But Juniper appeared in her doorway, and in an instant, those thoughts were gone.
Daria hung between them, a conversational albatross that had weighed on them since the night she’d died. Alongside Juniper, Violet had watched Daria’s ashes slotted beside her younger brother’s in the Saunders section of the town mausoleum earlier that week. A funeral of two.
Violet wanted to talk to her—about Daria and Rosie and Stephen. About her father. But she didn’t even know where to start.
The journal had made her uncle real to her. She’d read it over multiple times since she’d found it in the archives, and each time, she had felt more and more as if she was grieving this boy she’d never known alongside his older sister.
“There’s a storm coming,” her mother said.
“I noticed.” Violet jerked a thumb toward her window. The clouds behind them had blotted out the setting sun, and a thin white fog was beginning to collect at the edge of the trees, sending a shudder of residual panic through Violet’s chest.
Juniper’s lips pursed. “Hail. Wind. Rain. Don’t leave the house.”
“Do I ever go anywhere unless you make me? Like that ridiculous pageant?”
Juniper sighed. “Just help me with the storm shutters.”
They cranked down the safety blinds in front of every window, ancient metal things that groaned as they were unfurled. All the things Violet wasn’t saying churned in her mind the longer she stood next to her mother. But she stayed silent.
Because what good would it do?
Because when had they ever really talked about how they felt?
The wind began to kick up, a harsh, high whisper against the metal blinds that sounded like a whimpering child. Violet pulled the final storm shutter into place, jumping back as it began to rattle and shake against the living room window.
And maybe the unsteady storm shutters had dislodged something in her, too. Because she turned to Juniper, the words waiting in her throat.
The words she’d wanted to say for the last five months.
“Do you even miss them?”
Juniper’s face went still. “Miss who?”
“All the people you’ve lost. Because I don’t understand how you can just keep going. Don’t you realize they’re gone?”
The lamps on the mantelpiece provided the only remaining light in the room, casting a dull glow across the edges of Juniper’s frizzy hair.
It was hard to look at her. Because Violet could see the resemblance between them. In her posture. In the twitching of her long, elegant fingers. And, most of all, in the grief etched into her face.
“You don’t think I miss them?” said Juniper softly. “There isn’t a day where I don’t miss my brother and sister, or your father. And there isn’t a second where I don’t miss Rosie.” She let out a badly concealed sob. “But you need a parent who doesn’t fall apart. So I won’t.”
Violet had a sudden rush of understanding that this was where she’d learned to pull her feelings inside. How to put a tough, neutral facade over pain. Not because she wasn’t hurting, but because if she let herself feel it, it would overwhelm her.
But Violet had started opening up these past few weeks. And it hadn’t made her pain worse—it had made it better. Showed her that she wasn’t alone.
“But you did fall apart.” Suddenly, Violet wasn’t just sad anymore. She was angry. “You were never there for us, after Dad died. You never told me and Rosie anything about your family. And you kept us from Dad’s side of the family, too, even though we asked to see them. You cut me off from a whole bunch of people who could have loved me. That’s not holding it together, Mom—that’s running away.”
Juniper’s face crumpled. “I have been the best parent to you that I know how to be. And I was there for you and Rosie when your father died.”
But that couldn’t be right. Violet had been there, same as Juniper. “You’re lying.”
She whirled around and rushed back to her room, where she lay on her bed, shuffling through her audition program. But her mind wasn’t on her sheet music anymore.
She stared up at the ceiling and thought about her father, her few cloudy memories of him, his wide smile, his kind eyes.
And then Violet let herself remember how painful it had been, after he’d died. The hands that had pulled up the covers on her back and smoothed her hair until she fell asleep. That gave her a perfectly packed lunch each morning. That hovered over her as she practiced the piano, flipping through the pages.
They had always been Rosie’s hands to her—but Rosie had been only six when their father died, and she was startled to remember that these hands were lean and elegant, much like hers.
The memory of her first recital unspooled back into her mind again, but this time, it wasn’t Rosie tugging her up to the piano.
It was Juniper.
I was there for you and Rosie when your father died.
Violet choked back a sob.
Her mother had made mistakes, that much was true. She had hurt Violet and Rosie. She had kept them away from their family, kept secrets, told lies.
Yet Violet had lied to herself, too.
She wanted Rosie to be the perfect sister. She wanted Juniper to be a shitty parent. Because it was easy to make someone perfect when they were gone. And it was so much harder to work through all the complicated messiness of a mother who had cared for her, but imperfectly. Who had been selfish, but not irredeemably so.
People could hurt each other without being monsters. And they could love each other without being saints.
She would have to learn how to handle that.
Violet rolled over on the bed, clutching her comforter, listening to the beating of the rain against the storm shutters.
And realized, her heart jumping into her throat, that it wasn’t just the storm she was hearing. Something was tapping against the metal blinds across her bedroom window.
Violet rose from the bed, gazing at her window. The shutters kept rattling.
Based on the past two weeks, whatever was out there probably wanted her dead.
But there was Orpheus, curled up at the edge of the bed, his yellow eyes fixed on the window. Violet watched as he raised his head, his tail twitching—and then yawned.
Whatever was out there, it didn’t bother her companion. And some deep, instinctual part of her trusted his judgment.
The sound rang out from her window again, and now Violet heard another, lower noise accompanying it, too deep to be the wind. A voice.
She swung her feet to the floor and walked to the window, listening. A gust of wind set the storm shutters rattling, carrying the voice through the glass as it spat out a series of curses.
Violet knew that voice. She cranked open the storm shutters, and sure enough, there was Isaac Sullivan, crouching beside her window. The planes of his face were shadowed and angular beneath the hood of his rain jacket. Hail dotted his broad shoulders as he gestured toward the glass.
The sight of him sent something sparking in her, a pleasant, heady rush of surprise Violet wasn’t sure how to process. She unlatched the window and slid it up, wincing at the gust of wind that tumbled into her bedroom as Isaac maneuvered his way through the opening with catlike grace.
He straightened up and tugged down his jacket hood as she slammed the window shut.
“What are you doing here?” said Violet, once she’d cranked down the storm shutters again. “Shouldn’t you be on patrol?”
There were bits of hail in Isaac’s hair. Violet watched them melt into his dark curls, leaving behind droplets of moisture that glimmered weakly in the dim light.
“Didn’t you hear about my little mishap yesterday?” he said bitterly.
Violet had heard. It had been hard to miss the broken glass in the front window of the Diner at the Founders’ Day festival, and harder still to miss the town’s pointed lack of applause when he’d participated in the pageant. She nodded.
“Figured you had. Yeah, so the sheriff b
enched me from the equinox patrol.”
Equinox patrol. Of course that would be a thing.
Violet was glad she’d clapped for him. “That sucks. But it doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
Isaac sighed. “Right. Well, Justin figured it was probably a bad idea for you to wait out the equinox alone because, in his words, you’re a disaster magnet and he’s not sure how you get to school every morning without something trying to kill you.”
Violet’s newfound fondness for Isaac evaporated in an instant. She should’ve known he’d only come here because Justin wanted him to. She couldn’t mistake one guilt-induced visit to her house for actual care. “I do not need a babysitter.”
Isaac shrugged off his jacket. He’d tied a thin strip of leather across his neck to hide his scar. Three crimson beads were strung across the center, hanging in the hollow of his throat like drops of blood. They matched the medallions at his wrists.
“Ah, yes, you are perfectly self-sufficient,” he drawled. “You haven’t done your ritual, you keep winding up in the Gray, and you don’t remember raising someone from the dead.”
“And yet I still managed to avoid vandalism and assault.”
Violet knew the moment the words left her mouth that they had been a mistake. Isaac’s torso caved inward, and his eyes winked out like candle flames flickering in the wind.
“I’m sorry.” Violet halved the distance between them. She didn’t try to hide the shame in her voice. “That was a terrible thing to say.”
Isaac worked his jaw back and forth. The veins in his left forearm tensed as his fingers dug into his palm, the cracked red medallion straining against his wrist.
“It’s all right,” he said, in a tone that indicated just the opposite. “I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“By the Burnhams?”
Isaac’s mouth curved into a smile that could’ve sliced through concrete. He leaned toward her, and Violet’s body responded, repositioning itself to mirror his. “No. By my brother.”
“The one who left?” Violet said.
Isaac nodded, and Violet realized his clenched fist was trembling. “My neck—what happened—that was Gabriel. A souvenir, I guess.”
She remembered his fingers on her cheek, how he had looked at her with tenderness when she was at her worst.
She could give him that, too. Not pity or empty words of affirmation, but understanding. He had been hurt and so had she; it did not matter that she didn’t know the details. His pain was bone-deep. So was hers.
Violet reached for his hand. His fingers uncurled the moment she touched him, and she wrapped both of her hands around his, her thumbs making gentle circles across his palm until the shaking stopped.
“He can’t hurt you,” she said fiercely, suddenly certain that if anyone ever tried, she would be the first to stop them. “Not anymore.”
His lips parted slightly, his eyes swimming with something that was no longer fury, yet was somehow far more frightening.
Which was when the noise rang out, a thump so loud Violet actually jumped, her hands falling away from Isaac’s.
“What’s that?” she hissed. “Did you come with reinforcements?”
But Isaac shook his head, looking just as spooked as she was.
The thumping continued—it was coming from downstairs. Violet started toward the front door. The tension of their conversation still hung between them, but it was lessening now, overtaken by this new potential threat.
“You shouldn’t answer doors on a night like this,” Isaac called after her.
That was quite enough for Violet, who had been told what to do far too many times that evening.
“I opened the window, didn’t I?” she said, darting down the hallway before Isaac could protest further. She worried briefly about Juniper finding them, until she saw that there was no light coming from beneath her mother’s bedroom door. Isaac trailed after her as she padded down the stairs, grumbling about her refusal to listen to him, which Violet found pretty rich coming from someone who’d showed up uninvited at her bedroom window.
The noises were definitely coming from her front door. As Isaac raised his hands, his palms shimmering, Violet unlocked the dead bolts and pulled it open. A bundle of dark curls tumbled into the house and sprawled out on the floor, accompanied by a furious rush of wind and hail. Violet didn’t have a chance to see beyond the darkness before Isaac slammed the door shut.
“Harper!” Violet said, kneeling beside her as Isaac swung the dead bolts back into place. “Are you okay?”
Harper sat up slowly. Her hair was mostly unraveled from a braid, her baggy jeans pockmarked with melting hail. There was a reddish-brown blade clutched in her remaining hand.
“I need help,” she said hoarsely, raising the blade into her lap. Violet felt a slight twinge of unease at the way she cradled the sword, like she was rocking a baby.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s Nora,” said Harper. “I can’t find her, and Brett says she went out in the storm—said another kid dared her to go to the town hall. She’s only six, she doesn’t understand”—she coughed, spat out a piece of hair—“how dangerous…You have to help me find her.”
And Violet saw, beneath the sweater, beneath the sword, that Harper was shaking.
“Of course I will,” she said without thinking, because there was nothing to think about. Nora was Harper’s sister. That was a loss Violet would never wish on anyone else.
“Thank you,” said Harper, her dark eyes glowing. “I knew you’d help me.”
Then she swiveled around, her eyebrows furrowing.
“Why is Isaac Sullivan in your house?” she said.
“Because Justin thinks I need a bodyguard,” Violet said, giving Isaac, who was hovering behind them, a sarcastic little wave. “Doesn’t he know that if I needed to be protected, I’d ask someone myself?”
“You’re way too stubborn for that,” Harper rasped. Behind her, Isaac chuckled.
“I’m going to ignore that,” Violet grumbled. “Okay, so if we’re going to go out in this weather, we probably need raincoats.”
“Actually—” said Isaac. Violet glanced up at him.
“Let me guess,” she said, trying not to think about their hands intertwined. She wasn’t sure what that moment had been—but it was done now. “You’re going to tell me I can’t go outside? Because you’re starting to make me wish I’d pushed you off the roof instead of letting you in.”
“Curb your violent impulses for a second and think,” said Isaac. “Neither of you should be outside right now. Harper’s deadweight, and you’re worse. I can look for Nora.”
“She’s my sister,” said Harper, rising to her feet. Violet stood up with her, surprised by her volume. “And I’m not deadweight.”
“No, she’s definitely not,” said Violet, eyeing the sword Harper was now brandishing in Isaac’s general direction. “And I’m not letting my friend out on the equinox without me. Come with us if you want, but we’re going either way.”
Isaac groaned and pressed his palm to his forehead.
“Apparently running straight to our probable deaths is contagious,” he mumbled into his wrist. “But if you must go, it makes more sense to drive than walk.”
“Drive?” said Violet, her heartbeat accelerating in her chest. “What about visibility?”
“There’ll be no other cars on the roads, and the town hall’s a few miles away,” said Isaac. “It’ll be easy. And much safer than walking.”
“Okay,” said Violet. “So you drive.”
“I can’t, actually,” said Isaac, dipping his head.
“Harper?”
“I don’t have a permit yet,” said Harper flatly.
Violet stared at Juniper’s car keys, dangling from the coat-rack beside the doorway like a broken promise. Isaac and Harper were looking at her expectantly now, and as much as she wanted to bolt up to her room and go fetal beneath her covers, Violet knew she couldn’t run fro
m this anymore.
“I’ll drive, then,” she said, reaching over and grabbing the key ring. It felt smooth and cold against her suddenly sweaty hand, and all Violet could see was Rosie behind the steering wheel, her turquoise hair wild, her eyes wide with fear as the semitruck barreled toward her.
But Nora’s life was at stake. And Harper—her friend—had come to her for help. So she pushed down her fears and strode toward the door, her heart ramming against her rib cage like a hummingbird trapped in a net.
The fifteen minutes Harper spent in the backseat of the Saunderses’ Porsche were among the most harrowing of her life. Harper could feel Violet’s fear in each jerky, hesitant motion of the car as hail battered the windshield. It was the kind of deep-seated terror that felt tangible enough for her to close her fingers around it, the kind that sent Harper’s heartbeat ratcheting into her ears.
Nora was lost in the woods. Alone. On one of the most dangerous nights of the year.
And her father and siblings were already out on patrol, leaving any hope of a rescue up to Harper herself.
When they finally pulled into the parking lot beside the town hall, Harper was running her fingers up and down the flat of the sword to keep herself from screaming. Violet had been kind enough to give her a giant raincoat that hid her from the worst of the elements, but the storm still hit Harper hard when she pushed open the car door. They checked the town hall for all signs of Nora, but it was locked, and she was nowhere nearby.
“Don’t you have keys?” Violet asked Isaac.
“I do,” said Isaac. “But there weren’t any kids in this building when I left, and she couldn’t have gotten in without them.”
So they headed into the trees. Each step was an effort against the hail that seemed to be coming down at every angle, bouncing painfully off her shoulders.
Four Paths looked like the Gray tonight, full of skeletal trees that bent and twisted against the force of the wind. The trees around Harper flickered ashen for a second, the weak light of a white sky shining through them, and she shuddered, pressing closer to Violet as Isaac set his jaw and forged ahead.
The Devouring Gray Page 20
