“Nothing. Not a damn thing.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Can we stop talking about this now? Unless you want to tell us why you’re so interested? Maybe you’d like to spill a few closely guarded secrets?”
“Dad’s probably going to start exploring it soon,” Nova continues. “He says that in a place like this, there’s likely a focal point for all the activity, something that roots the power to this place.”
“There is,” says Sterling. “It’s—”
“Hey!” I snap, gripping her arm, spinning her to look at my face. “Does this seem like a bright idea to you?”
She pauses. “Not particularly, no.” Her blue eyes struggle to focus on me, a small crease appearing in her brow. Not a common look for Sterling but one I recognize easily enough.
“I thought you said these were virgin daiquiris,” I say to Nova. “What the hell did you put in them?”
She holds up her hands, adopting an innocent expression. “Nothing. I swear. There wasn’t a drop of alcohol in them. Just berries, ice, cream, and mint.”
I push to my feet. “I think you’re lying.”
She follows, pleading, “If I were lying, don’t you think you’d know?”
It’s true. Maybe it’s true. My head’s as clear as a freaking windowpane. If she’d spiked the drinks, I’d feel it.
“You did something, Nova King, and I don’t take kindly to people messing with my friends.”
She does a stellar impression of distress. “Candy, I—”
“What’s going on out here?”
I jump and turn to see Mr. King standing in the dusky doorway. Had the door been open this entire time? When had Thad stopped playing his game and how long has Mr. King been within earshot?
“Nothing, Dad,” Nova says, gathering the empty glasses on the tray. “We’re just chatting about the swamp,” Nova offers so blithely I could slap her. I will if she gives up anything more than that, but she stops there at the tip of all our secrets.
Mr. King’s reaction is difficult to gauge. His eyes flit between us quick as a hummingbird. “I could’ve sworn I heard someone call you a liar.” His knowing eyes settle on me like a net. “You girls having a problem?”
“Nope,” Nova says brightly. “And we were just heading inside. The bugs are getting vicious.”
“In that case,” he says, and turns all his attention to me. “Candace, I was hoping you and I could have a quick talk.”
This is a talk I need to have. But not with two loose-lipped friends in tow.
“Actually, we were leaving,” I say. “Abigail has a medieval curfew and we’re her ride. So. Thanks for the drink.”
Without bothering to wait for a reply, I herd glossy-eyed Sterling and Abigail around the outside of the house. Seems a safer route than cutting through it again. I only pray we don’t meet Gage on our way to the car. I don’t think I can navigate another King encounter tonight.
Luck is with me. I get the girls into the backseat without any interference other than Abigail’s long, unwieldy legs.
“If either of you vomits, you’re paying for the shampoo,” I say to the two dark figures in the rearview. They lean their heads together like they’re ready to sleep off whatever the hell it is that just happened to them. Abigail’s head rests on top of Sterling’s like they’re a nested pair. It would be sweet if it wasn’t freaking me out.
I can’t take either of them home in this condition. Sterling might get away with it, but Abigail will be grounded for a month because there’s no justice in the Beale house that doesn’t come down hardest on her. Damn it. I pull over by the river, dig my cell phone from my purse, and dial a number I’ve only ever dialed once before.
“Please, pick up,” I mutter when the phone reaches its third ring. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Hey, Heath. I’ve got a little problem.”
Heath’s room is its own world—above the garage and totally separate from the main house with its own bathroom. There’s a bed tucked in beneath a skylight, a desk sort of dividing the room in two, and an entertainment system with plush sofas arranged in an L. There’s so much space he could probably host a concert up here and his parents would never know. Tonight, though, they’ve gone to Alexandria to see some opera production and Heath’s a very convenient bachelor.
On his bed, Sterling and Abigail sleep as soundly as they have since we got them up here nearly two hours ago. I sit on the sofa with Heath, watching the end of yet another episode of Local Haunts. We’d been ready to put on one of the old Alien movies when I found the marathon running on one of the Discovery channels. It seemed like necessary research at the time, but all I’ve really learned by the end of three episodes is that Mr. King—Roz, as he’s endearingly called by everyone else on the show—has an alarmingly likeable stage presence. He travels from town to town, following ghost stories, and even when people greet him with a cold shoulder, by the end, they’re shaking his hand and wiping their eyes at some emotional tripe he’s spinning.
He’s the scariest thing about the whole show. But it’s his daughter who drugged my friends and pried their secrets from them.
“How long till curfew?” Heath asks, though he’s checking his own watch.
I illuminate my phone. “Twenty minutes. Maybe we should try to wake them?”
He moves to Sterling’s side of the bed and I take Abigail’s, shaking her shoulder gently. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until her eyelids flutter.
“Abigail? You feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” she mumbles.
She blinks and slowly sits up, looking around her in confusion. On the other side of the bed, Sterling’s doing the same.
“Good. You’ve got to wake up if we’re going to get you home in time.”
“What time is it?” she asks at the same moment Sterling asks, “What happened?”
Heath meets my eyes and I shake my head. Not yet. Twenty minutes won’t be enough.
“Go splash some water on your face. We’ll figure it out later,” I say.
“Figure it out?” Abigail pauses on her way to Heath’s private bathroom. “What’s there to figure out?”
“Good question. It’s nine forty-two.”
Abigail abandons all confusion. She freshens her makeup, rinses her mouth, and hurries us to the car in the space of ten minutes. Heath joins us and I tell them everything that happened at the King house on the drive to the Beale residence.
“We said all that? Are you sure?” Abigail’s panic is sharper than Sterling’s. “Maybe you were messed up, too? Maybe you misheard?”
“I didn’t.” I reach her driveway with five minutes to spare. “I swear, I was completely unaffected.” I pause to make sure Heath still agrees with my assessment. He nods. “Shine. She must have dosed the drinks to make you share things you otherwise wouldn’t.”
Sterling nods.
Abigail says, “Oh God,” and stares out the window as though having this conversation so close to her prison will elicit some sort of terrible retribution. “I have to go.”
The porch light brightens at her approach, warming over her black skin, and we watch her ease her key into the front door and slip inside like a fugitive.
“That girl is afraid of everything,” I say, mournful.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Heath responds quickly, probably before he had occasion to notice what his mouth was doing.
“You think you know her better than I do?”
With a shrug, he drapes one elbow out the window. “I think you don’t always know as much as you think.”
Sterling giggles from the backseat.
“We weren’t talking about me,” I bite, throwing the car into reverse. “We’re talking about how it was that Nova dosed these fools with Shine and played Twenty Questions.”
“And it didn’t affect you because Shine just doesn’t.”
“Right. I am the great dead zone, but I thought you all wore charms to protect you.”
“We do.” Sterling perks up, plucking at the thin leather band on her wrist. “But they only help us think straight when Shine’s around. All bets are off when you ingest the stuff. And if she gave it a command before we ate it? Like ‘tell the truth,’ or something? Then we’d have answered whatever she asked.”
“If it was her,” Heath adds.
“What do you mean, ‘if’?” I ask.
“You said she wasn’t the only one around, right? That her dad made them?”
I pause and review everything that happened between Mr. King calling Nova down and our graceless departure. He’s right. Nova left the room, came back, and brought us down for drinks. She’d had every opportunity to doctor them with something. It had been Nova, after all, who sent us ahead while she prepared the tray. Nova who handed out glasses instead of letting us pick our own. But the more I think of it, the less certain I am that she’s to blame. She brought the drinks, but it had been Mr. King who made them. Mr. King who snuck up to the doorway in a dark hallway to listen in on our conversation. Mr. King who defended his daughter’s honor when I called her a liar.
And isn’t it Mr. King who’s so interested in getting at the secrets of the swamp? But if it was him, how did Nova know what questions to ask? Did he cast a separate spell on her? Had her eyes looked glassy? Or is she a willing participant? Too many questions.
Roz or Nova.
Whichever it was, they’ve just made sure I won’t take my eyes off them.
“Well,” I say, killing my headlights as we creep into Heath’s driveway just in case his parents have come home since we left. “We have one advantage.”
“We know you’re an advantage, Candy,” Sterling says with a roll of her eyes.
“Thank you, but that’s not what I meant. I mean, I know what they’re after.” I smile, feeling satisfied with myself even as Sterling knocks my shoulder with her fist and demands, “What is it, Pickens?!”
“The tree.”
I have just enough time to feel superior to the Kings when Heath brings it all crashing down with one word: “Why?”
Silence fills the car as we realize there’s no good reason anyone outside of our small group should know or care about the everblooming cherry tree.
“This just keeps getting better,” Heath says, climbing out of the car. “Night, y’all.” He gives Sterling a too-sweet peck on the lips before jogging up the long drive.
It’s not until I’m finally home in my own bed that one more thread of this web comes into view: whether it was Nova or Mr. King, if they used Shine once, they’ll do it again. And now they know we’ve been to the source.
14
I WAKE TUESDAY MORNING HEAVY with dread. It puts me in a foul mood. I prefer emotions with a sense of movement like courage or desire or fury. Dread is useless and sloppy, like walking across a carpet in sopping-wet jeans.
Not even my peppiest of playlists lightens my mood, so I dress to match it—thin black leggings, slouching blouse, bulky necklace, and lips dressed to pout.
It feels like it’s been more than two weeks since my birthday. So much has changed since then. I’ve seen a ghost, discovered I’m a barren husk of a girl, and will soon be an unwilling television star. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that all I wanted from my junior year was a set of straight As, a taste of Clary hooch, and to demolish some boy’s innocence.
Now I dread facing my mother, I dread my next ghost encounter, and I dread whatever threat the Kings represent.
And I’d like to remove at least one of those from my plate as pronto as possible.
Nova King sits in front of me in Euro history, looking as severe and intentional as ever. At once, Sterling and Abigail lean in on either side of me like wings. But Nova beats me to the opening parry. Spinning in her seat, she presses her hands on my desk and without any sort of preamble, jumps right in.
She says, “We need to talk.”
“No shit.”
If Nova is fazed by my sharpness, she doesn’t let on. “After class.”
We all nod as Mr. Berry pulls us into the months leading up to World War I. He likes to be dramatic and starts with a poem by Siegfried Sassoon about ghosts and soldiers and fields of bloodred poppies.
The lunch bell rings along with a clap of thunder so loud it may as well be the first sign of the apocalypse. Within minutes the hallways are thick with the smell of rain and the constant squeak of sneakers on tile. Nova follows us to Sterling’s locker.
“You don’t need to ask,” she says. “I know I messed up last night. And I know you know.”
“It was you? And you know you dosed us with Shine?” Sterling spits, almost forgetting to whisper.
“Shine is what you call the magic here, right? Yes.” Nova’s admission is far from remorseful. “But you have to understand—”
“That’s not exactly how you want to start this,” Abigail interrupts, causing even me to take a small step back.
“Sorry,” Nova says, raising her hands in what is now a true apologetic gesture. “I’m not usually around people who know much of anything, and Shine just tends to be the fastest way to get at any real information, and I really am sorry I did it, but Candace . . .” She pauses for breath, her eyebrows lift so high her bangs nearly obscure her eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“Anyone like me?”
“Someone who wasn’t affected! You weren’t, were you? And you can’t see Shine? And it’s repelled by your touch? I know what you are!”
Her excitement is specifically unnerving.
It’s the word what that drills into my brain. Not who, but what.
“And I’ll tell you everything. Will you come over again? I promise, nothing hanky, just talking.”
I find myself nodding dumbly. “Yeah.”
“No!” Abigail cuts between us as Sterling pinches me. “No way is she coming over to your place again.”
They’re right, of course. This is not a great plan.
“Well, I could come to you, but there are some things I’d like to show you at home and Dad’ll know if they’re gone.”
She’s said the exact right thing to intrigue me. With a look for each of my friends, I say, “Okay. Your place.”
“How does four p.m. Saturday sound? Good? Good.” She turns to face Abigail. “And I’m really sorry. Really.” She shifts again to face Sterling and the recently arrived Heath. “Really.” And then she’s gone.
“You can’t seriously be intending to go to her house again.” Abigail’s all blades and quiet fury. “There’s no way you can trust her.”
“I know, but she can’t do anything to me the way she can to you, and I want answers, so . . .”
They can’t argue against it, so they don’t, but I sort of wish they would. I don’t relish the thought of descending into the lion’s den on my own.
The second sign of the apocalypse arrives in the form of Riley Wawheece. Blundering forth with his cadre of unwashed followers, he slings his eyes over to me and mutters, “Hey, Candy.”
That’s all. Just a hey and my name lobbed like a grenade. Everyone around us stops to stare as he continues on his way.
“What did you do to that boy?” Abigail ducks her head to ask.
I have no answer for her other than some irrational anger that he’s no longer treating me the way he treats everyone else in this school. This isn’t a power I want any piece of, and I’d invite him to take it back if it didn’t involve complex conversation.
“Whatever it is, if you could bottle it, I’d bet you could retire by graduation,” Heath says with equal parts amusement and envy.
“Who knows what’s going on in that boy’s head at any given time?” I say, aiming for indifference and finding something oddly stirring in its place. “He’s probably confused me for—well, he’s probably just confused.”
Not my best, but a kind or nonaggressive word from a Wawheece will throw anyone off their game. A kind glance from those pale eyes and I am understandabl
y floundering. I shake it off and head for the lunchroom.
Rain pummels the roof, the full force of the storm releasing suddenly and all at once. I wish I could do the same.
When we’re a mere ten feet from the cafeteria doors, we hear a shriek followed by the sound of a hundred pairs of feet moving all at once. We hurry forward, pressing through the double doors and down the short flight of stairs to where everyone has shifted to the side of the room where windows look out over the football field and the swamp beyond.
Outside, rain falls in heavy, opaque sheets. The crowd is near the windows, but several feet back, leaning away as one. They’re mostly students, but I spot a few teachers mixed in. A dozen or so more cowardly souls have huddled at the other side of the room and are whispering, shivering, praying—doing all they can to keep from looking.
With Sterling and Abigail on my heels, I push through the crowd. There’s real fear written in the faces of those nearest and I hear clips and phrases as I make my way through: “Do you see?” and “What do they want?” and “How many are there?”
I don’t have to ask what they’re talking about. Every person I pass has their eyes trained on a point beyond the glass. Lightning flashes over their features, all locked in some form of horror or pain or exhilaration. I feel the familiar stirring in my chest—ghosts.
But reaching the front of the crowd, I see only rain and the hollow reflections of my peers.
Like everyone else, Sterling and Abigail adopt expressions of wonder. Abigail’s hand flies to her pendant, but Sterling raises a hand to the glass. Her eyes go mournful.
“What do you see?” I ask, remarkably disappointed. Obviously whatever magic let me see Mad Mary at the gala has worn off.
Sterling hesitates a moment, but it’s not because she’s afraid. Her lips move silently and I realize she’s counting. With each number, her eyes fall a little more.
“Thirteen,” she says in a voice just above a whisper. “There are thirteen of them.”
“Of what?”
She turns, her eyes finding me, but not really focusing. “Children,” she says.
“The Baker’s Dozen,” I say, taken aback by my own realization. “They were starving, their families were starving because of a five-year blight. Insects invaded the region and as soon as any crop began to grow, it was stripped. Destroyed. People were dying. So the oldest kids from thirteen different families decided that something had to be done. They made a pact and one night all of them left home in the middle of the night. They walked into the swamp to die so that their families would live.”
Behold the Bones Page 13
