Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  “Think about poor Valentine,” the Guardian continues. “She thought she was getting out too. Played tough right until the end. Just like you.”

  Sydney’s expression weakens. “Why hurt her?” she asks. “Why hurt any of us? We didn’t do anything to you!”

  Guardian Bose lets Brynn go, and she immediately goes to Marcella, who wraps her arms around her. The Guardian takes a step toward Sydney, but she doesn’t back down. She faces him head-on.

  “Now, Lennon Rose . . . ,” he says. “She was a precious little thing, wasn’t she, Syd?” He does this to make her flinch, taking pleasure in her pain. “I know you liked her. I did too. I offered to take her off their hands, you know.” He shrugs like it’s too bad.

  “Just let us go,” Sydney begs, tilting her head. “We won’t tell anyone.” She’s trying to appeal to some sense of humanity she must think Guardian Bose has left. He smiles in response.

  “Let you . . . go?” he asks. “Go where, Sydney? Where could you—” He looks around at each of us. “My God,” he says. “You really don’t know.”

  “Know what?” Marcella asks, shielding Brynn.

  He turns to her, disbelief clear on his face. “I thought that’s why you were trying to escape,” he says. “Why you started reading that fucking book. This changes things.” He takes the walkie-talkie off his hip.

  “Know what?” Marcella asks again, louder.

  The Guardian turns to her, about to answer, when—to my horror—there is a ringing. It takes a second for us to realize what the sound is. Guardian Bose straightens.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  The phone rings again from my pillow, our clear connection to the outside world. Guardian Bose and I dive for the phone at the same time.

  We crash together on my bed, my hand the first to slip under the pillow. I click answer and scream for help, when suddenly Guardian Bose punches me hard in the jaw, making both me and the phone fall to the floor beside the bed.

  I see stars. Lying on the hard wood, I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented.

  Guardian Bose gets up, slamming his heavy boot down on the phone and shattering it to pieces. He hauls me up by the fabric of my shirt, and I’m a rag doll in his arms.

  Sydney shoots forward, slamming against him so that he drops me. I reach for the nightstand, pulling myself up.

  The Guardian turns on Sydney, wrapping his big hands around her throat. He slams her into the wall. Sydney’s eyes immediately widen as she gasps for breath, scratching at the Guardian’s forearms. Marcella and Brynn scream for him to stop, but Guardian Bose is unfazed.

  “Let her go!” Annalise shouts. She punches frantically at his arms and back. Instead of listening to her, Guardian Bose pulls Sydney away from the wall and then slams her back against it again, her head making a dent in the plaster, her eyes momentarily unfocused.

  He lets Sydney fall to the bed, and then turns to grab the lamp from the nightstand, pulling the plug from the wall. The Guardian spins around and smashes it against Annalise’s face, sending her backward in an explosion of broken glass. She moans and rolls to her side on the floor.

  I scream, charging the Guardian. But he is formidable. I jump on his back, wrapping my forearm around his throat and leaning back with my entire weight.

  He grunts and reaches behind him to grab me by my hair, knotting his fingers close to the scalp. I cry out just as he flings me over his shoulder and onto the floor.

  I slide along the wood until my head strikes the bottom drawer of the dresser. I immediately look at Sydney and see the finger-sized indents in the skin of her neck from being strangled. Her eyes are streaming tears.

  Marcella and Brynn attack Guardian Bose, both of them frantically hitting and punching and kicking. I get up to join them, feeling pain in my jaw with each hit. Annalise crawls along the floor, trying to sit up, her hair hanging in her face and sticking in the blood.

  We’re no match for the Guardian—he’s a mountain.

  He puts Brynn in a headlock, punching Marcella hard enough to knock her squarely to the floor. He slams Brynn’s head into the nightstand, and she falls unconscious.

  But I’ll fight until we’re free. Or until he kills me.

  I run at him, and he knocks me aside easily. I crash into the nightstand, tripping over Brynn’s body.

  Guardian Bose stands taller, looking down as we crawl across the floor, trying to get back to each other. He sniffs a laugh, spitting out some blood. He turns to Sydney. She slides down on the bed, holding up her hands defensively.

  The Guardian knocks her hands aside and climbs on the bed to straddle her, his thighs on the outsides of hers. As she tries to push him off, he leans in to put his hands around her neck, pressing her back into the pillow.

  “Leave her alone!” I scream, ready to fight for her. Die for her, if I have to. I won’t let the Guardian kill her. Behind me, Marcella stirs Brynn awake while Annalise crawls toward the bed, not giving up either. We’ll fight for our girl. We’ll fight for our lives.

  Sydney gags, swatting the Guardian’s shoulders, trying to push him off. But he’s too big. He’s too strong. Sydney swings out her arm, slapping her hand along the nightstand until her fist closes around something shiny.

  A pair of scissors.

  And then suddenly, violently, Sydney jams the pointy end of the large metal scissors into the side of Guardian Bose’s neck. A small arc of blood squirts around the shears, landing just shy of my shoes.

  Brynn screams from the floor, covering her mouth. Marcella turns her eyes away from the horror. I stand motionless with shock, staring down at the growing puddle of blood.

  The Guardian stumbles off the bed, falling to one knee in the center of the room with a heavy thud. “You’re . . . dead,” he chokes out, blood spurting between his lips. “All of you.”

  I shift a panicked gaze to Sydney, trying to understand what’s happening amid the chaos. What we’ve done. Sydney grips the headboard of my bed, her arms shaking. Annalise sits with her back against the wall, blood freely pouring from her face and staining her shirt red.

  I back up toward Marcella and Brynn, each of us grabbing onto each other. The Guardian is a wounded animal, more dangerous than ever. Rabid. He grits his teeth and reaches clumsily to find the handle of the scissors.

  Before I can think better of it, I hold up my hand. “Wait,” I say breathlessly.

  The Guardian yanks out the scissors.

  He must instantly realize what he’s done. His pale eyes go wide as a spray of blood shoots out from the side of his neck in a sudden burst. The Guardian slaps his hand over his wound, but it’s too late. The fluid pulses from between his fingers, pours out of his mouth. He chokes on it and falls heavily to his other knee, shaking the floor.

  He falls forward onto his chest. Before I can move out of the way, the Guardian grabs me by the pant leg, knotting his bloody fingers in the fabric. He pulls me to the floor. I cry out as he tugs me toward him, still stronger. Still going to kill me.

  Marcella quickly comes over and pries the Guardian’s fingers open, dragging me out of his reach. She wraps her arms around me protectively. Brynn grabs onto us as we watch, all of us gasping. Sobbing. The sound of it echoes around the room. Light scatters frantically on the walls from the broken lamp.

  The Guardian looks at us from the floor, gurgling and spitting. His skin has gone waxy as blood pools around his head, spreading out in my direction. Chasing me. I move my foot out of the way.

  “Girls,” the Guardian whispers as one last curse. He chokes and blood sputters from between his lips. He takes a final breath—a rattle in his chest. And then his body goes suddenly limp and he dies.

  I cover my mouth and immediately look at Sydney. The true depth of what has just happened is still hidden behind adrenaline, fear so deep it might never go away. Sydney is on the bed, marks visible on her neck. Her shirt torn at the collar.

  There was no other choice. He would have killed us.

  I get
to my feet and race over to Sydney, gathering her into a hug as she sobs heavily into my shoulder. Her voice is strangled when she whispers suddenly, desperately, “I love you, Mena.”

  And I cry as I tell her that I love her too.

  28

  None of the other girls come to check on us. In fact, the entire floor is silent. I wonder if they’re scared. Or if they’re obedient. Or if they’re simply asleep. If so, we can’t chance waking them now. Not with the professors still here to stop us.

  I take a blanket from my bed and lay it over the Guardian’s body, unable to handle the guilt of seeing him dead on my floor.

  Marcella holds a sweater to the cut on the back of Brynn’s head, unsteady herself as she helps Brynn to her feet. Annalise watches us from the wall—her breathing shallow. And when she brushes her hair from her face, I see the extent of the damage. Shards of glass have punctured her right eye, torn the skin open on her cheek. Annalise’s good eye flutters shut and a tear leaks out and mixes with her blood. It’s then that I notice the deep gash in her neck, pumping out a steady stream of blood.

  She’s going to bleed to death. Just like the Guardian.

  I quickly grab a pillow, pulling off the flowered pillowcase, and rush to Annalise.

  “Hey,” I whisper, gently pressing the fabric against her wound. It’s instantly soaked through with blood. I try not to show my panic. “We have to get you to the doctor,” I tell her. “I have no way to stop the bleeding.”

  She watches me, hitching in breaths. She gives a quick shake of her head.

  “No,” she says. “This is your chance. You can’t stay for me.”

  “I won’t leave you.” The tears well up again, and I start to think I’ll never stop crying. That I’ll cry forever. “I would never leave you,” I murmur at the unimaginable thought.

  Sydney comes from behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder, staring at Annalise. Marcella and Brynn do the same. We’ll stay together. No matter what, we stay together.

  I lean down to press my forehead to Annalise’s, her blood sticky on my skin.

  I know she won’t get far like this. We can find Dr. Groger and ask for his help—he’s probably in his residence. It might mean never getting out of this academy, but we’ll try. And we’ll be together.

  “You’re going to have to get up,” I tell Annalise, even as her eye flutters open and closed, like she’s about to pass out. But together, we get Annalise to her feet.

  There’s so much blood everywhere. Every direction. It’s even on my walls.

  It’s on my soul.

  I wonder if I’ll ever have another simple thought, or if they’ll all be tainted with murder and blood from now on.

  Can you hear them too? Valentine Wright asked me that day in the Federal Flower Garden. The roses. They’re alive, you know. All of them. If you listen closely enough, you can hear their shared roots. Their common purpose. They’re beautiful, but it’s not all they are.

  I did hear them. Not while we were at the garden, no. But I did hear them eventually.

  And I can hear them now. Only they’re not telling me to wake up. They’re telling me to find Valentine.

  “There’s another option,” I say suddenly, turning to the girls. “The key Leandra left behind in the kitchen—the one to the lab. There has to be something in there we can use to help Annalise. Maybe we can repair the damage enough for us to leave. Figure out what to do after that.”

  Marcella and Sydney exchange a quick glance before nodding. It’s a good enough idea. It’s better than giving up and hoping for mercy from the men who have kept us as prisoners. There’s a key ring on the Guardian’s belt, and I slowly reach under him to remove it, frightened to touch his body in case he’s still alive. Still murderous.

  These are the keys to the kitchen door, the gate. The keys to our freedom. I hold them out to Brynn, and after she takes them, there’s a fresh rise of hope in my chest.

  “And we’ll find Valentine,” I tell the others. “We’ll save her, too.”

  Sydney opens her mouth to argue, but I see that she realizes the truth. Valentine might already be dead, but we won’t leave her if she’s not. We won’t leave her behind.

  • • •

  The school is silent as we rush down the back stairs. I’ve never heard it this quiet, not even at night. Somewhere, Anton is on his own. In his room? In his office? Does he have any idea what’s happened here?

  Part of me wants to run that way and confront him, but the professors will be awake soon enough. And when we’re not at breakfast, they’ll realize we’re missing. They’ll come for us. We have to be long gone by then.

  My shoes are slippery as I walk Annalise down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood behind us. When we get to the kitchen, ready to take the stairwell to the basement, there’s a bang on the back door.

  The girls and I stop and turn toward it. I have the wild notion that it’s Guardian Bose back from the dead. His violent ghost continues to seek me out. I grip Sydney’s hand and look back toward the hall, afraid the noise will tip off Anton or the professors that something’s wrong.

  Sydney lets go of my hand and walks to the door. It occurs to me then that it must be Jackson, and I ease Annalise against the wall and tell Sydney to wait up.

  Brynn holds out Guardian Bose’s key chain and I grab it on my way to the door.

  I hand it to Sydney and she finds the key and opens the locks. She pulls the door open with a wide swing. I sigh when I find Jackson standing there.

  “You made it,” I say, relieved. “And you got through the fence.” He looks awful—dirt on his entire left side, a bit of road rash on his cheek. He leans against the doorframe.

  “Yeah, about that,” Jackson says. “Quentin helped me scale the fence. Didn’t go so well. I busted up my leg pretty good. It’s probably sprained, but . . .”

  His voice trails off when he looks down and sees that my pants are covered in blood. And the blood quite literally on my hands. He swallows hard.

  “Is any of that yours?” he asks.

  I hold his eyes. “Not much,” I say. “It’s mostly the Guardian’s.” I expect to shock him. Scare him.

  But instead, he lets out a soft sound of concern and murmurs, “Good.”

  Then Jackson notices Annalise’s condition and immediately limps past me to check on her. He grabs a dish towel from the stove and replaces the blood-soaked pillowcase. He tells Annalise to hold the towel to her wound instead. When he turns around to us, his expression is grave.

  Jackson runs his eyes over the blood on my clothes again. He sees the bruising on Sydney’s neck. His jaw tightens as he grows fierce. Protective of all of us.

  “Yeah, so let’s go,” he says, pointing out the door.

  “We can’t,” I say. “Not yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “She needs to get to the skin grafts,” I say, motioning to Annalise.

  He stares at me, and then glances at Annalise. “The what?”

  “Long story that we don’t have time to explain,” Sydney says. “Now come on.”

  Marcella and Brynn help Annalise, and Sydney tells me to grab the key from the drawer. I locate the small silver key, still wondering why Leandra left it for us. Why she didn’t just let us escape.

  As the girls disappear down the hall, I turn toward Jackson and find him reaching for the plate of cookies still next to the tea kettle.

  “Don’t,” I say, suddenly. He glances at me, startled, but holds up his hand.

  “Sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “When I get nervous, I . . .” He pauses, sweeping his eyes over me. “Wait. Why shouldn’t I eat one?”

  I furrow my brow. “Because they’re too sweet,” I murmur, thinking about those words.

  “Mena,” Sydney calls urgently from the stairwell. “Come on.”

  Quickly, I take Jackson by the sleeve and lead him toward the basement.

  He winces with every other step. He says he’s sure his ankle is sprained, bu
t my guess is it’s broken. I keep my arm around his waist as I help him down the stairs, the girls ahead of us.

  “I’m still sorry I didn’t tell you about my mother,” Jackson says, glancing sideways at me. We both know it’s not high on our list of problems right now, but I appreciate the apology and tell him so.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t let you kidnap us from the movie theater,” I say in return.

  He laughs and then sucks in a sharp breath, pausing to take the weight off his leg. He puts his arm around my shoulders to start walking again so we can catch up with the others.

  Sydney stops at the bottom of the stairwell and looks up at us. “You ready?” she asks.

  Everyone nods that they are, so I nod too. Jackson takes his arm from around me and hops down on his own the rest of the way.

  Sydney steps aside. I place the small key into the lock and turn it with a click. My heart beats wildly as Sydney pushes open the door. It’s dark and Marcella flips the light switch. They flicker on with a buzz.

  The room is large and mostly empty aside from storage shelves. There are two gurneys on opposite sides of the room. It takes a moment for me to realize that there are bodies on them, covered in white sheets. I fall back a step, bumping Jackson, who nearly trips because of his injured leg.

  “Who is that?” Brynn asks quietly, pointing to the closest one with a shaky finger. We all stare at the body covered in white fabric.

  No one answers. But as I look at the sheets, I wonder if Valentine is under one of them.

  I walk to the first table and pause next to it. I am absolutely terrified when I reach to pull back the white fabric. My entire body jolts as I look down, my vision beginning to swim. Sydney gasps behind me.

  “Mena,” Jackson says, coming closer. His voice is only a whisper, lost and faraway.

  I can barely breathe. A suffocating pressure is building in my chest, crawling up my throat.

  Jackson takes a step toward the table, hesitates, and then takes another before looking down.

  A pale white body lies naked on the table. Her perfect flesh is exposed; her skull is split open along the hairline. The space that would normally house the brain is instead a tangle of wires—hundreds of tiny wires, varying in sizes—their ends exposed and unconnected as they mix with veins and nerves.