Sleep of Death

by Aprilynne Pike

  Sunlight is making its way through my lashes as I let my eyes open a little bit, bracing for my head to start aching at the light. But it doesn’t; thank goodness for drugs, seriously.

  I hear a gasp and before I can open my eyes all the way, something squeezes my hand and I hear my mom say, “Charlotte? Char?”

  I force my eyes all the way open now and grin. “Hey,” I rasp.

  “Here,” Mom says, putting something against my lips.

  A straw. Water has never tasted so good.

  “Don’t gulp too much.” Sierra’s calm, competent voice this time. “They said you might be nauseous when you woke up.”

  I push the straw from my mouth with my tongue, a little regretfully. Considering just how much time has shifted around me in the last few days, I’m not actually sure how long it’s been since I ate, and getting some water in my stomach only makes me hungry.

  Soon.

  The room comes into focus and I look up and meet my mom’s eyes. They’re shiny with tears, but she’s smiling.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Most of the day. But you needed it. You’ll be totally out of commission for a fair bit,” my aunt says, and I understand her sub-text: No more Oracle shenanigans for me for a while. “No mental or physical exertion for at least a week. And your arm is going in a sling; they want it immobile for six weeks so your shoulder muscles can knit properly. Then you’ll have physical therapy for … a while.”

  “Don’t give her all the bad news right away, Sierra,” my mom scolds.

  “She needs to know,” my aunt replies simply. Mom just rolls her eyes. They really are such sisters sometimes. It’s funny how many traits they share … just not the elusive Oracle gene, I guess.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt, not sure just how much the meds are making me speak without thought. I should probably keep my mouth shut and let the two of them talk, but I feel compelled to apologize. For things they don’t even know happened. Terrible, terrible things.

  “Don’t be, Char. None of this was your fault,” Mom says, rubbing my arm.

  I literally bite my tongue because the truth is this is all my fault and it’s only because of Sophie that my mother and aunt are even alive. I glance over at Sierra for, I don’t know, help? Her hand is wrapped in gauze and there’s a big bandage on her arm, but she looks okay.

  “It wasn’t you,” Sierra says, her eyes boring into mine. “It was Daphne. You couldn’t stop her. No one could stop her. You only tried to help,” she says, a bit of emphasis on that last phrase.

  I nod, accepting Sierra’s unspoken command: That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

  Sierra’s eyes dart to my mom, but after a second she says, “I spoke with CPS briefly last night. It seems Daphne was an ongoing case for them. They’ve been working with the family for years, and the parents insisted they could handle her at home and without medication.”

  “Why?” It makes no sense to me to deny Daphne the help she obviously needed.

  Sierra shrugs. “They could only tell me so much. For Daphne’s privacy. I expect they only told me what they did to protect themselves from bad press, or maybe a lawsuit. But a lot of people don’t like modern science. Radical environmentalists, faith healers, you name it.”

  I remember Daphne’s father asking me if I was from his church the one time we met.

  “Whatever their concerns, it was their right to choose for their child,” Sierra says. “But they paid a very high price for it.”

  “So did Daphne.” Without early intervention, I imagine there’s a good chance she’ll never be able to function properly. I think of her during the lucid interlude we shared that afternoon out in the gazebo. It all seems like such a waste.

  Sierra just nods.

  “I don’t think ignoring problems makes them go away,” I say, my message for Sierra alone. “Teaching children to deal with things appropriately seems like the better path. Whatever that takes.” I’m almost glaring at Sierra now and, though she meets my eyes for a few seconds, she looks away and doesn’t respond.

  Now that everything is said and done, I’m finding it hard to forgive her for sending me away to get clothes for Daphne, hiding the truth all the while. If it weren’t for Sophie, Sierra’s lie-by-omission would have cost my mom her life.

  “I don’t think that’s anything we need to be discussing now,” Mom says, squeezing my hand. “The nurse said to call her when you woke up. Are you ready?”

  I love that even with nurse’s orders to call her immediately, my mom stops and asks what I need. What I want. Always putting me first.

  And in that moment I know exactly what I have to do.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The nurse comes in to help me get dressed and puts my arm in a special sling that holds it immobile across my chest. She shows me how to work all the straps and bits of Velcro, and warns that it’ll take some practice. It’s going to be a very long six weeks. Especially since it’s my right arm and I’m right-handed. As the nurse rattles off the laundry-list of things I have to be careful of I blink back tears at how little I’m going to be able to do on my own while this heals.

  But maybe I deserve it. Wasn’t I meddling? Did I accomplish anything? Messing with the future is such a confusing business. I really do think I’m completely over my head sometimes. I’m glad I have Sophie now; I think we can learn a lot together by blending our … talents. And I found out how to help Sophie recover her strength more quickly. But only after pushing her to the brink of death.

  And all because I was protecting a little girl who needed way more help than I was in any position to give.

  She’s getting it now, though. Did I do that?

  I don’t even know. But the fact that a ten-year-old girl was even capable of doing the things she did—as well as the things Sophie undid—shakes my faith in humanity to the core.

  As the nurse leaves, the door opens wide, so as to let my mom’s wheelchair through. Sierra slips in behind her, followed by …

  Linden.

  “There are some reporters hanging around outside,” Sierra says blandly, “but I don’t think he’s one of them.” Linden gives me a strained smile as Sierra casts me a questioning look, waiting for some kind of indication that she did the right thing.

  I give a tiny nod—one I don’t really mean.

  “Well,” my mom says brightly, “I still have some paperwork to fill out and Sierra’s going to bring the car around. It won’t take too long.” Her eyes wander up to Linden, and then back to me, and she says, “We’ll pick up dinner from Luigi’s on the way home, then we need to talk. They’re sending a detective over later this evening, and I want the whole story before then.” The Mom-tone is heavy in her voice, but she’s been more than patient. And Sierra’s been able to feed the basic details, I’m sure.

  Still. Music to be faced.

  “Ten minutes,” Mom says as Sierra opens the door and they slip out together.

  The sound of the door’s latch closing again seems to echo around the room. Linden steps forward holding out a box with a blue ribbon on top. “I brought this for you. I mean, I know you’re not actually going to be here for much longer, but I remember when I woke up I was starving. And the food here sucks.”

  “Thank you,” I say genuinely, peeking inside. Couple of candy bars, trail mix, beef jerky, packaged brownies, and a cinnamon roll that kind of makes my heart hurt.

  And my stomach rumble.

  I am so hungry. “Would it be totally rude if I …” My voice trails off and I gesture at the box.

  “No, absolutely! Please do.” I’m rummaging through the box when he adds, “It’s probably for the best. You can chew and I can talk. Because I kind of have a lot to say.”

  Oh.

  My fingers wrap around one of the brownies. If there was ever a time for comfort food, this is it. Instinctively, my right hand tries to reach for the plastic wrap, but all that does is send of a jolt of pain from my shoulder to my fing
ertips as my arm pushes fruitlessly against the sling. A low moan escapes my clenched teeth.

  “Let me help,” Linden offers, and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole as he unwraps the dessert and puts it carefully in my left hand. I shove the corner of the brownie in my mouth just to keep myself from apologizing. Again.

  OMG chocolate heaven.

  “How many stitches?” he asks.

  I swallow quickly. “Forty-eight. Ten on my hand, twelve on my arm and twenty-four in my shoulder.”

  “That’s forty-six.”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Well, apparently I have no idea, then.”

  “I heard … I heard it was a knife?” he asks in a whisper, eyeing the crinkly plastic wrap that he’s squishing between his hands.

  “Yeah.” My voice cracks even on that tiny word.

  He grins and lifts the tail of his shirt. “I guess we match now.”

  But rather than seeing the humor in the situation, the sight of his scar makes my chest feel tight.

  This is actually the first time I’ve seen it.

  When it happened, the wound itself was covered in clothing. And afterward, when they brought him back from surgery, it was draped in gauze.

  And let’s just say I haven’t been in a position to view his bare stomach since.

  It’s longer than I thought. A good four or five inches. And scar almost seems like the wrong word. Scars are an echo of injuries long gone—this one is still so fresh. The line is red and raised from the mending process and, though the skin is definitely closed and healing, it still looks tender.

  I did that. I stabbed him. I damn near killed him. I don’t know how he thinks he can just forgive me.

  Not when I still haven’t forgiven myself.

  “It’s possible I just suck at taking rejection,” Linden says, dropping his shirt and sliding onto the bed beside me, clasping his hands together between his knees. “But I can’t just let you go. I’ve tried. It’s not working. I found out you’d been hurt and I—I didn’t take it well,” he says softly, staring down at his clenched fingers. “I ditched school and I’ve been here all day except when I took off for an hour to get you that.” He says, pointing at the box. “Then when I found out you were going to be fine, it’s … it’s like the whole world started turning again.”

  I remember that feeling. The one I felt when I found out he was going to live. The tears are on my cheeks before I can even think to stop them and I shove the rest of the brownie in my mouth and try to wipe them away subtly. Though maybe there’s no point in hiding that kind of reaction from him anymore.

  “You kissed me back in the auditorium, Charlotte. A lot.”

  My cheeks are surely bright red, but I just keep chewing, focusing on the rich, amazing frosting to keep from tearing up even more.

  “Now, if you didn’t want to be with me, then I would leave it alone. I know you can’t force someone to have a relationship. Not a real one.” He hesitates then adds, “I think I know that better than just about anyone.”

  I nod silently; he deserves full credit for that.

  “But that isn’t the case here. Is it?”

  He look up at me and even though I don’t speak, I know my answer is shining in my eyes. I can’t imagine ever not wanting him. Not for a second. A moment.

  “So what you’re doing is making my choice for me,” he says, and though his words are quiet, there’s a simmering anger beneath them that I can’t miss. “And if you think you have the right to do that, then you owe me the reason.” His eyes burn into mine and the truth of his words sear me to the heart.

  He’s right. I am making his choice for him. The same way Smith forced him to be with me, I’m forcing him not to be. I hate that comparison. I hate it so much I wish I could purge it from my mind.

  But I know it now. So I can’t.

  “Okay,” I whisper. “You win.” I glance at the door and then, with my hands cold and trembling, I raise my chin until our eyes meet.

  And I break his heart.

  “The only reason Bethany is dead is because of me. Smith killed her for no other reason than to get my attention. He killed all of them to get to me. If it weren’t for me, you would have a girlfriend right now. It just wouldn’t be me.”

  He sits there, stunned, his mouth open a crack, eyes wide in horror.

  My throat feels like it’s closing in, but I force a few more words out. “And Linden? That’s not even everything. That’s just the part of the secret that I can tell you.”

  I hear him breathing in labored gasps that make me turn away in pain. I can’t look at him when he’s so anguished. To know that I did this. After everything, I had to hurt him again.

  “My life is a nightmare, Linden,” I mumble to my feet. “Your nightmare, to be frank. If there were another way,” I say, aching, but I can’t leave him with a tendril of hope. I force myself to go on. “But there’s not. There never will be.”

  “Char … I—”

  But we’re saved by the sound of the door opening to admit my mother again, followed close behind by a nurse with an empty wheelchair.

  My chariot.

  A fake smile plasters itself over my face. The practiced smile that hides all my secrets. I’m ever-so-good at it.

  “Your throne, Princess,” the nurse says cheerily.

  “I’ll get your bag,” Mom offers, grabbing the plastic drawstring hospital bag that holds my blood-stained clothing. I’d rather just throw it all in the trash. I probably will when I get home. “Do you want me to take that?” she asks, reaching for Linden’s box.

  “No!” I say too sharply, holding the precious object against my shirt. My very last gift from Linden, I’m quite certain. “I’ll hold it.”

  Mom nods and I stand and fumble with the box for a few seconds before Linden helps stabilize it against my chest.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. “For everything. Ever.” But I don’t look up at him. I can’t. I don’t want to see what he really thinks of me now. I’d rather not know. I hug the box to my chest and walk past him to the waiting wheelchair.

  I don’t look back.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I manage to go to the bathroom on my own—thank-freaking-goodness. And when I step out I can smell the Italian food that Mom’s setting out for us on the kitchen table. I’m hoping food will make all of this easier.

  “Char.”

  A hand on my good arm; I turn my head to Sierra’s whisper. She’s standing in her bedroom doorway, her face pale. I try to remember that she’s gone through a lot the last twenty-four hours herself. She watched me bring her own death into the house. And because she’s a supernatural, I know she remembers the timeline before Sophie jumped me back.

  She remembers dying.

  I wonder if she remembers me watching her draw her final breath.

  “We’re in a tight spot, aren’t we?” she says, her voice heavy with weariness. “What are we going to tell her? We’d better decide fast.”

  My heart races and I didn’t consider how hard it would be to tell Sierra my decision. I only thought about the actual explanation to Mom.

  “Sierra, you know that time skipped back, right?”

  She swallows hard and nods.

  I can feel my nerves humming within me, but my voice is steady and calm. “You were dead. I watched you die.”

  She says nothing, but her hand is tight on my arm. I’m not sure she realizes she’s squeezing me at all.

  “Do you know what Daphne did after stabbing you?” I ask softly, but there’s a deadly edge to my tone and Sierra’s rigid posture tells me she hears it. “She went in and killed Mom, the same way she killed her own parents.” I turn so I’m facing Sierra fully. “I looked into that room and I saw my mother dead and lying in a puddle of blood. And if it hadn’t been for Sophie, she would still be dead now.”

  “Charlotte—”

  “All I’m saying is that I will never, never let my mother die becau
se I have left her too ignorant to even be aware that she needs to defend herself.” I point down the hall toward the kitchen. “I’m going in there and I’m going to tell Mom what I am. I’m going to tell her about Dad, and about Mr. Richards, and Jason Smith. I’m going to tell her about Sophie, and …” I swallow. “And Linden. And you can’t stop me.”

  “You can’t do this,” she hisses.

  “Oh, I won’t tell her about you,” I say, and my voice is strong and firm. I’m not afraid of Sierra as I speak these words. Everything inside me is screaming that this is the right thing to do. Consequences be damned. If my own mother hates me after this, I trust that she’ll eventually come around.

  But I will not let her die again. Ever. Not if I can help it.

  “Your secrets are your own. I don’t have that right.” Although I’m not actually sure how I’m going to dance around them. Our secrets are so intertwined it’s hard to tell where hers end and mine begin.

  And vice-versa.

  Sierra tries again. “Charlotte, you’re not thinking straight. You should at least wait until … until the morphine is out of your system before you even think about making a decision like this.” And now I hear fear in her voice. I wonder if she’s more afraid than I am.

  But I can’t listen. “No!” I hiss, bringing my face close to hers. “I already lost my dad. I am not going to lose my mother because I’m afraid of my own secret.”

  “Wait,” Sierra says, sounding genuinely desperate as she grasps at my shirt and pulls me back. “You know about my job. About my position. What am I supposed to do? Honestly. What am I supposed to do?”

  I look her in the eye and swallow hard, but I don’t lose my nerve. Not an ounce of it. “I guess it’s time for you to decide which is more important: your Sisters, or your sister.”

  Sierra’s face goes white.

  I can’t comfort her though. Not now. “You do what you want; I’m telling her about me.” And I turn away from Sierra and make my way down the hall toward my mother.