No, I couldn’t see that. Two boys killed him, I think.”
“Or so the story goes,” he says with a shrug. “But the truth is, Trey was killed by only one person. And you’re looking at him.”
Chapter Eighteen
My mind whirls with all the visions I’ve seen and fragments of the story Justin told. The blade slashing at Trey’s arm. The cold water bubbling over his head. The desperate attempt to break the surface, to breathe. That’s the one. Get him. “No. No,” I say, “There were two. Someone told someone … to get—”
“I don’t know what your visions are, but I assure you, I was there. I was the only one there.”
I pull my knees to my chest and press myself against the tree trunk, as far away from him as I can get without leaving my position. “Trey was killed because he turned in a murderer. He saw a murder. Who else did you—”
He grabs my hand, immediately sending a chill up to my elbow. Only when my hand is in his do I realize how violently it has been shaking. He looks into my eyes and I feel dizzy and breathless from the weight of his stare. “I am not a monster. I do not like to talk about my time among the living. I squandered it. I made mistakes. Mistakes I wish I could undo. But I can’t.”
For some reason, I think of Justin. He’d said kissing Angela was a mistake, too. Back then, I didn’t want to, couldn’t believe that mistakes were possible. But though Jack’s sin is so much more damnable, looking into his eyes, I am surprised at how easily I’d be willing to believe he has changed. “But you’ve changed?” I whisper, hoping that the answer is yes.
He doesn’t have to say a thing. I’m his servant. As this thought flickers in my mind, it brings a moment of clarity. Servant! What am I doing? What is wrong with— But by then he is so near that I can feel the curve of his body pressing against mine, so cold that even though we are separated by clothing, his skin sears my flesh. He holds up my hand and presses his palm flat against mine, and all I can do is marvel at how perfectly and seamlessly they seem to go together. His face is so near to me that his breathing tickles my chin. “Sometimes we get caught in a whirlpool. No matter what we do to escape, we can’t avoid being pulled under. Kiandra, I’m still in the whirlpool.”
“You don’t have to be. There’s always a way out.”
“Perhaps I haven’t found it yet,” he whispers, as though he’s already dismissed the idea. His eyes are on my lips, which are waiting for him, trembling.
The thought of Justin flickers dimly in the back of my mind, a dying light among a thousand brilliant stars. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than this, now. The anticipation is painful. “Kiss me,” I murmur, and fully surrendering to my role as his own, I manage a “please” with the last of my breath.
He moves forward an almost imperceptible distance; then, in insult to my waiting mouth, his lips spread into a smile. He pulls away and stands. “If you don’t want to help us, why don’t you go back to the living? Why are you wasting our time?”
I open my eyes, momentarily bewildered and shamed. My mouth opens but words will not come out.
“If you want to help us, you need to go across,” he snaps. “Now.”
“I want …,” I begin, but I don’t know what I want. Ten minutes ago, what I would have wanted was to be anywhere but with him. He frightened me. And yet something has changed, and now I want to help him. I want it more than anything. Now, having him here, so near, I realize that what’s right for me and what simply feels right are two different things, and I can’t trust myself to know the difference. Maybe I am in the whirlpool, too. He leans over me until his lips are once again right before mine. And then he does it, he kisses me. It’s not like kissing Justin, not at all, because the taste of Jack is something foul, sour, like mold and rotten things, and still I push against him, my mouth moving against his, wanting more. I wrap my arms around him, pulling myself to him, lacing my fingers in his hair, every inch of me burning until I realize that my fingers are kneading through something wet and spongy, and that pieces of it are coming off in my hands.
I open my eyes and there is nothing there, only the quiet outlines of the trees, still in the bright moonlight. I’m crouched on my hands and knees on the ground, in a puddle of mud. My hands and most of my arms are painted black with muddy leaves.
I’m not sure how I manage to get up and stumble through the woods, toward the cabin. I don’t hear the sound of my feet hitting the ground. My breath billows in a cloud in front of me, and I blow through it. My hands feel sticky and wet and yet most of my body is numb, as if it has fallen into a deep sleep. Everything in the world seems asleep; there are no people, no sounds, not even the rush of the water I’ve come to expect. I stop for a moment and hold my hands in front of me. Yes, blood. So much blood. By now I can see the lights of the cabin. I rush across the highway, not bothering to stop. I must
get home. I must get help.
I somehow get inside, and the heat is so intense my face feels like it’s on fire. Justin is standing under the giant moose antlers, clutching his head in both hands like he’s trying to lift it from his body. Angela is on the couch, chewing on her thumbnail, something she always does when she’s nervous. I expect them to both react when they see me coming, but they don’t. Justin continues to squeeze his head like his hands are a vise, and Angela stares off at the fireplace, even though there isn’t a fire there. I’m about to shout for help when Justin throws down his arms.
“I am such an idiot. I screwed everything up,” he says miserably.
“Oh, stop,” Angela says.
“It’s my fault she ran away. And now who knows what could happen to her? She’s not thinking clear. I really screwed it up,” he mumbles.
I stop for a moment, glad to hear him admit his guilt, then rush forward. “I’m here,” I say, holding out my hands.
I expect them to turn toward me. I expect to see their faces contort in horror. I expect Angela to launch into Florence Nightingale mode, ushering me to the couch, and Justin to whip out his cell and call an ambulance. None of these things happens. Well, not at first. After a long pause, Justin reaches into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulls out his phone. “I need to call,” he says. But he’s not looking at me.
I move forward, into the room. “Justin,” I say to him.
But he won’t look at me. I’m standing where I can reach out and touch Angela, and all she does is continue to study and chew on her fingernails, as if I’m not even there. As if …
I look down at the blood seeping through my jacket, making it look sleek and black, like a seal’s skin. Then I stand between them. “Justin?”
Angela says, “Yeah. I think you need to.”
Need to what? I turn to her, I’m standing right in front of her, and her eyes are on me, but they’re not. They’re focused on what’s behind me. Justin. I move closer to her, wave my hand in her face. She doesn’t even blink. “Angela?”
Nothing.
Oh my God. I can’t breathe. I can’t even see, now, because the tears are falling freely and blurring my vision. I can’t wipe them away because my hands are crusted with dirt and blood. I just stand there, moving from one to the other, hoping that one of them will say, Oh, hey, there you are! But Justin has his phone up to his ear and is staring at the ceiling. I can hear the phone ringing, and then a familiar voice says “Yep?” on the other end. There’s only one person I know who answers the phone like that.
“Mr. Levesque?” Justin says into the receiver.
My breath hitches. Dad.
The tears fall harder. If he were here, everything would be better. My heart twists with the thought of everything I’d done to get away from him. I was so, so stupid. How could I have wanted that? How could I have thought that would be better? I want him here. I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me he loves me, that I’m his girl. Never in my life have I wanted that so much. I reach for the phone, crying, “Give that to me!” But even though Justin doesn’t move, just stands there with one hand holding the phone and the other hand pinching his other ear closed, I can’t touch him. Something is wrong. I touch, and yet I feel nothing. I reach for where the phone is, but my hands pass through it like it’s made of air. I cannot snatch it from him.
Justin says, “There’s a problem with Ki. She’s missing.”
I’m sobbing now. “No, I’m not. Justin. I’m right here.”
But it’s useless. I drop my head, letting the tears puddle on the floor, with my blood. So, so much blood. Don’t they notice that? Don’t they notice anything about me?
Justin looks at the ceiling and exhales deeply. “It’s my fault,” he says to my father. “I was the one who convinced her to come up here.”
I can hear my father’s voice on the other end, an octave higher with worry. Though I can’t make out the words, I know what he says: “I’ll be right up. I’m coming. I’m leaving right now.”
Oh, Dad, I think, as I stare at the growing puddle of blood at my feet, I’m so sorry. But it’s too late.
Chapter Nineteen
I don’t know how much later, I find myself wandering the woods in the blackness. It’s dark, and yet I can see. I’m not cold or hot, I’m not anything. My feet don’t make a sound, and though there are brambles and roots popping out of the earth, my footing is sure, as if I’m walking a well-known path, and nothing touches me. My wound seeps blood endlessly, but it doesn’t hurt.
I don’t know how this happened. One moment I was talking to Jack, and … Oh, no, I was thinking of kissing him. I wanted to, so badly. Somehow, though I can’t feel anything else, I can still feel my face aflame with embarrassment.
Did Jack do this to me?
I think of his last words. If you want to help us, you need to go across. Now.
But going across would mean … No, it’s not possible.
Dead. Am I dead? And now, obviously, I don’t want to go across. I can’t. And yet I don’t remember telling him that; I was too busy wishing for other things. But he was a vision. Only a vision, my vision. How could something made of air kill a living being? Could he take a knife, the same knife he’d used to slash at Trey, and plunge it into my stomach? Of course, to other people, he may have been air, but to me, he was more than real. I can still taste his vile lips and feel the muscles of his body straining under his shirt. Maybe being real to me was all it took for him to have the power to claim my life.
Trey warned me to stay away from Jack. What did he say? You love your life? You love your daddy? You want to get back home to him?
Oh God, yes. Yes, I’d give anything.
Trey. I snap back to the moment when he reached down and touched my ankle. The calming effect it had on me, the cozy, comfortable sensation that spread over my body as he massaged out all the pain, all the wrong, with his fingertip. And suddenly I am running. I stop clutching my stomach and dart among the trees, calling to him. “Trey!” My voice sounds different as it echoes among the tall pines, so that for a moment I’m not convinced it’s mine. It’s frantic, yes, but also deeper, more mature. And I don’t know where I’m going, and yet I know the path well. I know this place like a newborn baby knows its mother.
Trey is ahead of me on the path. His eyes are downcast, his hands in his pockets so that the blood from his wound is a crimson racing stripe on the side of his dirty jeans. He sighs as I approach. “I’ve failed, haven’t I?”
I reach down and lift up my shirt, exposing my belly. The few places that are not stained the color of rust are a sick, marbled white. The wound itself is an ugly slit right beside my navel, bubbling thickly with black, like an oil spill. I whisper, desperate, “You can help me. You can heal it, right?”
“Aw, Kiandra.” He looks into my eyes, and I know the answer immediately. But that won’t do. That is not enough. He’s done miracles before and called them child’s play. There has to be something he can do.
“No. Don’t tell me that. You can do something! You have to!”
He reaches for my hand. Before, his body was so cold, and now his fingers are warm when they brush on my wrist. I want him to use them as he did before, to heal, so I take them in my bloody hand and guide them to my stomach. He lets me pull them only so far before he gently takes them away and shakes his head. “Kiandra. It won’t work.”
“But it has to. It has to,” I whimper. “I can’t be …” But I can’t say the word. My lips have forbidden its passage. “I’m only seventeen. I’m going to graduate this month. I’m going to USM. I got in, early acceptance …” I think of my dad, taking me out to Friendly’s for an ice cream sundae when I told him the news. He’d been beaming. The thought wracks my body with a torrent of sobs. “It’s not over for me. Please.”
He doesn’t say a word, but his face is somber, his eyes are glassy. Is he crying, too? And then I move beside him and see a ghastly sight, just off the path. A body, lying
supine among the dead pine needles. A familiar powder-blue jacket, now ripped open, white batting spilling out. A spray of blond hair, greenish in the moonlight and marred with bits of dead leaves and dirt. Eyes open, unblinking. My eyes. They’d stared back at me in the mirror every day of my life, and now they’re just glistening marbles, staring forever at the sky, at God. And then I see the blood. So much blood, everywhere.
I bring my hands to my mouth, thinking my breath will warm them, but there is no breath in me. My body is shaking and my knees weaken, like two branches ready to snap. Trey pulls me toward him, and it’s then I notice we’re on a small outcropping, directly over the river. He holds me in his arms, and the moonlight dancing on the ripples is just a sad reminder that things are changing, and will always change, whether I’m ready for them or not.
By morning, my tears have dried, leaving two tight, salty tracks on my cheeks. I sit up, hoping that I’m with Justin, that everything in the past day was just a horrible nightmare. But I’m on the riverbank, and the new sunlight is dappling the water, making its surface so bright that I have this inexplicable urge to jump in, to feel the waves washing over me. Strangely, the river is no longer menacing to me, and I no longer shiver when I look at it. I glance around, blinking. In the morning light, everything has a new, sharper edge to it, with the colors more vivid, the angles more defined. It’s as if in life I had a veil over my eyes, and suddenly I’m seeing everything clearly for the first time.
I rub my eyes and pull my jacket up over my belly. The wound looks fresh. It begins to bleed anew, flooding over the waistband of my jeans. I slide my jacket back into place and the tears begin to fall again.
I’ve almost forgotten about Trey. When I turn around, I’m embarrassed to see that I must have fallen asleep in his arms and used his chest as a pillow, because there’s a spot of drool on his shirt. And here I thought dead people didn’t have to worry about things like that. He doesn’t notice, though. He’s wide awake and staring at me. “Feeling better?” he asks, his voice gentle.