Cassie thought about the doctor’s note, and the two, now three, algebra assignments. “Yeah,” she said, not really sure how she was going to make it work.
Laura smiled. “Cool,” she said. “I thought maybe you had decided to disappear or something.”
Disappear. The word sent a pang through her, but she didn’t know why.
“No, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” Laura said.
The air was positively warm as she got off the bus. There was no trace of cold, not even a hint of winter in the gentle breeze that blew through the trees along the side of the road, all of them verdant and full. The whole world was green, as far as Cassie could see, leafy and in bloom, the corn in the field across the road almost knee-high, the air thick and sweet smelling.
She was going insane.
Was that it? Was this what it felt like to go crazy?
That’s what it had to be—there wasn’t any other explanation.
Or was there?
She looked up from the dusty verge as the bus roared away. Heather was already far along the lane, her pace quick, her body hunched.
Cassie trudged along toward the house, watching her feet, the tiny puffs of dust they raised with every step. The sun on her shoulders was almost hot; it felt like May, with the end of school in sight, summer lurking just over the fields.
So what had happened in town?
She wasn’t going crazy.
She didn’t know if that was true or not, but that was the assumption she had to make. To consider anything else was too terrifying.
So if she wasn’t going crazy, what was happening?
Then it came to her. The memory of the street, how loud her footsteps had sounded, how sharp the world had seemed when she had stepped out of the store: it had all been like a dream.
Had she been dreaming?
She knew that reality wasn’t to be trusted, that her mind could do strange things without her even really being aware of it. Was that what had happened? Had she fallen asleep, somehow, somewhere?
She reached into her jacket pocket. The knife was there, its weight a vaguely comforting pressure, so she knew that she had been in Schmidt’s. Had the rest of it been some sort of sleepwalking, a waking dream that she hadn’t even known she had been having until Mrs. Murrow had woken her?
The explanation made at least a little sense. She would talk to Mom and Dad about it tonight, maybe see about making an appointment with Dr. Livingston.
She could even tell them that she had fallen asleep in the library, and that was why she had missed class.
She was almost smiling as she turned into the front yard. She hadn’t really solved anything, but having a theory and a possible plan made it less overwhelming.
When she got to the house, Mom and Heather were talking in the kitchen and Cassie took one look at the two of them, leaning together, and kept walking. There would be other time, better times, to talk to her mom.
But there weren’t. First it was making dinner, then doing the dishes, then helping Heather with her homework, then watching TV with Dad: there was no time Cassie could get her mother alone, no opportunity to take her aside without it seeming like a major issue. And then it was bedtime, and she hadn’t said anything.
In the morning, then. She’d talk to her in the morning, get her to make an appointment with Dr. Livingston and ask her for a note for Mrs. Murrow. Yes, that would work.
Cassie finished brushing her teeth, tapped her toothbrush on the edge of the sink and turned off the bathroom light.
She could hear music from Heather’s room as she pulled the blankets to her chin, but she didn’t let it bother her. Nothing bothered her; she was exhausted, and it would all be better in the morning. Mom would know what to do, what to say, how to deal with it all. In the morning. In the morning.
“Cassandra.”
Her eyes flashed open at the voice from the hallway. Her bedroom was dark, a faint silver light glowing behind her curtains, too weak to actually penetrate the room.
“Cassandra.”
She prayed that she was dreaming, but when the voice came again, there was no doubt, no denial. She stifled a sob, trembled. All she wanted to do was curl into a ball—
She curled into a ball.
She gasped.
She stretched her arm out, just to prove that she could. She balled her hand into a fist. She wiggled her foot, just a little bit, trying to be silent.
She could move.
“Cassandra.”
The doorknob rattled, and the door opened with a creak. The sound cut through her.
She tried to slow her breathing, tried not to pee the bed or throw up. She braced herself, getting ready to scream.
But it didn’t come in.
As the door swung open, she could see it there, a black shadow in the glare of the hall light, unmoving, staring.
But it didn’t come in.
Maybe it knows, she thought. Maybe I’m too old. Maybe it knows that I can move, that I’m not helpless.
“Cassandra.”
The voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard, and she clenched her eyes shut, tried to shut it all out.
“Cassandra.”
When she opened her eyes again, the figure was stepping away. One step. Two. Then it stopped again.
Waiting.
She didn’t know how she knew, but she was sure that the shadow was waiting for her.
“Cassandra.”
Was that a beckoning tone in the voice now? Did it want her to follow?
She wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t. She would fight. She would—
She stood up, dropping the covers to the floor with a soft thud.
“Cassandra.”
The thing seemed to float in front of her, a black hole in the world, a darkness in the bright hallway.
And she followed.
She didn’t want to, but she had no choice.
And what terrified her, more than anything, was knowing that if she turned around, if she looked back, she would see herself still in bed, staring back.
“Cassandra.”
She followed the shape down the stairs. She could hear her own footfalls on the carpet, soft thuds, but no sound from in front of her.
Light seemed to follow them through the house. All the lights were off except the single faint bulb over the kitchen sink, but the shape always seemed to have light around it, in front of it.
Then she realized: the shape needed the light. Without light to create it, the darkness didn’t exist.
The darkness.
The words echoed in Cassie’s head as the figure stepped through the open door at the top of the basement stairs.
She froze in place in the middle of the kitchen.
No no no. I won’t. Not there. I won’t.
But she didn’t have any choice: her feet followed of their own accord.
With each step down, each rough, unpainted stair, her heartbeat quickened, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
No no no.
But the figure didn’t stop, didn’t slow as it led her down the stairs, into the basement. The concrete floor was blisteringly cold under her feet, but she barely noticed.
All she could feel was the heat of the fire on her face, coming from the doorway on the far side of the room.
The doorway seemed to glow orange as the figure moved toward it.
No no no.
She couldn’t resist the figure’s pull, couldn’t fight the power driving her to follow.
No, Daddy.
The figure turned to her as she stepped into the room. It smiled at her with her father’s face, twisted almost unrecognizably, his mouth wide, a gaping black hole under his burning red eyes.
It was the face she only saw here, in this room, when it was just the two of them.
But this time he wasn’t alone.
There were other people in the room, standing in a rough semicircle around the wood stove, its door open to reveal
an orange, hungry maw of jumping, roaring flames.
Her mother was there, standing behind the stove, Heather standing beside her, both of them staring at Cassie. Laura was standing next to Heather, holding her hand.
On the other side of her mother, Alicia, the waitress from the Lakeview, and beside her, Mrs. Murrow.
“Hey, little girl.”
Bob and his friends appeared in the wavering light, the cold of his eyes bright sparks in the heat.
No one moved. All of them just stared at her, the only sound the roaring crackle of the fire.
Until Laura laughed.
Raising her free hand, she pointed directly at Cassie and laughed.
Cassie’s heart stopped.
Then her mother laughed, a low, guttural laugh.
Mrs. Murrow snorted, then everyone joined in, the tiny room ringing with laughter, everyone pointing at Cassie.
Her knees faltered, almost gave out, and she just about fell, catching herself on the woodpile closest to the door.
That was when she caught a glimpse of herself, realized with a sudden clarity that she was naked.
But—
As she fumbled to cover herself, everyone was laughing louder, Alicia pointing at her emphatically.
Bob just looked at her, his grin widening, showing his teeth.
“Cassandra.”
“Cassandra.”
She woke with a start, the sound of laughter echoing in her ears, a cold shiver running through her.
It took her a moment to understand where she was, and as the picture came into focus she shuddered and swayed. Only grabbing the doorknob kept her from falling.
Doorknob. Ali’s doorknob.
She was standing in Ali’s bedroom, at the head of her bed.
Ali was asleep, on her side, facing Cassie, facing the room, her face soft, relaxed, calm, one bare shoulder showing above the edge of the blankets.
The bed beside her looked rumpled, tousled, as if someone had just gotten up.
She couldn’t remember going to sleep, but she must have.
And she had gotten up. Why? To go to the bathroom maybe? To get a drink of water?
No.
It came back to her with a shocking clarity, an immediacy that she knew had to be true.
But she looked down, just to be sure.
She looked down at her right hand, the hand closest to Ali. The hand that she hadn’t used to grab the doorknob.
The hand that held the knife she had bought that afternoon.
Unable to help herself, she looked from the blade to Ali, still curled on the bed, the covers rising and falling with each breath.
She pictured taking hold of her hair, tugging her head back on the pillow, felt the way the knife would slip so easily into the skin of her throat. That was why her thumb was at the base of the blade—to give it a little more stability, to give a little more focus to the pressure.
First the blade would slip into her skin, then, with the slightest resistance, a small pop she would feel in her hand, it would sever her carotid.
The blood would spray like a hot rain—
The knife fell from her hand, clattering against the patch of bare floor between the rug and the bed. Ali stirred in her sleep, groaned, nuzzled her head against the pillow.
And Cassie ran.
PART SIX
There are Dead Places in this world.
Even those who have no true understanding of the Darkness recognize them. There are houses, long abandoned, that seem to watch you, even as you instinctively avoid them, crossing the street to put as much distance between you and that Dark cold.
There are forests and fields where bodies have fallen, where the earth has tasted blood, where the sun itself seems to dim.
Corners and rooms that raise goosebumps on the skin.
Cold Places. Dead Places. Haunted Places.
Dark Places.
But there are also Darkening Places. Dying Places.
Places where the pall thickens like smoke from a slow fire.
Not battlefields, or cities under siege.
Not just those.
But places—neighbourhoods, houses, rooms, cities—caught up in the Dark.
And they quickly become vortexes, widening gyres, as the Darkening Places call out to the Dark, drawing us in. They wake the Darkness in those who have not yet seen the Truth of the Way. And they call out to those of us who walk now, always, in the Darkness.
And we come.
We come to tear the guts of these Darkening Places with our teeth.
We come to feed.
The sidewalks beside the courthouse were a sprawling emptiness, wind blowing scattered leaves and a few errant snowflakes with an unburdened abandon.
There was a crowd near the front doors, news vans and cameras and screaming people, but none of them came near Cassie.
There was no money in her hat, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Cassie wasn’t really trying, not anymore. She hadn’t even bothered to seed her hat with change, and she slumped against the iron railing, eyes half-shut, breath limp and grey in front of her mouth.
It had still been dark when she’d sat down; she had watched the world gradually brighten to the harsh, steel grey of a winter morning. At first she had been cold, shivering, but that feeling had passed. Now, she didn’t feel anything.
The few people who went by seemed to go out of their way to not see her. Their strides didn’t break, they didn’t slow or vary their voices. It was like she wasn’t even there.
Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she had been swallowed up by the world of grey, just another featureless lump in the gutter, something to be swept up by the street cleaners after the holidays.
Maybe that was for the best.
At least that way she couldn’t hurt anyone else.
When the police cruiser pulled up to the curb and turned off its engine, she barely registered it. Doors opening, closing, footsteps: none of it mattered. It all seemed to be happening in a different world.
It was only when a pair of heavy leather shoes came to a stop in front of her, their toes pointed directly at her, that Cassie looked up.
Farrow was looking down at her; the cop’s face broke from something that looked like anger into an expression of concern.
“Jesus, you look awful. Are you all right?”
Cassie nodded and tried to answer; her lips burned as she tried to move them.
“Yes,” she managed.
“Let’s get you up.” Farrow took a step forward, kicking Cassie’s hat out of the way, and leaned over. Cassie felt the woman’s hands under her arms, felt herself being lifted to her feet. Cassie was only able to stay on her feet by leaning against the railing.
“I’m all right,” she said, the burning in her lips dulling as she used them. She nodded, as if this might somehow strengthen her point.
“Jesus Christ,” the cop said, taking a step back. “Are you trying to freeze to death?”
When Cassie didn’t answer, Farrow cocked her head. “I need to ask you a few questions. Have you taken anything? Drunk anything?”
Cassie shook her head.
“No drugs? No booze?”
“No,” Cassie said carefully.
“Can you tell me what year it is?”
“I’m all right,” Cassie said.
“Can you tell me what year it is, please?” Farrow was still using that loud, almost shouting voice.
“It’s 1997. December. Christmas Eve.”
Farrow nodded. “And do you know where you are?”
Cassie almost smiled at how ridiculous the question was, but she stopped herself. “Victoria,” she said. “At the courthouse.” Not that she could really be sure anymore.
The answers seemed to satisfy Farrow. “What are you doing out here?” she asked, a tone of genuine concern in her voice. “I thought Chris told me that you had found a place.”
“Chris?”
“Constable Harrison.”
“Oh. Righ
t.”
She craned her neck around Farrow. All she saw was a man-shaped shadow in the driver’s seat of the cruiser.
“He’s not there,” Farrow said.
“What?” She’d never seen Farrow without Harrison.
Farrow shook her head. “Here,” she said, stepping toward the cruiser. “Let’s get you something to drink,” she said, as she opened the passenger door and reached in.
“No, I—” Cassie took two steps toward the car, tried to see inside. He had to be there.
“It’s got so much cream and sugar in it, it probably doesn’t even count as coffee anymore.” Farrow pushed the door of the cruiser shut with one hand, holding a metal Thermos in the other.
“Here.” She unscrewed the cup from the top of the Thermos and handed it to Cassie. “It’ll warm you up.” She poured the cup half-full.
Cassie looked between Farrow and the police car.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Where’s Constable Harrison?”
Farrow sighed heavily. “Drink first.”
Cassie raised the cup to her lips, took a gentle sip. Sweet, hot; just what she needed.
Farrow nodded. “Good girl,” she said. “Now listen.” She took a half-step forward, leaned toward her. “Chris got himself in a little trouble last night.”
A kaleidoscope of images filled her head. “What happened?”
Farrow shook her head. “He was questioning a suspect.” She paused, blinked quickly a few times. “And there was a breach of protocol.”
Cassie rocked back. “What? Is he—”
“I haven’t seen him. I don’t think anyone’s seen him.” Farrow took a deep breath, shook her head. “He’s on administrative leave. Indefinitely.”
“What happened?” It was like her whole body woke up at once, like an electrical current was running through her.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said. “But Chris asked me to.” She glanced back at the car, and toward the courthouse itself.
“It was Cliff Wolcott.”
Cassie’s stomach plummeted.
“Chris went down to holding to talk to him, and when he left, he revealed that he had taken his side arm in with him.”
Black Feathers Page 26
