Eternity tft-3

by Elizabeth Miles

  “I’m fine,” Em said, casting a look back over her shoulder. Couldn’t her friends tell who she was? Couldn’t they tell the difference?

  The girls looked back and forth at each other knowingly.

  “Don’t worry, Em,” Fiona said. “Everyone gets wasted sometimes. . . . ”

  Jenna giggled. “Maybe not that wasted. By the time we got here, you were pole-dancing half-naked around the basketball hoop in Noah’s driveway.”

  “You acted like you barely knew us,” Gabby said, unamused.

  “No, guys, really,” Em said. “I just got here. It must have been someone who . . . ”

  Someone who looked just like me.

  A chill slithered down Em’s spine. She had that feeling again, the one like flickering. The one like smoke. “I wasn’t here,” she said again, more forcefully this time. “I’m here now.” She dug her fingernails into her own palm, proving it to herself.

  “Whatever, Em,” Gabby said. “It’s okay. We can talk about it later. I’m just glad you’re okay. You just took off . . . like a total madwoman.” She hooked her arm through Em’s.

  “God,” Fiona said, looking at Em wonderingly. “You look good. . . . I mean, you sober up quick. I wish we could trade places. Whenever I get that messed up I look like a mug shot.”

  Em wobbled slightly and let herself lean on Gabby. With dread that loomed like shadows on a cave wall, she began to acknowledge exactly what type of bargain she’d made with Ty. From the hair to the sharpened senses to the cases of mistaken identity, a horrifying truth was starting to take shape. It wasn’t only that Em was becoming a Fury. Ty was trying to take over her life at the same time.

  They were going to switch places.

  * * *

  Em lied. She told her friends that her mom was coming to pick her up and that she was going to wait outside. Really, she just started walking. She stumbled through the basement toward the stairs, trying to keep her blinders on and see nothing but the path in front of her.

  “You wanna show us again how you blow those smoke rings?” Alex got right in her face, but she pushed him away, hearing the thud as he hit the wall behind him. She’d pushed too hard. She’d forgotten how strong she was now, how powerful.

  “What the hell . . . ,” he snarled at her as he brushed himself off.

  “Somebody’s gotta get Winters into a ring,” someone called out.

  She shook her head, a frantic apology. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m didn’t mean to.” She pitched up the staircase, twisting and turning her body to fit it through the spaces between people.

  She kept walking when she got outside. Walking away. Down Main Street, away from Noah’s house in the middle of town, past the library and the gourmet food store and the dusty old copy shop that had been open forever. Tears swelled somewhere at the back of her eyes.

  She didn’t have much time. Not much longer until she joined the ranks of the Furies. What did that even mean? She would seek vengeance for other people’s crimes. She would grow bloodthirsty, drunk on the feeling of making the guilty pay. So intoxicated, in fact, that she would keep torturing them long after they’d paid for their sins.

  No. That wasn’t who she was. It would never be.

  She looked up at the sky, not watching where she was going, half-wishing she would fall into a hole and not be able to make her way out. Lost and not found.

  Swish-swish-swish. The whirring of bicycle tires sounded behind her and Em moved over to make way on the sidewalk. But rather than passing her by, the cyclist skidded to a stop right next to her. Em looked over and saw Skylar, panting from exertion.

  “I’m fine,” Em said with an edge, wondering if Skylar had been sent to check on her. “Everyone can call off the rescue mission.”

  Skylar swung her leg over the bike seat to dismount. “I’m just coming home from the movies,” she said. “Late show.” She looked up at Em through long, light brown lashes; without heels on, she seemed tiny.

  “Sorry.” Em crossed her arms. She felt bad that Skylar was the innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of Em’s foul mood. “I just had a bit of an . . . incident over at Noah Handran’s house. It seems I have a doppelgänger. And she’s ruining my life.” She found herself choking a little on the words.

  There was a moment of silence. The moonlight on Skylar’s scars created white stripes on her cheekbones and forehead. Skylar shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Then she pointed down the road. “Well, we’re right by my house. Want to come in for a minute?”

  It was true; Nora’s house was just down the block.  And while it felt strange for Em to be accepting offers of comfort from Skylar McVoy, her options seemed pretty limited right now. Plus, if Nora was home, maybe Em could tell her about these symptoms and see if she had any advice. . . .

  “I—I don’t know who else to talk to,” Em admitted, and they started walking, Skylar wheeling her bike alongside Em’s steps. Their footfalls echoed on the empty street. Em focused on taking deep breaths to ease the tightness in her chest.

  “You can survive very terrible things,” Skylar said quietly.

  Em didn’t answer. She didn’t know if she could—not anymore.

  Aunt Nora’s driveway was lined on both sides by well-maintained hedges and planters that would soon be full of flowers. Skylar stood hesitantly there, as if she was reconsidering bringing Em inside.

  “There’s something you should know,” she said finally.

  “Yeah?” Em asked.

  “I’ve done stuff I regret too.” Skylar hugged herself. “I—don’t think I’m a good person.”

  Em looked up, sniffling. “We all do things we regret, Skylar,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t make us bad.”

  Skylar nodded and led Em to the front door of the big Victorian house. “We have to be kind of quiet,” she said apologetically. “My aunt’s probably asleep by now. She goes to bed at, like, eight.”

  Em didn’t blame her. She would have slept through the darkness, if she could have.

  The door was heavy, old, and squeaky, and the foyer was dim. Em didn’t know how Skylar could stand living here—not after what she’d been through and seen. The very first thing Em saw when she entered was a long ivory-colored robe. It was just hanging there on a coat tree in the foyer. Gossamer and gauzy, billowing in the gust of wind they’d created just by coming in the door.

  What had Crow said? A robe—long and white and flowing.

  She pointed at it shakily, letting the door close behind her. “What’s that?”

  “That?” Skylar asked as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on a hook. “That’s my costume for the play.” She walked over and took it off its hanger. “I have to remember to bring it to dress rehearsal tomorrow.” When she held it up to her body, it practically engulfed her. Its creases and shimmering ripples had the odd effect of mimicking Skylar’s still-healing face. It probably looked incredible under the stage lights. Em wondered if Gabby was planning to put makeup on Skylar’s scars. . . .

  No. It couldn’t be. Em stood there dumbstruck. The robe . . . the striped scars . . . This was her—the tiger-faced woman.

  “Skylar,” she said nervously, trying to recall the rest of Crow’s vision, “have you ever heard the phrase, ‘Someone is plotting vengeance’?”

  “Of course,” Skylar replied. Her voice got slightly deeper. “ ‘For this I declare—someone is plotting vengeance.’ It’s one of Cassandra’s lines in the play.”

  “The play . . . ” Em could barely speak. “When does the play start?” Em asked.

  Skylar nodded. “Tuesday night—one night only. Just a reading. Do you want some water or tea or something?”

  Tuesday. Three days away. Crow had seen Em consumed by fire just after hearing those words. Was it possible that Crow’s vision did mean something? That it meant a when, a final date when Em’s transformation would be complete? If so, Em would die in three days. She would be swallowed into the Fury world after Skylar’s play on Tues
day night.

  A pounding drumbeat began to thunder through her body. She hadn’t taken one step since they’d been in Skylar’s house; she knew Skylar had asked her a question but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  “Are—are you okay?” Skylar reached out tentatively to touch her arm.

  Em’s head felt uncomfortably light, and there were flashbulbs popping in her peripheral vision. She thought she might faint. And then, a momentary distraction—Em heard a faint, tuneless humming coming from another part of the house. She looked at Skylar, whose mouth was set in a grim line.

  “What’s that?” Em asked. “I thought you said your aunt was asleep.”

  Skylar opened and closed her mouth twice without saying anything. Then she said flatly, “It’s . . . my sister.”

  “Your sister? I thought you were an only child.” Back when Skylar was following Gabby everywhere like a lost puppy, she’d never once mentioned a sister. The humming started again, and Em sensed it was coming from upstairs.  All of a sudden this place seemed more like a haunted house than ever before. She took a step or two away from the staircase, toward the hallway that led to the kitchen.

  “Well, I’m not,” Skylar snapped. “And she’s none of your business.”

  Em caught the thread of a few words. She wasn’t just humming. The girl was saying something that Em could hear only faintly. If she listened closely, she could even pick out a word here and there.

  They’ll never stop, she heard. She’s here.

  “I’m sorry,” Em said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s fine. She’s just . . . She’s visiting, and she’s sick, and I’m not used to talking about her.” Skylar looked anxiously toward the stairs. The barely intelligible monologue continued from somewhere on the second floor.

  “She’s sick?” Em felt the strangest sensation that the girl was talking to her. The words she could hear stayed stuck in her head like wisps of cotton candy on a child’s fingers. It was sticky-sweet and unsettling. Hypnotic even.

  “It’s brain damage. From a fall . . . ” Skylar’s fragile voice broke through the spell and pulled Em back.

  “Oh.”

  “And it was my fault,” Skylar’s continued. She was shaking. “Her name is Lucy, and it’s my fault she’s like this.”

  So that’s your mistake. Em turned to look at Skylar. She looked so young.  And so sorry.  That more than anything else.

  “Is that why the Furies came after you?” Em asked. Skylar had babbled something along these lines when Em visited her in the hospital after her accident, but this was the first time she’d truly come clean.

  Skylar was shaking. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Then she nodded. “And they made me . . . They brought out the worst in me,” Skylar whispered. “You would hate me if you knew.”

  “It’s okay,” Em said. The truth was, Em didn’t care about the nitty-gritty of Skylar’s mistakes—not as much as she wanted the key to saving her own soul. “We all make mistakes.” And some pay for them more than others.

  She could still hear strains of Lucy’s babbling. God, it was creepy, yet melodic and relaxing. Em had to fight competing urges to run up the stairs or out the door. Everyone wants to be good, Em heard her say.

  “Can I talk to her?” Em said suddenly. She knew it was forward, but there was something about that voice. Those words.

  Skylar looked at Em suspiciously. “You want to meet her?”

  “If it’s okay with you,” Em said, but she was already moving toward the stairs.

  “Okay,” Skylar relented. “But we have to be quiet. I don’t want Aunt Nora to wake up.” She motioned for Em to follow her up the creaky wooden steps, closer and closer to the singsong tune that emanated from behind a wooden door on the second floor.

  The noise continued, high-pitched and repetitive, like a music box that refused to unwind. Em heard snippets of words; they seemed to be luring her forward. The song was somehow familiar, like a lullaby Em would have heard when she was little. And the way Skylar was reacting to the sound—all jittery, clearing her throat over and over—it made Em very nervous.

  Skylar stopped for a moment in the hall. She took a deep breath, then swung open the door.

  A girl was sitting on the floor in front of a full-length mirror. She had high cheekbones and she was thin, almost wiry. Her arms reminded Em of something you might see in a museum: all sinew and ropy muscle. Em could tell she used to be pretty, but it was hard to see her as such now. A prominent scar ran along her hairline. Her forehead was pale and sheened with sweat, even though it was cold in the house. Her dirty-blond hair, the same shade as Skylar’s, was uncombed. She was in the process of applying maroon lipstick shakily across her lips.

  She made piercing eye contact with Em in the mirror and stopped humming immediately.

  “Hi, Sky,” the girl said happily. “Want to try this new color I found?” She held up the tube of lipstick.

  Skylar swallowed and offered a strained smile, obviously trying to regain her composure. “Lucy, this is my friend Emily,” she then said, taking an unsteady step forward. She gestured for Em to follow her. The room was clearly an office that had been converted into a makeshift bedroom. An old computer and a jumble of wires and electrical equipment were heaped in the corner beyond the bed. It was small and musty and smelled, to Em, like ink cartridges.

  Lucy continued to primp. Her eyes seemed to be locked into a wide stare.

  “Lucy?” Skylar ventured.

  “Yes?” Lucy turned around slowly, with an expression somewhere between confused and content. Then she smiled, like she was remembering a line from a script. “It’s nice to meet you, Emily.”

  “You too,” Em said. She wished Lucy would start mumbling again, now that she was close enough to catch every word.

  But Skylar’s sister seemed suddenly shy. She mashed her lips together, rubbing the redness into the skin around her mouth.

  Skylar shrugged apologetically. “Sometimes she doesn’t really say much,” she offered.

  “That’s okay,” Em said. Outside Lucy’s window, the night was dark and starless. “What color is that, Lucy?” She moved closer, hoping to make the girl more comfortable.

  Lucy turned it over to check, and as she did, her whole body stiffened. Without warning, she threw the lipstick away from her; when it hit the wall near Em and Skylar it left a sharp red smear on the wall.

  “Lucy! What are you doing? Why did you do that?” Skylar shrieked, going to her sister, who had begun to rock softly back and forth.

  “I’m sorry, Sky,” she said, drooping into Skylar’s arms. They won’t leave me alone. Even the lipstick . . . ” A single tear ran down her face, and when she swatted at it, she smudged her makeup.

  Skylar stroked her hair. “Shhhh,” she said. “Shhhh.”

  Something in Lucy’s tone made Em’s blood run cold. Made her want to listen more closely. She bent to pick up the tube, which had landed near her feet. When she turned in over, there was a little white sticker on the bottom of the silver tube.

  DEEP ORCHID, it read. Em stiffened, resisting the urge to throw it across the room just as Lucy had. The color of the lipstick was Deep Orchid.

  “Skylar . . . ” Em started to say. But Lucy began talking again.

  “The mouth . . . of the albino,” she said, clearly finding it increasingly difficult to catch her breath. “It’s the only way . . . to undo it.”

  Undo it. It couldn’t be. . . . Did Lucy know something about the Furies? Was she one of the unlucky “patients” whom Em had read about, whose damaged minds made them susceptible to the Furies’ evil ramblings?

  “Undo what?” Em said. She moved into a squat. Skylar glared at her, clearly wanting the interrogation to end, but Em ignored her. Her heart was beating very fast. “What do you mean, the albino?”

  “It’s purity,” Lucy said. “Clean slate. Purity. Clean slate. Purity. Clean—” The words gave Em goose bumps from her scalp to her legs.


  “Okay, we hear you, Luce,” Skylar said. Her eyes were wide with anguish.

  “She knows about the Furies,” Em said aloud. “She hears them.”

  “Ever since the accident, she gets riled up and I can’t calm her down.” Skylar shook her head, on the verge of tears. “You’re right. She somehow knows about them. Will ramble about them for hours, then just stop. Like a switch has been flipped in her brain. But nothing she says makes any sense. You have to believe me. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want this to happen.”

  “I believe you,” Em said quietly.

  So the Furies brought this on too, Em thought. Em remembered the passage in her book about how sometimes the brain was damaged in such a way as to make patients “open” to the voices of the Furies. They hear the Furies’ chatter, but they cannot channel it. Unlike prophets, these troubled souls have no direct links to the Furies’ energy. They are merely exposed to it and tormented by it. Em had wondered many times whether this was her punishment, her terrible fate: to be driven mad by the Furies. But now she knew that her punishment would be even worse.

  The albino—what did that mean? Who was she referring to? Em’s breath came tight and fast. Whiteness. Purity. A clean slate, as Lucy had said. She tried to stay calm, even as a soaring sensation of hope fluttered through her chest.

  Nora had said there might be a way to reverse it. A way to banish them. Something about purity.

  Was there really some way to make the Furies think that their job here was done?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The early morning light shone hazily on the AHS athletic field, where the girls’ field hockey team was warming up on Sunday morning. JD made his way toward the bleachers, expecting to see Walt Feiffer’s pinched face staring back at him from the metal seats. As he climbed up the steps, he took in the expansive field, the smell of freshly cut grass and dew, and the sound of wooden sticks clacking against each other.

  JD settled into a spot near the announcer’s booth, where he could see both entrances and wait for Walt to arrive. He had a view of the school, up on a small hill just to the east of the field.