“No!” He folded his arms, looked thoughtfully out towards the shore.
Perfect, Susanna thought. Just perfect. He was relaxed and composed, not thinking about the wraiths or the deep, deep water or anything that might cause a sudden tempest to sweep up and topple them into the lake.
“Hmmm,” he drawled. “I’ve never worn a bra!” He grinned triumphantly.
“Yes you have!” Susanna shot back. “You traded clothes with a girl at a party, bra and all, for a dare. Don’t you remember? She was wearing a pink chiffon blouse and a white mini skirt.” Susanna smirked. “You looked particularly fetching in her shoes.”
Jack looked poleaxed and Susanna’s grin faltered. “I forget,” he said quietly, “I forget that you have my memories.”
She didn’t know what to say. She should never have told Jack that, but he’d guessed, really. One long night in that first safe house, when he’d turned to her and asked how she’d known to be Sammy, Susanna had been at a loss what to tell him. Jack found the truth in her silence.
Still, Susanna didn’t think the full extent of what that meant had dawned on him until now.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I can’t help it.”
A slight nod that told her he understood… but that didn’t make it any better. Susanna couldn’t blame him; if Jack’s memories were hers, she wouldn’t want anyone else to see them either.
A wind crept up, lifting the hair that hung, lank and sweaty, around her face. Susanna suddenly realised that she didn’t feel as hot as she had before – the air was suffocating rather than burning, blistering – and a glance upwards revealed ugly black clouds skidding across the umber sky.
Shit.
“Is it my turn?” she asked desperately.
“You know what,” Jack replied, not looking at her, “I don’t think I want to play any more. You win.”
“Jack,” Susanna pleaded. “Look I’m sorry, I—”
Something thumped the bottom of the boat.
“What was that?” Jack’s eyes slammed into Susanna’s, wide with sudden fear. That was not better than the stomach-churning mix of shame and discomfort in his eyes that had killed their game. The wind picked up again, rocking the little boat, but Susanna knew the change didn’t register with Jack, because whatever was beneath them thumped again – harder this time.
“It’s OK,” Susanna croaked to Jack, because he was teetering on the edge of panic. It wasn’t OK, though, and she knew Jack wasn’t fooled, particularly when she changed her grip on the oars and started pulling through the water with all her strength.
She heaved and tugged and strained the muscles in her back, arms and legs, but they were barely moving faster. What had been a gentle sighing of lapping water was now a frothing, tumultuous rollercoaster of waves. The boat thumped twice more, the first a shove to the side which seemed an attempt to overturn the vessel and the second a hard, sharp punch that cracked one of the boards in the hull. Both Susanna and Jack stared hard at the splintered fissure but no water poured in. This time.
“Faster,” Jack rasped. “We need to go faster!”
“I’m trying!” Susanna panted. “Jack, try to calm down. If you’re calm, the water will calm.”
“I am calm,” Jack argued, not sounding calm at all. “I don’t think—” he paused as another thump rocked them, “I don’t think that’s me!”
No, that wasn’t him. That was something else – something new. Susanna had been forced to dive into the lake countless times as she ferried souls, and she’d fought the creatures that lurked in the water each and every time. They were wraiths, but sleeker, slicker. Like eels, they wound round their victims and pulled them down and down until…
But this was no water wraith. They were small, attacked in numbers. Whatever was beneath them seemed to have the power to smash their little boat to pieces.
Tug. Heave. Pull.
Tug. Heave. Pull.
Susanna concentrated on the rhythm, rowing as hard as she could, but her eyes she kept fixed on Jack. He sat in the middle of the little bench, his arms stretched out so that he could grip the boat on each side, anchoring himself. His grip was white-knuckled, his jaw clenched tight. He was staring at her, but Susanna thought he wasn’t really seeing. Instead he seemed to be held in stasis, just waiting for the next—
Thump!
This time the rear of the boat lifted up, so much Susanna thought she was going to topple overboard. Letting out a little scream, she dropped the oars and reached out, grabbing Jack’s thigh with one hand and the side of the boat with the other. The boat slammed back down and she dropped with it, landing hard on her knees, her face full of Jack’s T-shirt.
She scrambled, trying to right herself, but she was too slow. The oars ripped free and disappeared.
“No!” she screamed.
“They didn’t fall,” Jack whispered, utter terror in his voice. “They didn’t fall, something grabbed them. What the hell is under us?!”
“I don’t know,” Susanna cried. She was panicking now, because they were sitting ducks. Without the oars, they were stranded. The only way off the water, the only way to reach the ‘safety’ of the shore, was to—
“Susanna, I can’t swim,” Jack reminded her. He looked like he was hanging on to his sanity by a thread, fear threatening to turn him mindless. Susanna wanted to say something to him, to make it all right, but she felt helpless.
They were stuck.
Another bone-jarring thump from beneath them, hitting right on the already fractured plank. It couldn’t handle the pressure, snapping in half. Susanna stared down at the bottom of the boat in horror, watching as water started bubbling up.
They were going to sink.
“Jack,” she said, “we need to—”
“No!” He didn’t even let her get the words out. “No, no I can’t, Susanna. I can’t!”
“I’ll help you.” She stood, her foot splashing when she took a step forward, but Jack scuttled back out of reach. His quick, frantic movements unsettled the boat and Susanna crouched as they tilted and—
“Jack!”
Something erupted out of the water. Not an arm; a tentacle? Susanna didn’t know what the hell it was, but it wrapped around one of Jack’s arms… and pulled. Jack was wrenched backwards, his free hand reaching desperately for any kind of grip on the boat, but his searching fingers failed to find purchase.
Between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone.
“No!” Susanna screamed. “No, no, no. Jack!”
The water was black and turbulent. It roiled and rolled.
Susanna didn’t even think about it. She threw herself over the side, plunging into the glutinous depths.
It burned. That barely registered, though. Susanna pulled herself through the water, its oily consistency making every sweep of her arm, every kick of her leg, that much harder. Where was he? Where was Jack? Where was the creature?
They had to be here, they had to.
Her words to Jack – the ones she should never have said – echoed in her brain. I promise, Jack. I’ll get you through this. I swear it. She wouldn’t break her promise, she wouldn’t.
Where was he?
Susanna’s hands found nothing but the thick, viscous water. Her eyes saw nothing but the dark. Whispering shadows sliced through the gloom, but Susanna ignored them. The wraiths were nothing. They could only hurt her, hold her down here till her lungs screamed. She couldn’t die, but losing Jack would break her.
Susanna’s head tore through the surface, dragged in one, two, three breaths, then dived again. He had to be here, he had to be. She refused to believe otherwise.
The water was so, so deep. She swam down as far as she could, but she didn’t reach the bottom. She twisted left and right, forced her eyes open even though whatever was polluting the water felt like acid. Nothing. Nowhere.
No. No, please!
Susanna surfaced once more. The water was quiet now, the only violence her flailing movements as she rotated, blinking
the foetid drops from her eyes, scouring for any kind of ripple, any kind of sign.
Nothing.
“Jack!” she screamed. “Jack!”
The wraiths answered her. She could hear them all the way from the shore, hissing and cawing. Shrieking. It sounded like laughter.
Like they knew Jack was gone and they were mocking her.
“No!” Susanna yelled. She’d swallowed water and her throat felt raw, her stomach ready to hurl. If it would bring Jack back, Susanna would welcome the sensation. “Jack, where are you?”
Hauling in as deep a breath as possible, Susanna jackknifed on the surface, plunging into the darkness, but even as she did so, the black started to bleed into grey. The water lost its burn and became cool, lighter than air. The real wasteland was fading; the hell that Susanna had wished herself out of a hundred, a thousand times was slipping away.
Susanna knew what that meant.
“No,” she whispered, finding herself on her hands and knees in a vastness of white. “No, please. Jack! Jack!”
Unable to rise, to face whatever new world, new soul, awaited her, Susanna dropped her head into her hands and wept.
CHAPTER 15
She had a stitch in her side and her legs were burning, but Dylan barely noticed. Her every thought was focused on Tristan running in front of her, and it took everything she had to keep up with him. Whenever he pulled ahead, the pain of their stretched bond reverberated around her body, and she had to force herself to pump her legs and pick up speed. Tristan reached their building a good few metres ahead of her, but Dylan was grateful. By the time she careered down the little path that led to the front door, Tristan had it unlocked and she was able to barrel straight through to the stairs.
They were nearly the death of her, but she used the handrail to haul herself up each step, each flight. By the time she’d reached their landing, though, Tristan was inside the flat. Dylan paused, leaning heavily on the railing, and stared at the open front door. Stars were exploding in front of her eyes and she thought she might topple over if she left the safety of the banister. She did it anyway, wobbling across the landing into the flat.
“Tristan?” she gasped out. “Tristan, where are you?”
He appeared a moment later, a silhouette at the end of the hallway. His hands were clenched into fists, but because of the light streaming in from the living room behind him, she couldn’t see his face. She felt it, though, the ominous atmosphere that shrouded the flat. Something had happened, something bad.
“Is it here?” she whispered, lingering near the door, afraid to move. “Is the Inquisitor here?”
Tristan shook his head slowly and Dylan sagged against the wall with relief. That seemed to spur Tristan into motion and he walked down the hallway towards her. His steps were slow, measured. Reluctant.
“What is it?” Dylan asked. “What’s wrong?”
Tristan didn’t answer. He didn’t say anything until he’d closed the remaining distance between them. Then he reached out for her. “Dylan—”
Something in the way he said her name had her dodging back, out of reach. He was being hesitant with her, careful. That frightened Dylan.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated. She shifted to the side slightly, trying to see further into the flat, but Tristan blocked her. “What is it?” she demanded. “What are you hiding?”
“Dylan—” Tristan gently took hold of her hands and tried to ease her backwards. “Let’s go and sit out on the step for a little bit, OK? We’ll just sit and—”
“No!” Dylan wrenched herself away from him. She set her feet and stared at him, willing him to see her determination. “Tell me what’s wrong. Has the Inquisitor been here?”
A slow nod. Tristan’s face was like stone, except for his eyes. They were pained, full of sympathy, of pity. Not for himself, she realised. For her.
“What has it done? Has it done something to the flat?” No, as soon as she said it, Dylan knew that wasn’t right. Tristan wouldn’t act like that if it was only things, only belongings…
“Mum! Dad!” She tried to explode forwards, her thoughts turning into one single, panicked scream, but Tristan was there, in the way. Blocking her. “No.” She shoved at him. “Move! Move! Mum!” She pushed and shoved and kicked at Tristan. “Dad!”
She was dimly aware of a door opening in the landing behind her, but it didn’t matter who came out, what they said. All that mattered was finding her parents and—
Tristan cursed quietly and then he was helping and restraining her both as he eased her down the hallway a little so that he could close the front door. Dylan took advantage the moment he took one hand off her to slide the lock across, twisting free of his hold and falling down the hallway.
There was nobody in the living room, and nothing amiss.
She turned to her parents’ bedroom, put her hand on the doorknob.
“Dylan, stop.” Tristan’s hand covered hers, held her there. It wasn’t forceful this time, wasn’t imprisoning her in his grip. For some reason, that was the thing that made Dylan pause, made her stop.
Cold dread settled in her stomach and she was afraid to open the door, afraid of what waited for her.
“Please,” Tristan whispered. “You don’t need to see.”
He was wrong. She did. She did need to see.
When Dylan had been beyond the line and Eliza, the old woman, had told her how to get back to the wasteland, back to Tristan, she’d said that anyone could do it, they just had to have the strength, the bravery, to open the door. To know that they were risking their lives, their very souls, by going back there. Dylan had stood in front of her chosen door and thought she’d have to summon every ounce of her courage, to stand there for hours, searching within herself, but to her surprise it had opened easily in her hand.
This door would open if she simply turned the handle, there was no magic holding it closed, but Dylan found she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t make her fingers squeeze, her wrist turn.
Tristan tried to lead her away. “Let’s go and sit down in the living roo—”
Dylan opened the door.
Her parents were lying in bed. They looked like they were sleeping, James on his side, Joan cuddled into his front, both of them facing Dylan where she stood in the doorway. They could be resting, taking a nap, except for the stillness in the room. The quiet. The fact that the duvet wasn’t shifting with the rise and fall of each breath.
Dylan took a step inside. She felt Tristan behind her, his body almost touching hers, standing with her in silent support.
There was no blood, no claw marks or gaping holes that would indicate a wraith attack. Their expressions were peaceful, their skin unmarked. Dylan could see their hands, just visible beneath the duvet, were entwined together. Her mum’s wedding ring glinted slightly in the low light from the bedside lamp. It was like someone had snapped a picture of a perfect, loving moment.
A picture, unmoving and immobile. A life together, frozen.
Dylan wasn’t aware of her legs collapsing beneath her, but Tristan caught her round the middle. He lowered her gently to the floor and folded himself down behind her, his arms wrapped around her, his chest against her back. It seemed like his embrace was the only thing holding her together. She floated somewhere outside her body. Screaming, she was screaming – but that couldn’t be right, because her lungs didn’t have air to breathe. The sound echoed in her head, though, reverberating on and on and on.
They were gone. Her mum and dad were gone. No, not gone. Dead. Joan and James, her parents, her family, were dead.
“Why?” she wheezed, still unable to haul in air. “Why would it do this? Why?” She tried to go on, to give voice to the questions that were racing round her brain, but all that came out was a wordless keening, like an animal caught in a trap.
She didn’t know how long she sat there. Time lost meaning as Dylan drowned. Grief overwhelmed her, until she was nothing but her tears. Tristan kept up a steady stream of words, mutt
ering quietly in her ear, but she had no idea what he was saying. It didn’t penetrate. Nothing could.
After a while she realised Tristan was trying to get her to stand. She didn’t protest: she didn’t care what happened to her or where she went, so she let him manoeuvre her up onto her feet. Pins and needles stabbed at her legs as blood rushed back into her lower limbs but the burn was nothing. Insignificant. She stood where she was, staring blindly, until Tristan started urging her to turn. She did so, unresistingly, until her mum and dad slipped out of sight. Then she came to life in a blaze.
She tore free of Tristan and stumbled to the bed. From here she could see the lines on Joan’s face, the slight peppering of grey at her dad’s temples. Tiny markers of age, signs of a life half-lived.
It wasn’t fair.
“Why?!” she asked again, this time in a voice edging on a shout, edging on hysteria. “Why would the Inquisitor do this?” She whirled to face Tristan, who looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be relieved that she’d resurfaced from the dwam that had gripped her or nervous of the heat in her eyes.
He regarded her solemnly, his throat working. “I don’t know,” he said.
“No!” she said, the word a strangled scream. “It’s isn’t right, it isn’t fair! It can’t, it can’t take them!”
“Angel—” Tristan advanced on her, his hands reaching, but he stopped before he was close enough to draw her in to him.
“They’re mine!” Dylan shouted. Grief was being subsumed by a haze of red rage inside her mind. “Mine! It can’t just come in and take them. It can’t!” Her whole body was shaking with adrenaline, with fury. She screamed, hands clutching at her head, fingers tunnelling in her hair and gripping, pulling. Twisting until it hurt.
“Dylan.” Tristan’s hands were on her then, tugging at her wrists. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
She jerked away from him. “Is it still here?” she demanded. “The Inquisitor, can you sense it? Is it here? Is it watching?” She tore her eyes from Tristan and looked up, to the ceiling and the sky beyond. “Can you hear me, you f—”
“Dylan!” Tristan barked her name, drowning out Dylan’s curse.
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