What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose)

by Beaumont, Delany

  But I’m locked into the rhythm of his breathing. Caught by every rise and fall of his chest. Unable to pull away from that wounded, fragile face.

  My mind is working so slowly, it takes me a little time before I remember—

  The motorcycle, another Rider, here at the school.

  Must push myself to my feet. Stand straight, think clearly. Force fully-formed, practical thoughts into my head, come up with an idea, a single idea about what to do.

  Should I remain where I am? Should I try to keep Aiden concealed by meeting the intruder outside, in the hallway, in the outer offices?

  But I have no real weapon. Not like the rifle that protected me for so long. I fumble below the bottom end of the mattress for a knife I brought back from the kitchen the day before and hid there. A knife with a long, serrated blade, not especially sharp except at its tip. A tip that can puncture flesh, might buy a few moments of hesitation from whichever of the Riders is here.

  Meeting that intruder outside the door seems a better option than staying where I am but I can’t pull myself away from Aiden. I feel like if I leave him for a second, that might be his last moment on earth and I will miss it. Somehow I have to stay with him until the end.

  I duck behind the door, hidden by the shadows but with enough room to raise the knife and strike. I wait for footsteps, for some sign of the approach of whatever is out there—but I hear nothing.

  I don’t know that he’s there until I feel him standing right beside me.

  Needle. In the flickering candle-glow I can tell that Needle is only inches from me.

  There’s a presence at first, a sense of him, that slight coppery smell, those dangling thin fingers, naked and pale in the dim light. My skin tingles as if there’s a current spreading from him to me. I recall biting into Moira’s flesh, how the shock of it exploded my senses. Being this close to Needle reminds me of it, clouds my mind, makes it hard to think.

  He starts to speak, voice soft and low as if trying not to wake the sleeping patient but there’s a hollowness to it, a distance in it, as if he’s whispering in a cavern deep underground. “I see what you have in your hand. You can stab me if you want. I don’t think it will do you any good.”

  He raises a hand, waves it theatrically across the room, those long, tapered fingers wiggling. The candles I’ve set out flutter high like a breeze has blown in, then wink away into black. In the few seconds of light left me I see Needle cross the room to Aiden’s side. It looks like he’s floating.

  “I saw you coming, of course,” he continues in the dark, his voice still soft but off-center somehow, like it’s coming from a short distance away, as if from a radio turned low in the next room. “To my special medicine room. But Aisa beat me to it. Then Moira. And I’m not going to get in the middle of their squabbles.”

  He seems less threatening than either Aisa or Moira, as unthreatening as a Rider can be. Almost like a doctor making a house call. And he’s not full of bluster, lording his strange, otherworldly presence over me, making no move to assault or intimidate me. I let the knife drop to my side, the fingers of my right hand, the hand with the torn palm, still wrapped tight around the hilt of it.

  I find my voice. I have the feeling that I can ask him questions and he will actually answer them. “How did you know? Did William or Tetch tell you beforehand we were going…?”

  “We knew. Leave it at that. But I’m glad you’re trying to save him. He’s our hunter, you know. He’s as good a shot as you are. The only one we allow to carry a gun.”

  “Then why did they…?”

  “I don’t think they intended to hurt him so badly. They just got…carried away.”

  In the dark, the smell of him intensifies, becomes my overriding sense of him—a mix of singed electric wiring underlain with something cloying, sweetly rotten. It’s strong but not enough to make me gag, off-putting but not enough to drive me from the room.

  He stops speaking and it grows very quiet. I start to wonder what he’s doing. Is he doing something to Aiden, trying to ascertain how bad off he is? How savable he is? I’m convinced he’s not going to hurt him. It’s what he just said—But I’m glad you’re trying to save him.

  But standing in this room with Needle in the dark, it gets to me. My skin starts to itch, I feel colder than I did before. I’m wearing a sweater I stole from Tetch’s stockpile and I hug the thick wool of it tighter to me.

  There’s only the faintest light coming from the rooms beyond this one and I can’t see the bed or anything else that’s inside. Can he see? Is he working by touch, with those long sensitive fingers? What is he doing with Aiden? Is he treating him with something, some sort of medicine?

  But he might not be beside Aiden—he might be right beside me. He could be anywhere—reaching toward me ever so softly with those freakish fingers. The smell of him is stronger, his presence is stronger. I’m breathing faster, a hollow feeling at the pit of my stomach. I feel ready to run from the room.

  I force myself to say something, my voice small, shaky. “Are you giving him medicine? Can you help him?”

  “I didn’t bring any medicine with me,” he says.

  “But why? I thought that’s—”

  He raises his voice. His voice sounds both close to my ear and far from me. “I have medicine. Plenty of medicine stashed all around this city. But whether I give him any is entirely up to you.”

  “Me?”

  Unconsciously, I’ve raised the knife again, still gripping its hilt tight, the part of my hand that was torn by glass numb from the pressure with a numbness that’s spreading to my fingers. It’s unbearable to be in this inky room with him any longer. How close is he to me? It’s like I can feel his skin brushing against mine. But that can’t be—he couldn’t bear to touch me, could he?

  He knows perfectly well how I feel because he says, “You can’t stand being in this room with me any longer. Being with me in the dark is killing you.” He laughs, a small, bitter laugh. “Maybe I wanted to show you how much distance there is between your kind…and mine.” Then he snaps his fingers and I flinch like it’s a gunshot.

  And there’s light. He’s lit a match.

  And he is right beside me.

  The sunglasses are off. There’s the murky ash-white of his skin, papery dry, the black, boot polish stiffness of long, stringy hair.

  And his eyes.

  The pale horror of Needle’s eyes. Not eyes. Cloudy, pearly-plum pools of some glinting substance quivering hypnotically by the light of the match’s flare. His eyes are like exposed organs that should be buried deep in his body but have somehow been pushed out through the surface of his skin. They fascinate me. I can feel them sucking me in, refusing to let me go.

  But I shake my head and look down past the hand that holds the knife to see that his fingers are at the sleeve of my sweater. They remind me of worms crawling through wet grass or something slimy oozing from the sea, thin nails filed to points, white and seeking, touching, exploring.

  I jerk away and he lets the match fall, flickering out into black.

  Unable to control the urge to do it any longer, I slash with the knife in his direction, hoping to feel it slide deep into that papery skin beyond the black coat he wears, to push it into his body as far as I can, perhaps pierce his heart or a lung, grind the blade against the bones of his spine.

  I’ve never had urges so murderous before, so filled with hate and fear.

  But he’s read my mind again and simply isn’t where I thought he was. The hand with the knife flies through empty space until the edge of my wrist smacks against the stem of an old coat rack in the corner.

  The shock of the impact, the pain, rouses me from how completely I’m locked into this confrontation with Needle. I drop the knife and sprint from the room.

  I run from the offices, the administrative area of the school, out into the long first floor corridor, up to the bank of windows.

  Staring out through the cracked and broken panes of glass, I try t
o steady myself, force myself to breathe. Not Aisa, not Moira, but the one Rider who might help me—it’s him that I’ve tried to kill, that I’ve taken a weapon to.

  And I’ve left Aiden. I’ve left Aiden alone with him.

  There’s a haze of clouds and starlight filling the horizon. The sight of the night sky is cleansing somehow, even with the scant amount of light that it allows. Just the openness, the sense of potential freedom I feel—

  But Needle. He could be right behind me.

  I spin around and he is there, the murky shape of him silhouetted in the doorway that leads to the waiting room and the desks where school secretaries sat. Tall, thin, spectral.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll stay where I am. It was just an experiment—to see how close I could get to you.”

  “Close to me?” I murmur.

  I can see him smile just a little, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “I’ve thought a lot about this.” He takes a deep breath. “God, I feel like I’m back in school, passing notes or something. You know, the kind a kid draws two boxes on so the girl they’re interested in can check one for like and one for don’t like.”

  The weird hollowness of his voice, thin and sepulchral, like it’s filtering up from a cavernous chamber right under my feet, makes what he’s saying sound even stranger, like he’s a dead boy who’s been resurrected and is working up the courage to ask me out. My mind screams, What does he want from me? He’s already proven that we can’t be in the same room together.

  “You see how I am,” he says. “I’m a loner. I’ve always been like this. When Gideon was up and about, I was under his thumb. But now that you’ve shaken everything up, a whole legion of possibilities has opened for me. Moira and Aisa will destroy each other and I can do what I want. And I want you with me. When you change.”

  He lets the words sink in. “Anything to say to me?” he finally says. “Any hint of excitement at the prospect?” And there’s another scratchy, tight, bitter little laugh.

  He holds up a hand, his fingers waving in my direction like undulating jellyfish tendrils. “Don’t say anything. Don’t decide. Think about it. But know this—while you’re still….like you are now, I will do everything to protect you that I can. But as long as the others are running wild, there’s only so much I can do.”

  “But why? Why me?”

  “You’re more valuable than any of them. More powerful. More alive.” There’s almost a pleading tone to his voice as he tries to convince me. “You think. You reason.”

  He pauses, wants his words to impress me. Then he slaps the palm of his hand on the door jamb. He lets his hand drop to his side and shakes his head sadly. He coughs and says in a deeper, darker tone of voice something that I can tell is much more a demand than a proposition. “I don’t want to wait for you to decide. There is no time. If you help me, I will help him.” He waves back to the suite of rooms behind him. “If not, he dies. And those others you love die, too. There are plenty of nasty things that can happen around here.”

  The shock of his interest in me has been hard to absorb. Needle wants me. I could spend eternity with Needle if I play my cards right.

  I would rather be dead. Officially, throw me in the ground and let my bones rot away dead than spend another minute with this loathsome creature but I hear myself saying, “All right. I will be with you. After I change.”

  The hint of a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth again. His face is struck by starlight, softened and sallow. The light glints from the dark glasses he’s put back on.

  “Well, let’s go then,” he says.

  “Go where?”

  “To where the drugs are, my dear. Cephalexin and amoxicillin pills I can give you. And antibiotic lotion and morphine maybe. Bandages, aspirin—a grab bag of what I have. But you’ll have to ride with me. Don’t worry, it’s not far.”

  Ride with him. It takes a moment to sink in. The thought repulses and terrifies me.

  Needle moves with astonishing swiftness out into the hall, straight toward me for a moment. I recoil, pressing back against the tattered windows, jagged glass pricking my shoulder blades but he shifts direction, seems to glide without deliberate movement to the end of the corridor. He slams back the door to the stairwell, stops at the threshold and looks back at me.

  “Well? Are you coming?” His voice isn’t loud but it carries. Oozes into my ears like drops of ointment.

  I want the medicine. I want the medicine so bad. But I don’t know if I can go with him. Physically ride with him. And where will he take me? Will he bring me back?

  “But what about—” I point to the doorway where he was just standing that leads to the back offices. “I can’t just leave him.”

  “Oh—” He stamps a food impatiently on the hard tile. The first sound I’ve heard his feet make. “Whether you’re here or not really has no effect on his survival at this point. And you must know you’re wasting time. Every second counts.”

  Then he holds up a finger—thin, long, as pale as an uncolored candle—holds it up like someone does when checking to see which way the breeze is blowing. “Can’t you hear them?” he says.

  I push myself away from the windows, spin back to face them, stare outside. Listen hard. I see nothing, hear nothing but wind snapping at torn trash bags used to cover broken panes.

  “What is it?” I’m whispering.

  “They’re coming. You have only a few seconds left.”

  I have to do this. Go with him no matter what it costs, how dangerous it is. If I don’t, Aiden will die. I’m convinced of it.

  I call to Needle. “I need—” but he’s already disappeared down the stairwell, the door banging shut behind him.

  Sprint across the hall, Gill, hurry—back to the room where Aiden lies.

  It’s darker the farther back I go but I’m so familiar with this space I can walk through it blind. I can’t leave without my coat. It’s too cold for that.

  Use one of those precious seconds to stop and listen—

  But the thumping of my heart and the quick, panicky breaths I take smother the sounds of Aiden’s own lungs drawing in air—but you can’t wait any longer to make sure he’s still alive—so I fumble for the parka hanging on the back of my chair, that same bloody, dirty parka I wore all the previous night and day and dash out again.

  Why didn’t you try to find gloves, a stocking cap—but it’s too late. The temperature has been dropping. The sky has darkened, clouds drawing in.

  I’m running down the hallway, stuffing my arms into the parka’s sleeves, almost reach the stairwell door when a motorcycle cracks into life. I jump back, it’s so loud, so sudden. But it’s one engine, one bike. I pray it’s still only Needle waiting for me outside.

  Five

  I’m hidden under floorboards.

  Wedged into a narrow cranny barely wide enough to hold my body. Shoulders squeezed by thick timber joists to either side of me.

  There’s a sharp tang of ancient, compacted soil. The drip of a pipe just beyond the top of my head keeps the soil moist.

  I’ve let Needle lower me down into this space. Let him replace the floorboards above my head.

  I’ve let him do this to me despite every instinct in my being howling at me not to.

  I’ve let him because he gave me the medicine. Because we heard motorcycles tearing up and down the streets of this neighborhood, coming closer and closer.

  There was the rumble of them approaching the Orphanage when I ran out into the play area in back, ran to Needle’s motorcycle and hoisted myself onto the seat in back of him. Like I had once climbed on behind my father.

  Don’t think. Don’t think about how awful it is to be this close to him. Act without thought.

  Even now I cringe remembering how I forced my arms to loop around the middle of his emaciated body, clutching it tight enough to hold myself in place, keep myself from tumbling off the bike.

  Lean back as far as you can from his hunched shoulders
. Look away. Try keeping track of the streets you pass through so you can make your way back.

  Maybe it was the speed of the bike. Maybe the chill wind whipping my hair, scouring my face but the smell of him, the feel of him as we rode was submerged enough for me to stand it. Only the ends of his stiff, stringy hair batting at my cheeks kept me from pretending it wasn’t Needle I was perched behind.

  He wove through the streets of the neighborhood, past a blur of houses and small shops with expert skill, as if he had every pile of debris, every abandoned vehicle memorized. Seldom slowing, never hesitating. I finally bowed my head, unable to look, staring at the heels of his black boots hovering over the dark pavement.

  The ride ended with a sudden squeal. And I slid straight into him.

  A moment of impact with that gaunt, rigid body—a framework of bones lightly fleshed.

  We reeled back from each other. I sprang from the bike like a cat from a tub of water, unaware I had done so until I felt both feet hit the ground.

  Needle had gone even farther. I looked around and saw him standing halfway up the steps to an old, rambling house. He faced toward it, not looking at the bike or me. I wondered if he was trying to compose himself, if he felt the same shock, the same brain-fogging stupefaction from that moment of contact that I did.

  Still not glancing back at me, he crossed a wide wooden porch and went into the house. I took a deep breath, forced myself to follow. A two-story house, maybe a hundred years old or more, on the corner of a quiet neighborhood street. The dim interior was pungent with dried herbs and tea leaves. I tripped over half-filled canisters and glass jars fallen from crowded shelves. There was a lush carpet of crumbled tea leaves strewn across the creaky floor.

  And bones. The heel of my boot crunching on animal bones.

  Not to a pharmacy or a hospital—this is where he brought me.

  A tea shop. An herbarium.

  A little light seeping through shattered windowpanes allowed me to watch him take a screwdriver from his pocket and pry up a floorboard. From under it he drew forth a white paper bag with the medicine inside. He took out a flashlight from a pocket of his long black coat, clicked it on and let me inspect the bag. Long, pharmaceutical names to try to decipher. If I ever knew what they meant, I had forgotten.