by Norah Wilson
Maryanne made a strange noise, half laugh, half strangled sob. “I went out to his place.”
Oh, Jesus! She’d gone out there, straight into the teeth of the hunter!
“How exactly did you get there in the middle of the night?” Alex asked. “Taxi?” Then after a pause, “Oh, God, tell me you had the driver wait for you! You did not let him drop you there, did you?”
“I kind of took Brooke’s car.”
It was Brooke’s turn to gasp. “You jacked my car?”
“I borrowed it,” she said. “The keys were on the dresser, right where I saw you put them when you snuck in. Except I know you didn’t stay at that bar. You came back here and cast out again. You lied to us. Again.”
Brooke sighed. “I’m sorry. You were in no condition to go out and I just knew Bryce Walker knew something.”
“He knows everything,” Maryanne said, sounding bleak.
“Wait, did you confirm it?” Alex asked. “Did you admit anything?”
“No, but I might as well have.”
“What do you mean?”
Maryanne wrapped her arms around herself. “He saw my shoulder. He…he pushed my sweatshirt back. But he already knew.”
“Holy crap!” Brooke breathed.
“What did he do?” Alex asked, her voice shaking. “Did he assault you? Because if he did, so help me, I’ll—”
Maryanne shook her head. “No. But he denounced me as a Heller, then screamed at me to get out of there, so I did.” Maryanne hung her head. “I’m sorry. I should have handled it better.”
Alex shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is!” Maryanne insisted.
“No. You didn’t mean for it to happen that way. You didn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Brooke said. “I overheard him ranting in the barn. Let me tell you, the hate Ira had on for Hellers doesn’t come close to what our boy Bryce is nursing.”
Alex snorted. “I find that a little hard to believe, from what we’ve read of Ira in Connie’s diary.”
“Believe it,” Brooke said. She closed her eyes, but just a moment. “He blames us—the Hellers—for Seth’s death.”
“For ruining those horses?”
“That’s part of it. But there’s more. From what I pieced together, Seth must have been onto us.” She grimaced. “Okay, onto me, but that would have led him to you guys. Anyway, it seems Seth was preparing to search us out and introduce us to his friend Mr. Winchester, but Bryce tried to stop him. Apparently, Bryce used to have some sympathy for the Hellers, despite Grampa Walker’s best efforts. Figured they were just trying to survive like everyone else. So he tried to dissuade Seth, they scuffled, the horses went crazy, and Seth got trampled. So now our boy wishes he hadn’t been such a pussy and had let Seth hunt us down. That way, his brother would still be alive.”
“And we’d be dead,” Alex said.
“Oh no! He blames himself!” Maryanne fisted a hand in her hair as she absorbed this new information. “He thinks he’s at least as responsible for Seth’s death as we are, if not more so. And he’s taken that guilt and regret and channeled it into hatred for the Hellers.”
“Exactly,” Brooke agreed.
“How did you arrive at the idea he was onto Maryanne?” Alex observed. “Did he say something more to give you that impression?”
“Yeah, and he was pretty explicit.” Brooke turned to Maryanne. “He swore he was going to trail you until he found out the truth. He was going to stake this place out and wait for us to ‘take to the air’, as he put it. And when he caught us casting out, he planned to greet us with that special iron shot he was busy packing those shotgun shells with.”
A moan of distress escaped Maryanne.
“God, we are so humped,” Alex said.
Yep. That about summed it up.
“We can’t give this up,” Maryanne quavered, after a moment’s silence. “Casting…it’s more than what we do now! It’s who we are!”
No one denied that. In fact, no one said anything at all for a few long moments. It was Maryanne who broke the silence.
“But now the hunter knows.” Maryanne said. “How do we deal with Bryce Walker? He doesn’t just know how to hurt us. He knows who we are!”
Brooke chewed her bottom lip, but only for one hesitating moment. “We deal with him together.” She gave Maryanne a pointed look. “He’s not your boyfriend anymore, Maryanne. Your loyalties have to lie with us.”
“I know,” she whispered. “And they do.” Even though Maryanne tried to sound strong, Brooke could tell her heart was breaking.
“And we find out what he knows,” Brooke continued. “Everything he knows. We need that upper hand. We need that knowledge. You guys know it as well as I do. Connie’s diary wasn’t the only piece to this casting puzzle.”
The three of them looked at each other solemnly—one to the other—as they stood before the Madonna. Outside the snow was falling heavily now, and the flakes looked like giant teardrops coming down behind her image. There was only one thing they could do.
They had to get those journals. It was a matter of their survival.
It was a matter of everything. But it might already be too late.
“We need a plan,” Brooke said.
“In the morning.” Maryanne’s voice sounded tired. Exhausted beyond belief. Sad and beaten too. “It’s been a hard night. A long night, and I’m done. We’ll get those journals, no matter what we have to do. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Together the three walked down the stairs and headed quietly to their bedroom to get what little sleep they could.
Chapter 32
Snow. Storm.
Maryanne
It had snowed all night—was still snowing—and Maryanne pretty much knew what she was going to hear when, still in her sweats, she headed downstairs. It was before seven. A handful of the girls were milling around Harvell House’s kitchen, but most were nowhere to be seen. Those who were up were still in their pajamas, including Mrs. Betts. She greeted Maryanne in the breakfast room, stifling a yawn. “Snow day. School’s canceled,” she said. “Everyone’s sleeping in.” After posting a note to that effect on the bulletin board, Mrs. Betts turned and retraced her steps. Most likely heading back to bed herself.
Good for her, Maryanne thought.
“But better for me,” she said.
“Talking to yourself again, Hemlock? They say that’s a sure sign of going crazy, you know.”
Kassidy. What was it with that girl? If she wasn’t on the verge of tears, she was going out of her way with the snarky comments.
“Morning to you too, Kassidy.” Maryanne turned, ready to head back upstairs.
“I heard about your boyfriend.”
Kassidy’s words stopped Maryanne in her tracks, and though she didn’t turn around, she did listen.
“It was the Hellers,” Kassidy said.
“So they say,” Maryanne answered.
Suddenly, Kassidy’s voice was thick with tears, and edged with a distance that had Maryanne wondering if she was still even talking to her. “I hate this town. This stupid town and everything in it. Everything about it. The Hellers. This house and what happened here. School. The town. That river…everything.”
Kassidy was already shuffling away as Maryanne turned back around. Shaking her head, Maryanne watched her go. She couldn’t deal with Kassidy Myers now. She had to get back upstairs. Even as the few other girls downstairs started heading back to their rooms for that extra bit of sleep, Maryanne knew she wouldn’t be getting any herself.
She climbed the stairs and walked toward her bedroom door as one of the other second floor girls passed her in the hallway. As soon as the other girl disappeared toward her own room, Maryanne turned and headed to the attic door. She pulled her key out of her sweatpants pocket and looked at it a moment, even smiling a bit as she remembered the day she’d dashed down to the hardware store to get copies of the new key for
herself, Alex, and Brooke. She’d been brave then, sneaking back into the house when she was supposed to be at school, then stealing down into that basement with all its bad vibes so she could hang the original back in the key box down there. Yes, she had been brave before, when her friends had depended on her. With so much she’d done horribly, horribly wrong—so much crushing her—she’d at least done right by them that day.
Maryanne opened the door and climbed the attic steps. She set the key down on the old dresser—Connie’s old dresser—before she proceeded to the window.
Through the bottom pane of clear glass below the stained glass, she could see the snow coming down. It really was a mess out there. No wonder Streep Academy had canceled classes for the day. All the Mansbridge schools would have to be canceled. Most businesses and offices were probably going to be closed too. Maryanne’s eyes didn’t stay for long on that lower pane of glass. They drifted upwards as they always did to the Madonna.
Her face was as loving as always; her eyes bright and compassionate. But it was the baby in her arms that Maryanne’s gaze was pulled to, once again. And it was the baby that she stared at as she began tapping that window and spoke her words, and tapped her fingers to the glass, “I want out. I want out.” Oh J-bug, after all I’ve done! “I just want out.”
Her body flopped to the floor as if it had simply deflated and her cast now hovered on the other side of the stained glass. She didn’t take the time to look back at her mostly-paralyzed original there on the floor to see how it landed or to make sure it was okay. And it wasn’t just the need to hurry away in this daylight hour that stopped her from doing so. It just didn’t seem to matter.
Not really. Not anymore. It was more than the feeling she got when casting—that the pain and grief were elsewhere. Still with her, but apart. She just felt…an inevitability to this day. To the task before her.
Maryanne soared out to the oak, retrieved what she had to, linking it securely in the crook of her left elbow. Then she shot quickly up into the sky. She went as high as she could while still being able to make out the landmarks that would guide her along. Yes, casting in the daytime was stupidly dangerous and went against all the promises and pacts the three had made to each other. Fortunately, the snow would keep most everyone inside. And those who were out would have to keep their attention on the treacherous roads and not the skies.
Alex and Brooke would have a fit when they found her gone. When they found she’d cast out. Hopefully they wouldn’t discover it too soon. After last night, they had to be tired. Belatedly, she realized she should have unplugged Brooke’s alarm. Well, too late now to do anything about it. With any luck, Brooke would smack the alarm and roll back over to face the wall until someone shook her awake. Alex was usually pretty hard to rouse in the mornings herself, without a second wake up call.
But whenever they rose, it would be too late to catch up with her.
Maryanne looked down only to find the ground had disappeared in the storm. She sank lower until she could make out landmarks again and soared on. Soon she neared the Walker Farm and started her descent. She gripped the copper tools she’d retrieved from their hiding place in the old oak even tighter now, and she imagined the look on Alex’s face when she discovered Maryanne had taken them. But Alex and Brooke would be too late. The task would be done. No matter what, this time.
Maryanne was going to get those journals herself. Know what the Walkers knew once and for all. And she was going to do it alone. Despite what Brooke and Alex had said, she alone owned the blame for this. For getting them so deep into danger.
And Bryce?
She’d face that hunter herself. All the hunters herself, for Brooke and Alex.
No matter what.
Chapter 33
Intrepid
Alex
“So neither of you know the meaning of the word ‘pact’? Am I safe to assume that?”
Alex knew she shouldn’t be snapping at Brooke. At least not while the girl hunched white-knuckled over the Intrepid’s steering wheel, peering through a windshield that the defroster couldn’t seem to keep from icing up on a road that was almost impossible to distinguish beneath the blanketing snow. But dammit, none of them were supposed to be casting out alone, especially now! Between Brooke and Maryanne, they seemed to be making a regular, freakin’ habit of it.
Alex had been the first to waken after their harrowing night, and as soon as she saw the empty bed, she just knew Maryanne wasn’t in the kitchen having breakfast. The terrified, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach told her Maryanne was gone. She’d shaken Brooke awake and as the two of them had rushed to get dressed to go in search of her, Alex had seriously considered installing an alarm on the bedroom door. Or at the very least, putting a bell on the frigging doorknob.
Of course, they’d found Maryanne’s original in the attic. Alex had cursed a blue streak. But not before she bent and told Maryanne, “Hold on. You hear me? We’re coming. Don’t do anything till we get there.”
Would Maryanne listen?
Seriously, was the girl blind to the danger out there?
Even as the thought formed, Alex rejected it. Maryanne wasn’t blind to the danger. Not at all.
“Here’s an idea, Alex. Let’s just concentrate on getting there in one piece for now, okay?” Brooke’s eyes never left the road as she snapped back. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she sat forward even further. The wipers were working double time, but they honestly weren’t doing much good, the way the snow was coming down.
Alex twisted a lip ring. “Sorry,” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” Brooke replied. “Me too.”
Alex was sitting forward in the seat herself now, her seatbelt straining against her shoulder. A second set of eyes on the road couldn’t hurt. It was treacherous out. Martha Betts would have a fit if she knew Brooke and Alex were out driving in this storm. On the heels of that thought, they rounded a corner and met John Smith on the road, plowing through in his four-wheel drive, no doubt on his way to Harvell House. Oh shit, what if he recognized Brooke’s car and Mrs. Betts started looking for them?
“Doesn’t that man ever miss a day?” Brooke grated.
“Apparently not.”
The silence was uneasy and lasted five minutes before Brooke said, “We should have cast out to go after her. We’d be stronger.”
Their debate on this point had been a short one this morning.
“Maybe,” she answered. “But Bryce knows about iron. He’s got a shotgun full of it just waiting for us.” Oh God, for Maryanne!
“You don’t think a shotgun blast of iron to the chest would hurt us like this?” Brooke answered. “In our…normal selves?”
Brooke had been about to say ‘real form’. Alex knew it. And if she hadn’t stopped herself, Alex probably would have corrected her. It wasn’t the first time that had come up, nor the first time she’d twisted her mind to contemplate it: just what was their real form now? How far had they gone with this casting? How far had they taken it? How far would they dare?
“He’s way less likely to actually shoot us when we present ourselves like this. Easier to fire on a terrifying Heller than murder a warm-blooded teenage girl.”
“We hope,” Brooke muttered darkly.
“God, I hope Maryanne’s all right,” Alex said. “What if we get there and it’s—”
“Don’t say it! Don’t even think it.” Brook adjusted her grip on the wheel. “But you know, sometimes I think Maryanne’s not ‘all right’ on the best of days. I don’t mean that as a slam,” she rushed to add, as if Alex would think she was going into bitchy-Brooke mode again.
They were seeing less and less of the old, ultra-defensive, I’ll-screw-you-before-you-screw-me Brooke. Just as Alex was changing, so was Brooke. And besides, Alex did know what she meant.
“That voice she’s hearing,” Alex said. “I know she hears it more than she lets on. Or tries to let on.”
Brooke swore and steered the Intrep
id closer to the shoulder. An oncoming car had decided the best half of the road was up the middle, probably not expecting anyone else to be foolish enough to be out on a day like today. They missed each other by no more than inches, and Alex gripped the seat cushions for dear life as Brooke fought for endless seconds to keep them from sliding into the ditch.
“Asshole!” Brooke snarled when she had the vehicle back under control. Or as much under control as possible in a blizzard. A moment later, she resumed the discussion of Maryanne as though nothing had happened. “Yeah, it’s got to be hard on her. Hearing her little brother. Jason.”
“Yeah, her little J-bug.”
“Such a sad thing, crib death. I can’t imagine coping with something like that.”
“More of a shock than you can imagine,” Alex murmured. She ran a hand through her short black hair, pushing her bangs back as she fought with herself. She had to tell Brooke. Had to tell her everything she knew. She hated the niggling feeling that she was about to break Maryanne’s confidence, though strictly speaking she’d never been asked to keep it all a secret. Maryanne couldn’t know that Alex remembered the words her troubled friend had whispered as Alex lay in that coma. Now Alex had to tell Brooke because they all had to know what was going on here. What they were dealing with—and just how not all right Maryanne really was.
“It wasn’t crib death,” Alex said.
Brooke shot her a surprised—and yes, hurt—glance, then glued her eyes back onto the road. “Why am I not surprised? Of course she’d have told you more—”
“Not so fast, Saunders. I was in a coma at the time. She didn’t know I could hear her. Hell, I didn’t know I’d heard her for sure until just recently. She’s holding the crib death line with me too.”
Brooke’s relief was obvious, and Alex thought, a little sad. “So what did he die of?”
“He strangled in the cords of a window blind.”
