Second Skin (Skinned)

by Graves, Judith

  “That.” I pointed to the antique Victorian doll behind the glass. About two feet tall, it wore a tattered muslin dress. Black ringlets gleamed under the strategically placed track lighting. Its pert mouth tipped in a knowing grin. But the worst thing—its eyes. Roll-back-in-its-head icy blues staring out at us like we were burgers under a heat lamp and she hadn’t had a thing to eat…in forever.

  Ugh. I hated dolls. Especially creepy old ones. We had history—of a voodoo nature. Let’s just say my father’s hunts were many and varied. After a particularly nasty takedown involving graveyard dirt, wax dolls, and a scythe, I swore never to stay in the same room with the rotten things.

  And now with the night mare lurking and bounty hunters able to inhabit those I loved, I stood on guard.

  Dolls were always trouble.

  “What’s the big deal?” Brit took a few careless steps toward the case. “A little haggard, sure, but she’s beautiful.”

  “She just looks that way.” My father had taught me to look beyond the surface, that just because the wrapping was fancy as all get out, the gift-wrapped box on your doorstep could still hold a stink bomb.

  I grabbed Brit’s arm and tugged, but she was stronger than her sickly goth appearance suggested. She spun out of reach, swift and agile. As a dark sprite, Brit had lots of subtle power in her human form, if you knew what to watch for. She just couldn’t run—not if her life depended on it. Well, not in public. Not if she didn’t want to change.

  Brit was like a thunderbird needing a running start to take off. If she ran, it triggered her instinct to fly, and to fly she needed her wings. A sight civilians couldn’t ignore.

  “You have a doll phobia.” Brit laughed. “Oh, that’s priceless.” She waved her hands in front of the floor to ceiling display case as if trying to get the thing’s attention. “It’s not watching us”—she lowered her arms—“it’s watching you.”

  Brit was right. The whole time she flailed before it, the doll in the case remained motionless. Yet one minute shuffle of my feet, and I swear its aged eyes tracked the movement.

  I’d thought my creep counter had hit its peak earlier that morning.

  Clearly I was wrong.

  Fighting back the urge to growl a warning, I stepped closer to the glass. Inhaling deeply, I scented the invisible layers of window cleaner and a musky odor, likely from the memorabilia lining the small shelves around the doll. My keen sniffer came in handy.

  The objects in the display case smelled of life and death. I breathed in the past that lingered deep within the fibers of the vintage material. The whiff of hopelessness that clung to the surface of the antique water pitcher and old coins. The dreams, the trepidation of the humans who were once drawn to the weathered immigration poster. Rich soil. Fertile land. Come to Alberta, the land of plenty.

  How ironic.

  Redgrave was having its own little housing boom, and the buyers snatching up all the land planned to do more than till the soil and plant roots. These were paranormal beasties looking to score the last bit of unclaimed territory.

  Maybe even do some reverse window shopping for prey. Trapped inside, standing on pointed black shoes with her arms at her sides, the doll stared out at me with cunning eyes.

  This time, the hairs on my neck were not only standing, they were doing Morse code twitches for holy-freaking-hell-this-is- BAD. And it had nothing to do with my little doll phobia. The sour gas smell emanating from her confirmed that.

  The bell pealed, making me jump.

  “That’s our song, Miss Paranoia.” Brit grabbed my arm and hauled me away from those aged eyes. “Get going, you poor, gutless chickenshit. You can’t keep Mr. Phillips waiting. You’re already on his hit list.”

  I was on a lot of hit lists, and it seemed I’d made the top of yet another. I glanced back. The Victorian doll’s half-hooded eyes had dipped toward another object in the display case.

  A rusted shaving knife.

  I kind of wished Brit hadn’t called me gutless.

  The Mind Is a Dangerous Place

  “It’s apple juice,” Kyle Barton said, handing me a black coffee cup, his eyes alight with mischief. “Drink it, don’t think about it. Just take a big sip. Everyone likes apple juice. Come on, drink up.” Inside, the clear liquid sloshed against the rim, taking on the color of the mug.

  It could be anything.

  The rest of the experimental science class watched with bated breath.

  I’d walked into class, seconds after the bell. Stupid. The last person to enter the class usually became the subject of Phillip’s psychology experiments.

  And thanks to that freaking doll, I was the guinea pig this time. Lovely. As if I hadn’t played that role my whole life.

  I glanced into the cup. “You didn’t spit in this, did you?” I asked. The class erupted in laughter.

  Phillips silenced them with a glare. “I assure you, my dear Eryn, the juice is spit free.”

  I studied both Kyle and Phillips for a long moment. Apple juice, huh? I inhaled sharply. Could be. The liquid was clear, not cloudy, but the dark cup made it impossible to detect the amber tinge of apple juice. And I couldn’t get a scent.

  You only live once.

  I tilted my head back and gulped down half the contents, vaguely concerned that Phillips had gotten sick of kids and planned to end his teaching career in a blaze of poisoning-a-student glory. I waited for the contrasting sweet-tang aftertaste of the apple juice to hit.

  Nothing.

  Puzzled, I glanced at the remaining liquid in the bottom of the mug.

  “It’s water,” I said finally.

  “But you thought it was apple juice.” Kyle pointed in my face. I wanted to bite his finger off. “I guess,” I said and shrugged. Phillips walked forward and plucked the mug from my grip. He turned to address the class. “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a slight bow. “The power of suggestion. Kyle told Eryn the cup was filled with apple juice, and when she drank, she expected apple juice. An example of what the mind is capable of. A psychologist friend of mine once told me, The mind is a dangerous place.” He let the sentence hang for a moment, and then lowered his voice. “Don’t go there alone.”

  The class laughed, if a bit uncertainly. Phillips and his eccentricities could be off-putting.

  “Thank you so much for participating in today’s experiment, Eryn. You and Kyle may take your seats.”

  I gladly sought out a desk at the back of the room, ignoring the snickers as I passed Paige’s three blonde minions, Janie, Jane, and Jan. Apparently they’d legally changed their names in junior high so they’d match…forever. How Paige had resisted the blondilocks peer pressure, I could only guess.

  Assholes.

  “Is this like that story about the guy who snuck onto a train?” Kyle asked from his keener desk at the front of the room.

  Phillips raised a brow.

  “You know, he hops into an empty container thingy and discovers it’s a freezer unit. Only, it isn’t. He just thinks it is. When they find his body, he’s frozen to death.”

  The class tittered.

  “That, my young friend,” Phillips said, shaking his head, “would be an urban legend.”

  Hmm, teach was wrong about that. My father had been in on that case. The victim had been bitten by an Italian Toranto, a spider creature notorious for freeze-drying its victims, preserving them for later consumption. The poor guy probably hadn’t seen it coming. Torantos usually assume the form of a beautiful woman, luring men into caves, or in this case, an abandoned train car, and then delivering a killing bite and eventually sucking out their innards.

  Urban legends were kind of like that low-carb vegetarian food Sammi insisted on feeding us—all the nutrition with none of the meat. The legends presented some of the facts, but left out the good stuff.

  I slunk low in my chair and left my textbook unopened on my desk. The feeling of eyes on me lingered. As if the whole class had swiveled in their seats and were
staring me down, even though I was the one looking at the backs of their heads. I wrapped my arms across my chest.

  The power of suggestion, huh? Actually, it was a powerful force in magic. My father had instilled that in me long ago. From the spellcaster to the spell, for instance. If spellcasters didn’t truly believe, their will weakened, and the spells wouldn’t take. Some highly targeted hexes only worked if the victim believed. The very fear that the hex had come down on them was the origin of its strength.

  Maybe it was that simple with our night mare issue. What if we all chose not to believe in the demon? Would it weaken? Be banished? I’d tried to get rid of it that morning in just this way. Maybe I wasn’t convincing enough.

  I closed my eyes. I don’t believe. Nope, I certainly hadn’t felt the pat of the demon’s cold dead hand. I don’t believe. Nope, hadn’t seen my aunt and uncle taken over by a couple of demonic bounty hunters.

  “Eryn?” Phillips voice sharpened. “I asked you a question.” My eyes flew open. My mouth dropped. “Um…ah…I….”

  No clue as to what I should be answering on the amused faces around me.

  I don’t believe this.

  “And there you have it.” Phillips nodded to the class. “As I said, no matter how many blonde jokes, hair color is no sign of an individual’s intelligence.”

  The bell pealed over the laughter of the other students. Har-de-freaking-har.

  My hand slapped against the washroom door, and I shoved it open. I followed the narrow corridor and rounded corner, hating that feeling of being a rat in a maze. Why did they do that in washrooms? Did they think the door being closed wasn’t enough protection while we were using the john?

  Try casting a protection ward or two. Much more efficient. I reached the stalls and row of sinks and stopped dead.

  Inside, with their backs to me, were the three blondes and Paige. But not really WITH her—they had her cornered. I met her panic-stricken gaze and held a finger to my lips.

  “What is it with you, Paige?” Janie’s voice was as tough as her bombshell status would allow.

  “Yeah, what gives?” Jane said, crowding Paige, keeping her snug against the sinks.

  Jan just let out an impatient sigh. Also her job description. That and eye-rolling. She’d probably done that when she sighed, but my view was blocked.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Paige stammered. My cousin. Stammering. This was all my fault. Mine and Kate’s.

  “Your hair’s a mess. You’re dressed like a bag lady, and yet you think we’ll let you hang with us? Good lord, Paige, you know the expectations.” Janie flapped her skinny arms about in frustration. “What if we all showed up looking like you? What do you think would happen to this school? To the kids who look up to us?”

  “Yeah, what do you think would happen?” Jane said. She turned to Janie, “What would happen?”

  Jan laughed. My opinion of her went up a notch above gnat height. Maybe she was quiet because she was smarter than the others.

  “Epic social hierarchy fail,” Janie announced. “Think bargain- bin sales, perms, maybe even legwarmers. I tell you those are never coming back. Not on my watch.” She took a step closer to Paige.

  “And you could make it all happen if we accepted you like this. OMG, don’t you know, just the way you are is just an expression. You gotta look the part if you want to be our friend.”

  Paige’s eyes filled with tears.

  “How ’bout I tell what happens if you three sleazeballs aren’t out of here in the next five seconds?”

  The three blondes whipped around to face me. Their perfectly made-up faces all sported the same shades. All had the same straight-from-the-stylist dos.

  Janie grimaced and shot a look back at Paige. “Backup from your freak cousin? How the mighty have fallen.”

  My athame rested safely in the leather holster under my hoodie. I resisted the urge to say to hell with what was left of my reputation and give them the scare of their lives.

  “Don’t stress, Eryn, we were just leaving.” With that, Janie and her minions shouldered by and giggled their way into the hall.

  Paige gave a gasping snort and then burst into tears. She rested her hands on either side of the wall-mounted sink, leaned over it, and sobbed. Why did girls always end up crying in the washroom? High school was so undignified.

  I patted her back gingerly.

  “I’m so sorry about this, Paige. I wouldn’t wish those three on my worst enemy.” I paused. “Okay, maybe for a day at least, but then, gonzo. I’d give you a hug, but I have issues with personal space. And we’re not exactly close, you know?”

  Paige let out a sniffling laugh. Then she snapped, “Get your paws off me.”

  I jerked my hand to my side. Whoa. That was old-school Paige. I peered at my cousin’s reflection. Her mouth was open in shock. She twisted to face me.

  “Oh, now I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I had no right to talk to you like that.”

  I sighed. “Yes, you did.” I shook my head. “I mean, you didn’t, not really, but that’s promising. You’re still in there somewhere.”

  Paige lifted an arm and smooshed her face into her sleeve. She looked about to blow her nose in there too.

  I bolted for the nearest stall and handed her some toilet tissue. “Thanks,” she said. Then blew. Loudly. “I can’t go back out there. I just can’t face those girls. Why do they think I hang out

  with them? I’ve never seen them before.” My jaw dropped.

  “You haven’t?” My heart flipped-flopped. Oh, this was bad. “No. And I’m so thankful you were here. Really.” Paige’s

  bloodshot blue eyes met mine. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  I gave a long, pained groan that bounced against the walls.

  This was NOT happening.

  “I’m Eryn. I’m your cousin, and as soon as I get some information I promised to nab, we’re going to Kate’s to fix you once and for all.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  I slung my backpack higher up on my shoulder. “It’s a very good thing.”

  “’Cause you don’t sound like it’s a good thing. And I’m feeling really weird right now.”

  I grabbed Paige’s arm. “You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Now, let’s get to the library.”

  Paige’s eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve been there before.”

  For once I didn’t flinch when Paige spoke, because that wasn’t something she’d forgotten.

  It was probably true.

  The Rightness of Wrong

  A staccato rhythm sputtered in the air, accompanied by hissing and spitting sounds that echoed in the empty hallway— Donald Duck squawking out a melody.

  “Are you going to answer that?” Paige asked, wincing. “Answer what?”

  “Your phone, silly. That is your cell, right? Please God, make it stop.”

  I withdrew my phone from my jeans pocket, careful to grip it so that the back panel didn’t fall off. Dented, scratched, it clung to life as the squawking grew louder. I answered the call.

  “Eryn, we need to talk,” Alec said in my ear, the growl in his voice sending a jolt of heat through my body.

  I sucked in a breath. “Fine, I’ll see you in the cafeteria at lunch.”

  “No…need…talk alone.” Static broke up Alec’s words, but I got the gist.

  “Look, my phone’s about to die. I have to let you go.”

  Let Alec go. Yes, that’s what I was doing, but, sweet Jesus, it hurt. I hung up wishing I could forget my noble sentiments about keeping Alec safe and just fall into his arms. But I wasn’t that girl. I didn’t quit. And I didn’t endanger those I loved.

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing Paige’s arm and guiding her toward the library. “We have work to do.”

  Stacks of books lay strewn across the laminate countertop and beyond the circulation desk. Shelving units crammed with hardcover volumes stood as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t that far. About twenty
feet—Redgrave High’s library was this side of smallish.

  Cold eyes glared at me, sending a shiver up my neck. But it wasn’t the rotten Victorian doll in the display case this time. This time I was facing…the librarian.

  Her gaze skimmed over my rust-colored hoodie, dark hair in ponytails, and Alec’s cross necklace resting on top of my Metallica T-shirt before taking in Paige’s pale face and clueless expression.

  “Vampire books are over on the far rack. Can’t miss them.” Those eyes returned to the book in her hand, The Rightness ofWrong. A scantily clad couple posed on the cover, muscular, shirtless guy and woman with long flowing hair and unlaced corset. Looked like someone had an inner bad girl waiting to bust out.

  I knew the feeling. I glanced at the etched nameplate on the edge of the librarian’s desk.

  “Actually, Mrs. Larpane, I’m hoping to do some research,” I said. “Do you have mythology texts?”

  Those cold eyes again. “On vampires? Same rack. Saves time.” “Ah…no. I’m looking for information on dreams, dream demons, that sort of thing…” I trailed off. “And I’m also interested in the new display outside. Historic Alberta. How cool is that?” I laughed and shot a desperate look at Paige.

  “Doesn’t sound cool to me.” She shrugged. Unlike Brit, the queen of sparkling banter, Paige didn’t back me up when I got cornered. Not one iota.

  “Oh, but it is.” Larpane put her book face down on the desk. “We were fortunate to get as much realia as we did.” She seemed quite animated now, eyes bright with interest.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Realia. Real historical items. The display has toured all around the province. But, and this is so tragic, the last school to have the display had this huge fire and only a portion of the original materials survived.”

  “A fire?” I asked. Hairs on my neck quivered.

  “A real book burner, from what I hear. Took half the school down, including the library.” Her face paled. She glanced up at the sprinkler exposed in the ceiling above her desk. “I don’t know what’s worse, the fire or the water damage. Can you imagine? Losing all those books…”