“Tell me.”
“Or what?” Despite the fact the witch is at my mercy, the clang of her teeth gnashing together still sets my heart aflutter.
“I could make you tell me with but a simple declaration.”
“You could indeed make me talk, but could you truly make me tell you anything I didn’t want you to know? That is for you to decide.”
“Fine.” I walk over and kneel next to Antoine. “If you won’t help me, help him. According to the composer, this boy is the only thing that truly matters to you. Please, Baba Yaga, Mistress of the Exhibition, help him. Help us all.”
“I would argue that title no longer belongs to me, but at this point, it simply doesn’t matter anymore.” All hint of amusement disappears from her face. “I wasn’t posturing before when I told you it was already too late.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mussorgsky draws close, his gaze dancing back and forth between Baba Yaga and me.
“Have all of you not noticed? The sky growing darker? The air growing colder?” She exhales, her fetid breath steaming the air. “Our world is dying.”
Mussorgsky and the others all look up as the already dim sky fades toward twilight.
“She’s right.” Mussorgsky clutches the witch by her frayed collar. “What have you done?”
“I’ve done nothing, composer. Your storyteller holds me under her spell, does she not?”
“Then what is causing this?” Mussorgsky begins to pace the quickly darkening clearing. “Why is this happening?”
“Ask the Lady Scheherazade.” She crinkles her nose at me. “She’s the one that brought her back into our midst.” Her gaze shoots down at Antoine. “Both in this world and others.”
“Brought who into our midst?” My mind races through every encounter since I first entered Anthony’s mind, searching for any clue as to what the witch is talking about.
In a flash, it comes to me. Madame Versailles’ final words. That we wouldn’t return for her. She knew. Or at least the part of Anthony’s mind she represents knew. Knew I would put it together. Knew I would discover the truth.
The wind whispers a single name that answers a thousand questions.
Veronica Sayles.
y heart begins to race anew. “She’s out there with Anthony.”
“And with you as well, my dear.” The witch studies me, contempt dancing in her yellow eyes. “In your zeal to save the boy, it would appear you have instead doomed him to an early grave. Too late to save the Wagner girl and too trusting to save him or yourself.”
“But she’s his teacher.”
“Are you blind, woman?” The witch spits a brown wad of spittle to the ground at my feet. “Did you not see how he reacted to her touch?”
Anthony drew away from Veronica’s touch as if he were terrified. “But she was with us yesterday and Anthony was fine.”
The witch sighs. “She wasn’t planning to kill all of us yesterday.”
“He responds the same way to his mother. How was I to know?”
“The boy may withdraw from her touch,” the witch grumbles, “but it’s not the same. So perceptive are you, Scheherazade, and yet the most important details seem to elude you.”
“She doesn’t know?” Mussorgsky asks Yaga. “You haven’t told her?”
“No time for that now. The teacher could be ending the boy as we speak, and any revelations made here will then matter for nothing.”
“You believe she plans to kill Anthony. She wouldn’t. He’s her student. He’s…” My voice trails off as the full impact of the situation hits me. “He’s helpless.”
“And who left him that way? You may disagree with my methods, but I trust you’ll agree my actions never brought danger to the boy.” The witch glances to one side, then the other. “Be warned, Scheherazade. She wastes no time. Look around you. The sky has fallen to night, the air is freezing, and our very world is falling apart.”
I take my eyes off the witch long enough to study the forest surrounding us. All around the trees disappear one by one, like candles being snuffed. Before I can utter another word, Antoine falls to the ground, too weak to even moan, followed in rapid succession by Tunny and Modesto. Despite the dim light, I can still appreciate the color leaving Mussorgsky’s face. Even Baba Yaga appears unsteady on her feet.
“You must hurry.” Her voice grows weaker with each word. “There isn’t much time.”
Puzzled at the witch’s words, I dive forward to catch her as she lists to one side.
“I don’t understand.” My voice comes out as a grunt as I struggle to hold up the witch’s wiry form. “Why are you helping me?”
Despite her weakened state, Yaga still skewers me to the spot with her exasperated glare. “No matter what you may think you understand about our relationship, Scheherazade, one thing has remained ever true. We both want nothing but the best for…” She pauses, as if afraid to speak the name. “For Anthony.”
As if in answer, Antoine lets out one last whimper and fades from view while Tunny and Modesto continue to writhe in agony on the forest floor. Mussorgsky falls to one knee.
Yaga’s contemptuous smirk melts into an expression I’ve rarely seen on her face.
A rictus of fear.
“If the composer falls,” she whispers, “know that I will not be far behind.”
“She’s doing it now, isn’t she?” I feel a cold numbness creep into my limbs. “Even as we speak. She’s killing Anthony.”
“If you don’t stop her, the boy will die.”
“Send me from here then.” I glance at the opening in space left by the frame of The Hut on Fowl’s Legs. “I have to save him.”
Yaga snorts. “As you demonstrated so well during your last sojourn through our Exhibition, you have passed beyond my ability to send you anywhere.”
“I’m trapped here.”
“Not so,” she says. “Just yesterday, you left my presence under your own power and brought this doom upon us all.”
I focus, willing myself to wake from this strange dream world Anthony Faircloth and I share, but nothing happens.
“Nothing,” I mutter in frustration. “It’s like my very breath has been taken from me.”
With one pathetic groan, Tunny reaches up from the ground for me before slowly fading from view. Modesto cries out in anger and frustration at his diminutive friend’s disappearance before vanishing himself. A strange tingling fills my entire body and I gasp as my own form begins to grow transparent.
“It’s too late,” I whisper.
“No, storyteller,” the witch whispers. “There may still be a way.”
My heart sinks as the composer falls prostrate to the forest floor. “What do I do?”
“Take the mortar, pestle, and broom and go. If fortune smiles your way, you may get to the door in time.”
“But what about all of you?”
“In another few seconds, none of us will exist. Now, go.”
I ruminate on the witch’s words as I lower her to the ground. “I’ll be back for you.”
“Whatever Fate allows, Lady Scheherazade.” Yaga’s mouth turns up into the kindest smile the old crone likely can muster. “Do what you can.”
I sprint to Yaga’s overturned mortar. The pestle lies wedged between two boulders and a glance up reveals the broom stuck in one of the few trees remaining in the quickly fading forest. I struggle to right the enormous stone bowl, and failing that, attempt to wrest the lodged pestle from its stony prison.
“It won’t budge. Pestle, mortar, none of it.”
Yaga’s gaze shoots to Mussorgsky. “She doesn’t understand. Help her.”
“Remember, Scheherazade.” The composer pushes himself up onto an elbow and waves his hand at the witch’s implements. “Remember how you disarmed the witch before.”
“I spoke what I wished to happen.”
“Then speak again, storyteller, for time has almost caught us.”
I stare down at the pestle, its massive woo
den head pinned between the twin hunks of granite.
“Pestle, to my hand.”
A grinding sound fills the air as the massive club attempts to pull free.
“You must believe,” Mussorgsky shouts.
The witch’s reluctant nod spurs me to action. I return my attention to the witch’s pestle, focusing on its smooth surface, the grain of the wood, each intricate carving along the tool’s handle. “To my hand, pestle. Now.”
Unleashing a shower of rocky shards, the pestle rips itself free from its mooring and lands feather-light in my hand. Holding the giant cudgel before me, I climb across the lip of the witch’s stone bowl.
“Rise, mortar.” Without hesitation, the witch’s vessel obeys my command, rising from the ground and coming to rest upright with me inside. Only one thing remains.
“Broom, to me.” Just before the tree holding it fades from sight, the witch’s spindly broom rockets from the tangle of branches and lands in my outstretched hand.
“Now,” I shout as the hut and its mistress fade into nothingness. “Take me to the door of the Exhibition.”
The witch’s theme begins in earnest, the swishing broom and pounding pestle sending the mortar with me inside hurtling toward the wooden frame hovering in the air. I can’t fathom how the stone cup will possibly fit through such a tiny portal, but I continue the forward charge regardless. I squeeze my eyes shut as we come upon the frame, only to open them a moment later and find myself sailing through the ruined Exhibition hall. I fly across the destroyed hardwood floor at the colossal double door that waits at the end of the hall. Still barred, chained and locked to prevent my comings and goings, I focus my attention on the center of the door and speak.
“With no more than seconds to spare, the Lady Scheherazade flung the pestle at the door, shattering the barrier between this realm and the next.”
With a strength only possible in the world of dream, I hurl the witch’s club. Flipping end over end, the head hits the pair of doors like an oaken thunderbolt and splinters the barrier from top to bottom. The bars and chains fall to the floor, followed by the demolished remains of the doors themselves, until all that remains is a massive arch surrounding the cyclone of color I traverse every time I enter Anthony’s mind. Then, with one final whisk of the witch’s broom I dive into the kaleidoscope whirlwind and offer a silent prayer I get to Anthony in time.
My fingers tingle like they’re covered in ants. I try to move my hands and realize they’re bound beneath me. Feet too. Feels like duct tape. There’s something in my mouth as well. I let one eye slide open a crack and find a dishtowel shoved past my teeth. I can get in just enough air through my nose not to suffocate, but even a scream would be little louder than a whisper.
She’s planned this well.
Laid out on the floor, my head is tilted away from the couch where I left Anthony. The sounds of a struggle fill the room. With all the kicking and thrashing, I can only imagine what Veronica is doing to the poor boy.
Pulling as deep a breath as I can through my nostrils, I turn my head slowly to the right and find Veronica hunched over Anthony’s struggling form. She holds a pillow across his face, even as her own grows redder by the second.
“Just die, you stupid brat,” she grunts through clenched teeth.
I don’t know which chills me more, that Anthony has seconds left to live or that Veronica is almost certainly coming for me next. Certain I’ll only have one shot at stopping her, I send up a quick prayer she doesn’t see me coming. Rolling to one side, I pull my knees to my chest and strike out with both feet like a coiled snake. Veronica catches the movement from the corner of her eye and tries to dodge, but she’s too involved with Anthony to avoid my attack. My stiletto heels hit her full in the ribs with an audible crack and the impact sends her sprawling across the low-backed couch and out of sight. Only down for a couple seconds, Veronica is back on her feet before I can so much as right myself.
“You stupid bitch.” She steps around the couch and stands over me. “That hurt.” She buries the pointed tip of her boot in my side. The pain nearly renders me unconscious, though the air forced from my lungs does send the rag flying from my mouth.
“Stop this, Veronica.” My voice little better than a grunt, I fight to catch my air. “You’re already guilty of one murder. Don’t make it any worse for yourself.”
“You have it all figured out, do you?” Her lips turn up in a snarl. “I had a feeling today was going to be the day. Made damn sure I was here just in case.”
“To do what? Murder all of us? Caroline and Rachel too?”
“If I had to. Fortunate for Caroline that Rachel had that seizure.” Her snarl fades into a smile. “But not as fortunate as me.”
“They’ll never believe you, you know.”
“Oh really?” Veronica folds her hands before her waist and puts on her most innocent face. “I’m the boy’s teacher for God’s sake, invited by his mother to supervise him while she rode with her sick little girl to the hospital. Is it my fault the loose cannon psychic she hired to figure out his Swiss cheese brain couldn’t wait for her to return? I stepped out of the room to get some water, and when I got back, you had gone crazy, suffocated the boy, and were waiting for me.”
“You’re planning to pin Anthony’s death on me?”
“More than planning, my dear. In case you haven’t noticed, your little surprise attack was the last card in your hand. Now lie there like a good girl, or I’ll finish you first. And trust me, it will be anything but painless.”
She rounds the couch, retrieves the pillow, and resumes her position over Anthony’s unmoving form. “Still breathing.” Her angry whisper chills my blood. Holding the pillow to her chest, she looks over at me, her manic gaze colored for a moment with something akin to sadness. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I take no joy in any of this. Anthony was one of my favorites. A pleasure to teach. Unfortunately, he has a few too many secrets floating around in that head of his for me to let him live.”
“And the fact I’m all taped up. How are you going to explain that?”
“We fought. I won. I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t come after me again if you came to. Unfortunately, I had no idea how bad off you really were.”
Her sickening grin chills me to the core.
“There’s still one thing I don’t get.” I scramble for anything that might keep her from finishing Anthony. “Why Julianna Wagner? As best I can tell, she trusted you with the biggest secret of her life, and you killed her for it.”
Veronica’s lips draw tight across her teeth. “The great Mira Tejedor doesn’t have all the answers after all. Will wonders never cease?”
“If you’re going to kill me anyway, I deserve an answer.”
“You deserve shit.”
I replay every conversation I ever had with the crazed woman straddling Anthony Faircloth. Then, a flash of inspiration.
“Wait. Your breakup from back in the summer. This is about Glenn Hartman, isn’t it? He dumped you for Julianna Wagner, didn’t he?”
She doesn’t say a word, her eyes narrowing as she pushes the pillow into Anthony’s face.
“Answer me.”
Her gaze drops to the floor, and for a moment, a flash of humanity peeks through.
“That bastard flirted with me for months. Finally got me to meet him out for drinks a week after finals last year and we wound up back at his place. After that, he was at my door three or four nights a week, all summer long, sniffing around like a fucking dog in heat. Wasn’t good enough for going out in public, but if little Glenn needed his back scratched, he was all hearts and flowers. Then the new school year started and he stopped returning my calls. Didn’t take long to figure out why.” Her face turns up in a disgusted snarl. “They were none too discreet, I assure you.”
“So you killed her.”
“Not right away. Figured he’d eventually get tired of the tramp and come crawling back.”
“Until you found
out she was pregnant.”
A single laugh breaks the momentary silence. “Julianna came to pick up Anthony at school one afternoon. Didn’t need to be a psychic to figure out she was upset. Took about five minutes to get her to fess up.”
Revelation hits me like a wave. “You went with her to the abortion clinic.”
Veronica’s gaze drops to her feet. “She hadn’t decided what to do about the baby and asked me to go along for emotional support. She made it easy for me to get close.” She glances up at me. “Almost as easy as you did, Mira.”
I rack my brain for anything to keep her talking. “And the text from Jason’s phone?”
She makes a dismissive wave. “Ah, the jealous ex. That was the easiest part of this whole thing. Boy needs to lock up his stuff up better during football practice.”
“It was you.” My heart swells at the deep voice that echoes from the foyer. “You killed Julianna.” Jason Faircloth steps into the room, soaked to the bone from the torrential downpour outside.
“Jason,” Veronica says. “This isn’t what it looks like.” I follow Veronica’s stare and note the size of the puddle at Jason’s feet. He’s been here more than long enough to hear it all.
“I swear to God.” Jason takes another step forward. “You’re going down for this.”
“Dammit.” Veronica leaps for the chair by my feet, pulls a snub-nosed pistol from her purse, and levels it at Jason’s chest. “And this was all going to be so clean.”
The gun roars and Jason flies backward into the arched doorway before crumpling to the ground.
“Don’t worry, Mira.” She sneers down at me as she steps across my body. “I won’t keep you waiting long.”
ason clutches his left shoulder, bright crimson filling the spaces between his fingers as he struggles to come to his feet. “You bitch. You shot me.”
“I’d watch the names, kid. Don’t forget who’s holding the gun.”
Veronica fires a second round and narrowly misses Jason as he charges down the hall for the bedrooms. She races after him, the sound of pounding steps and slamming doors and gunfire setting my heart racing. Despite the ringing in my ears from the first pair of gunshots, I can just perceive the sound of Anthony’s labored breathing. Though raspy and intermittent, the sound means he’s alive. We can sort out the rest later.
The Mussorgsky Riddle Page 32
