What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose)

by Beaumont, Delany

  I’ve got stashes like this all over town. Hidey-holes. Pull up the floorboards, move aside a ceiling panel, who knows what you’ll find.

  His voice—flat, impassive. Sepulchral in the gloom.

  I’ve watched you, you know. Ministering to that boy, washing him.

  This surprised me.

  How could you have seen—?

  You think you’re hidden but you’re not. We—I see everything. There are spies all over, little birdies who tell us things. But I wanted to tell you that I was impressed by the intimacy of it. How you cared for him. That’s why—You—

  He fell silent. Voice still flat but haunted by an underlying emotion impossible for him to express.

  After a long pause he said, words coming slowly as if he was letting slip a secret despite his best intentions, I’d forgotten about the power of touch. Touch. I think all you really need to heal that boy are your hands.

  He left behind the flashlight, pen-sized, one miraculously still working after all these years although its beam is just a tiny pinprick of white light.

  I know what being locked in a tiny space in the dark can do to a person, he said. He tapped his head.

  The flashlight’s pinprick beam lets me study the underside of the boards only inches above the tip of my nose—water stained, muck encrusted. Warped, splintered.

  The back of my head rests on a tarp Needle spread out for me. But I feel like my hair is clotted with clammy-cold soil, with worm casings and insect shells even so. Tucked on my right side is the paper bag with the medicine.

  And he told me to wait. That I couldn’t go back to the Orphanage until daylight.

  How will I know when it’s light out? How will I know how much time’s passed?

  This. He handed me a silver wristwatch with a cracked face. An old-fashioned wind-up watch. Assume it’s midnight. Wait six hours and you’ll be safe.

  Six hours.

  Can’t I hide somewhere else? Upstairs? They won’t know I’m here. No one followed us, did they?

  He sighed. I knew he was trying to be patient. More patient than the other Riders have ever been with me.

  They know. They can find you.

  Then why bother hiding?

  He didn’t answer but pulled up more floorboards, finished laying out the tarp and motioned me to lie down.

  And I had to decide—could I trust him? I thought to myself, You’ve given me the medicine. And I’m sure you’re right—I can’t go back to the Orphanage while it’s still dark out. I can hear the motorcycles out there in the distance.

  But this. Under the floor.

  I imagine Needle enjoyed it. I’m sure he could have found some other place to hide me but he wanted me here. In a space like the interior of a coffin. Maybe it’s punishment for my being so plainly repulsed by him. But he had everything carefully planned out before his visit to the Orphanage.

  And I laid down. With the watch and the flashlight. Let him replace the boards above me and tap them into place.

  And now I lie here waiting. Waiting.

  I tell myself not to, argue with myself, urge myself to wait but end up switching the flashlight on again.

  Its beam keeps growing dimmer. And it’s a struggle moving the flashlight from hip-level where it’s clutched in my right hand across the surface of my body and close enough to my face so I can use it to see. With my left hand I bring up the wristwatch and look at the time. 2:45. The second hand twitches. The ticking of the watch is the loudest sound I can hear.

  The last time I looked it was 2:27.

  I can’t take this—it is messing with my head. The medicine is mine now. Nothing can stop me from pushing up the floorboards and escaping.

  But what if I can’t push up the floorboards?

  What if, while tapping them into place, Needle somehow wedged them in securely so that the strength of my arms, of my knees, won’t be enough to raise them.

  I lift my knees so that they’re touching the wood above me and press the palms of my hands against the boards right above my face. I start to push—

  But then I hear the motorcycles. Quite clearly. Not far away.

  More than one—how many I can’t tell. Even from under the floor the sound carries. And I can feel vibrations. A rattling, a throbbing in my ear.

  Close—very close.

  This time they’re making their presence known. Or they don’t care enough to stay silent. The engines die and I can hear boots on the sidewalk outside. Voices but no distinct words.

  I’m not sure how close they are until the door of the old tea shop screeches open. Floorboards creak. A canister of tea is kicked against the wall with a hollow bang.

  “Do you think this is the place?” I hear a male voice say. It’s not a whisper but it’s soft, not wanting to announce itself too intently.

  “This looks like a Needle kind of place.”

  More steps. The weight of a footstep presses down the board above my face. “Where do you think he’d hide her, Doon?”

  “Obviously, in a place like this.”

  It’s Moira’s crew.

  Are they taunting me? Do they know exactly where I am and are pretending that they don’t?

  But I hear one of them make his way up a flight of stairs and the other, the one standing right above me, moves off to the side, begins rooting around on the ground floor. A jar smashes to the floor. There is swearing. Doors are slammed.

  Then I hear nothing. Nothing at all.

  The waiting is killing me. For a second time my knees are pressing against the underside of the floor, my hands ready to shove up against it with all my might.

  But the voices, the steps of the intruders are back on the street. I didn’t hear them leave but they must have. I didn’t hear their footsteps rattling the house but now they are undeniably outside.

  Steps on the sidewalk. An engine thrumming to life.

  And then the roar of their motorcycles fades away.

  I lower my knees, move my hands back to my sides and prepare to wait. Take Needle’s advice. Remain where you are and wait out another night.

  Six

  5:14 and the flashlight gives out, its tiny battery irrevocably dead.

  Can’t—wait—any—longer. Time has to pass faster or I’ll go insane.

  It feels like the lining of my lungs has molded over from the stale air I’m breathing. How much longer before I suffocate? And I’m so tense it’s like rigor mortis is twisting each muscle of my body tight like a screw.

  I thrust the little pen-shaped light aside and lash out at the floorboard above me, punch it with my fist. Just once, not hard—there’s not enough space in this cramped cavity under the floor for me to punch at anything with real force but—

  —it gives a little.

  I rap on the board and it gives a little more.

  I draw in a long, slow breath that makes me cough but a part of me relaxes for the first time since Needle appeared at the Orphanage hours ago. You’re not trapped—be thankful for that. Needle wasn’t playing an awful trick on me. Did not bury me alive.

  Is it anywhere near to being light outside? What time does daylight break in the winter? Six, seven o’clock?

  Why have I lain here for so long, endured so many hard, cold hours?

  I’m a fool for not testing the boards earlier. Just knowing I could escape this little hidey-hole as Needle called it would have calmed my mind. Would have eased the tension.

  But the Riders—they could be anywhere. The way they move is inexplicable, sometimes loud, sometimes silent. For all I know they could be above me right now, waiting for me to rise from this grave like a ghoul, grubby, soiled and chilled to the bone.

  Unless it’s light outside.

  I make my decision. Press up on the boards with both knees and the palms of my hands. No more listening. No more waiting. Better to be caught above ground—able to move, able to breathe freely in the moments before they catch me—than lie like something extinct below.

  The boards
give way easily, clatter aside and I’m free. I keep still and concentrate. All is quiet. Incredibly quiet. The same inky gloom above me. I try to boost myself up using the joists at either side but it takes a couple of tries to get the cramped muscles of my arms to respond.

  But I manage to sit up, can finally look around. Immediately I notice a faint glow tinging the open air just beyond the window frames. Not quite daylight maybe but close.

  My heart starts beating faster and I reach down for the medicine, clutch the paper bag tight and drag myself from the hole. But my head starts to spin as soon as I try to stand so I let myself slide back to the floor, onto the soft layer of tea leaves spread everywhere. Pull my legs in close to huddle. It’s very cold, my breath pushing out little clouds of steam.

  Under the floor for hours.

  I can’t quite believe I lasted that long down there. Did it do any good? Was I as vulnerable under the boards as I am sitting here?

  My mind slows. The weariness, the lack of sleep I’ve endured for two long nights now rushes over me.

  Stay here and wait, Gill. Wait until you’re absolutely sure it’s light outside. Wait until your head clears. Maybe sleep a little.

  I’m alone. For the moment. And merely being free of that crack in the floor makes having to bide my time for another hour or two seem not so awful.

  But what’s that in your hand, Gill? What’s in that paper bag? There isn’t time to lay back down and close your eyes. If that boy dies and you haven’t had a chance to use the medicine you’ve suffered, struggled for…

  That would be the cruelest joke. To make it back to Aiden with this bag of pills and ointments and find him dead.

  I push myself to my knees, then back on my feet, wobbling, unsteady. I force myself to ignore my weakness. Tell myself—

  You will stay on your feet. You will start heading back to the Orphanage.

  Needle couldn’t have taken me far. We never crossed a bridge so I know I’m still on the east side of the river. I wish I had paid more attention to our route—how many blocks, how many miles—but he rode so fast, seemed to come so close to crashing.

  I’m propping myself up on the tea shop’s counter. My head starts to clear the longer I’m on my feet. I roll my shoulders, stretch my neck, swing my arms, stomp my boots. I feel like I’m wearing a coat of soot and spider webbing and other things—in my hair, on my skin—I don’t even want to think about.

  When I feel steady enough to take a few steps, I move to one of the windows and gasp. There’s a pearly luster in the air outside, a blue-white reflection of moonlight on snow. That faint glow I had seen. A layer of snow blankets everything, flakes still drifting softly, slowly, maybe several inches on the ground. It’s perfectly still, windless.

  Not yet daylight but the snow looks like a blessing. No motorcycles in the snow. Maybe that sheen of moonlight will be too much for the Riders and their sensitive eyes.

  It’s easier to stand on my own two feet now, my muscles unbending, relaxing. I feel like I have the energy to start walking, to leave.

  I cross to the front door of the old house, pull it open, take a step outside and stumble on something lying just past the threshold. Even with only the snow’s reflected light, it’s easy to see what it is.

  A rifle.

  I pick it up. It’s so familiar, the way it fits in my hands, the way I hold it like it’s second nature. I step to the far edge of the porch where I can see better.

  My rifle. I’m sure it’s mine.

  I look back over my shoulder and there’s another object by the door, dusted with snow. A box of cartridges. I pick it up—twenty rounds in the box.

  I set the rifle down along with the cartridges. It’s not right. This is such an obvious trap. I head down the porch steps, reach the upper part of the walkway leading to the sidewalk and stop there.

  I take a long look at the world around me, utterly transformed by snow. I try to remember the last time I saw snow, this much snow. There were dustings and freezing rain but I haven’t seen anything like this, so peaceful, so pure, for years. It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, just the slightest breeze stirring small branches. The snow makes the entire world look cleansed, renewed.

  I almost leave the rifle, leave it on the porch behind me. Almost start walking down the untouched sidewalk without it.

  There are no footprints.

  Every surface is clean, unmarked.

  So who left it, when and why? There must be a master plan, some hell laid out for me worse than anything I’ve been through yet. Some horror unpredictable, unforeseeable that the Riders have waiting for me.

  But the rifle—it’s something. Protection. How I’ve longed for it—how many times I’ve reached for it—since they took it away.

  And I’m sure I know how to use it better than anyone here except for maybe Aiden. Aiden, the one Needle called their hunter.

  Maybe they want a showdown, a final reckoning. Maybe Moira wants me to kill Aisa or Aisa wants me to kill Moira. Or Needle wants me to kill them both.

  Kill.

  I’ve never had a real impulse to kill but there’s a part of me that would like to kill them all. All the Black Riders, every single one.

  I turn back to the porch, pick up the box of cartridges and empty them into my pockets. I hoist the rifle over my shoulder and head out into the slowly drifting snow.

  Seven

  CJ and Terry meet me on the steps of the Orphanage.

  “Come inside. You’ve got to come see,” CJ yells.

  My stomach lurches. Bad news, I’m sure—what I’ve dreaded. The worst news.

  What’s happened in that back room? What’s happened to Stace?

  I hold back and CJ looks surprised. He’s wearing a down jacket over a dirty sweater over who knows how many layers of shirts he’s found. It’s been so long since I’ve cut the brothers’ hair and CJ’s is like a big, puffy feather duster, dull brown and full of dust, his face, his hands caked with dirt. His brother is nearly identical.

  I need time to think for a minute. Prepare myself.

  I have to find out what’s happened—but I don’t want to find out what’s happened.

  It hasn’t taken me long to get back this time. My leg hurts less and it was easier finding my way. I’m beginning to remember that Raintree is laid out like a grid, square blocks of equal size, streets heading north to south or east to west. When daylight came there were even some buildings I recognized, names of streets I remembered.

  Through the school’s front windows I can see the other kids, including Finch, pacing back and forth, gaping at me and the snow. The snow has stopped falling but has left behind a blanket three or four inches deep. I look around and realize there aren’t any footprints outside the school. Not one of the kids has been playing, throwing snowballs, building snowmen.

  The snow’s too much for them, too freakish, too scary—they won’t go outside.

  Only CJ and Terry will take just a few steps beyond the school doors.

  CJ grabs my hand and Terry pushes at my back. We’re on the top steps. I was close enough to grab the handle of the big metal doors when both boys ran outside. They must have been watching, waiting with the others.

  They don’t seem to notice that I have the rifle back.

  “You’ve got to see what’s happened. We’ve been waiting for you,” CJ says.

  It’s not something else. It’s what I think it is because they’re taking me down the hall to where the administrative offices are.

  “Is he—?”

  “Stace is there,” Terry says. “You’ve got to see.”

  They don’t sound upset. Just excited.

  I hurry along with them—no point in holding back. I’ve caught the other kids’ attention—they’re staring at me instead of the snow now. And the other kids do seem surprised to see me carrying a rifle. One reaches out to touch it as I pass and whispers, “Like Aiden has.”

  Stace greets me at the door of the back office where we’ve spe
nt so many hours. Over her shoulder I see lit candles, their slight flames casting long, wavering shadows.

  Her face is pale and waxy, her hair very red in contrast even in the dim light, no longer in pigtails but poofed out, kinky and snarled. Her skin is smudged, her teeth gray but she’s smiling.

  I’m afraid to look past her. I dig deep into the pocket of my parka that holds the small paper bag Needle gave me and pull it out. “I did it,” I say in a small voice. “I got the medicine.”

  She looks at the bag, confused and my mind starts racing. But it was for nothing—it’s too late—you should have told Stace you were going with Needle so she could have come down to stay by his side—

  But Stace smiles again and whispers to me, “Look, Gillian, look.” She steps aside.

  At first nothing seems to have changed. But then I notice—Aiden is curled on his right side, knees drawn up, hands tucked between his knees, obviously sleeping but his breathing—

  It’s easy, relaxed. Normal. He’s sleeping like I or Stace would sleep if we were curled up in our cots.

  I kneel by his side and stare into his face, only inches away from him.

  Stace crosses to the other side of the bed, reaches a hand down to his shoulder, shakes him gently.

  My hand snaps out across the space between us, snatches her wrist. “Don’t—”

  “It’s okay. He wanted me to wake him when you got back.”

  Aiden’s eyes flutter open, take a few moments to focus. He looks up at me, bright green eyes blinking me into view.

  “So you’re Gillian.” His voice is not much more than a sigh, faint and weary.

  “You’re alive,” I say stupidly.

  He smiles. “I think I am. I hope so. Around here it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

  “I am Gillian,” I say. And suddenly I’m embarrassed, embarrassed by the way I look, how filthy I am. I nervously push the rifle off my shoulder and let it clatter to the floor.

  “And you’re armed.” He laughs a little and starts coughing, tight, painful little coughs.