With Darold’s spare switchblade in my boot and a flashlight in hand, I lean my stomach against the window frame and lower myself down the wall. My feet reach the roof of the porch more easily than they did when I was six and seven. I move carefully over the slanted surface to find the notches Phin cut into one of the porch’s posts—the notches Lenora May frantically chipped out with an ax one afternoon when Dad was away—and climb to the ground.
Fireflies wink all around, mingling with the Wasting Shine and Mama’s Christmas lights. Combined with this year’s crop of gold doubloon and human skull Mardi Gras beads, it looks like a little pirate graveyard, a warning or a reminder that danger lies beyond this point.
I try to find a piece of whatever stupid courage Phin must have felt to propel him into the single greatest danger we’ve ever known. There was something so effortless, so thoughtless about the way he flung his legs over the rails and landed in a sprint. The key is not to think about it, but I can’t clear my head. I keep hearing our angry words from that afternoon over and over.
It was such a stupid fight. One that started the minute Phin announced he was leaving for Tulane. It shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. He was as focused on that goal as he was on fixing up the Chevelle. His excitement was the only reason I’d ever thought seriously about college. Most of the good folk of Sticks consider it’d be faster to throw your money in a fire if you’re that keen on wasting it, but then, most of the good folk of Sticks think the periodic table has something to do with birth control. More than once, Phin reminded me that it was possible to love a place and leave it, and he and I were destined for a life bigger than the whole of Sticks.
I believed him, but I didn’t understand him. Not completely.
I could’ve completed his college applications for him and it still would’ve come as a surprise to hear he was leaving. But the real shock of the whole affair was realizing that meant I’d be left behind. That didn’t happen in my brilliant brain until the acceptance letter arrived. And that was the first day I didn’t finish my dinner.
We fought every time we spoke because I couldn’t look at him without feeling resentful or abandoned. But Sunday was the first time he’d been driven to violence.
Then he was gone.
And it’s my fault.
If I was afraid to live in a town without Phineas, I’m plain terrified of living in a world without him. With an unexpected combination of fear and guilt and recklessness, I set a foot on the bottom rung of the fence and rest my fingers on top. Shine licks at them. I jump back, clenching my hands to fists and glaring at the sinister coils.
The swamp continues to beckon.
I can do this.
“Phineas Harlan Saucier,” I say to whatever might be listening. “I’m coming for my brother.”
Placing my palms firmly on the top plank again, I climb the fence and land softly on the other side. The Shine threading the muddy ground shatters beneath my feet and shifts in a frenzied way. Phin’s bracelet warms against my skin.
With a deep breath, I follow the path Phin might have left. Shine brightens the otherwise dark swamp, but it glitters incoherently, confusing my steps so I have to move slow and careful. Plants brush against my knees, vines slither over my shoulders, and I lose my balance more than once.
“Phineas!” I call quietly. Then again, louder, “Phineas!”
My feet sink in warm, thick water. Sweat is cold on my forehead. I turn around and see that the path I took is gone—gone and I don’t know how I’ll find my way again. When I stop moving, those glittering vines reach for me. They curl around my ankles and tickle my arms. I shake them off and run, but the next time I pause, they creep toward me, reach for me, curl around my cold fingers, and tug.
“Phin! Phineas! Phin, please!” I cry, splashing through water that nearly reaches my knees. The only response is the harsh shriek of some swamp animal, the thump, thump, thump of something falling or crawling or running.
And getting closer.
I freeze. I stop everything except my heart, and make myself as small and as quiet as possible. If Phin were here, he’d know what to do. Oh, God, if Phin were here, I wouldn’t be mindless with fear. Whatever else is in this swamp, it’s surely worse than a girl armed with a flashlight and switchblade.
Something stings my leg and I shriek loud enough to be heard by anything within a hundred miles. I crouch down until my butt hits the water, but it’s too late. The thumping gets louder and faster. I’m fixing to run when a voice calls, “Hello? Is someone there?”
For a moment, I’m sure it’s Phin. My smile’s as wide as the Mississippi, but then he calls again, and his voice is familiar but not my brother’s. It’s a second before I spot him through the cypress trees, tall and broad and definitely not Phin.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop right there,” I shout.
He takes a few more steps, coming around the trees with hands raised. He’s not much older than me, dressed in jeans and a mud-splattered T-shirt, and I know exactly who he is.
“Nathan!” If I knew him better, I’d hug him, but I settle for climbing onto the same muddy path he’s on. Simply standing in front of him is a victory.
“Thank Jesus, Sterling Saucier,” he says with a sigh. His voice is raspy and he walks like his shoulders weigh two tons each. “I’ve been lost for hours. Please, tell me you know the way out of here.”
Hours? With that one word my hope fizzles, but I decide not to burden him with the truth just yet. “Have you seen another boy around? Dark hair, blue eyes? My brother’s lost, too.”
He shakes his head. Everything about him is tense and alert. Even his T-shirt seems to hover above his body, ready to flee. “The only other things I’ve seen are the sort of things you don’t want to see,” he says with a nervous look around. “We ain’t alone in here.”
It’s the way he pulls at his arm that makes me shudder. Shine snakes through the mud to my feet and his, glowing in streams of brown and black and yellow. Around us, the swamp is a smothering chorus. How did I ever hope to find Phin in this wild place?
“C’mon. If we keep the moon behind us, we should be able to find my backyard.” I leave the invitation open and start to walk. When he joins me, I ask, “What’s the last thing you remember, Nathan? Before you got lost?”
“Shh.” He stops and holds up a hand, tilting his head a little to listen with wide eyes. When he returns his gaze to me, it’s already miles away. “Run,” he says.
Before I can ask why, something crashes through the swamp. Again, Nathan shouts for me to run and I do, hard on his heels. The noise gets closer. I try to run as fast as him, but every other step is a struggle. I stumble and slip and sink in deep mud. Soon, his figure is so far past me I only catch flashes of his white shirt.
“Wait! Help me, please!”
Every crash is closer than the one before. I risk a glance behind and see a patch of the dark night sky racing toward me. I see yellow eyes and a pale, gray face, and I hear my voice saying, “No, no, no!”
Nathan calls for me, once, twice.
Then a hand like tree bark grips my wrist, spinning me until I’m nose to nose with the pale-faced beast. His breath is a suffocating gust of rot and mud. His body curls over me like a punishing wave. I can see no way out. Nothing at all except the narrowed yellow of his eyes. Then, heat flushes my arm where he grips me. He recoils with a snarl and I’m on my feet again, flying through the swamp.
I don’t look back. I don’t see or hear Nathan and I don’t dare call for him, so I run until I can’t feel my legs and then I run some more.
Something pink flashes between the trees ahead, but I don’t see it clearly until I stumble into a small grove on the edge of a wide pond. In the center of the clearing, with roots that crawl over the bank and spill into the pond, is a cherry tree in full bloom.
It’s so unexpected that I stop.
My heartbeat is furious in my ears, but I can’t look away. Gnarled br
anches reach in all directions, each a flurry of elegant pink blossoms surrounded by muck and mire. Shine twists through the ground in thick ropes; each of the long tendrils spirals away from the black roots.
Cautiously, I rest one hand on a low branch and listen, but there’s no sound of the beast. Did I lose him or is he simply toying with me? Does it matter? Dipping beneath the heavy branches, I sit and resist the urge to panic.
I lost Nathan as soon as I’d found him and now I’m lost, too.
Little shining tendrils pull away from the roots of the tree to caress the tarnished silver on my wrist. I let them settle there and with my free hand brush my fingertips over a tendril that has the green-black sheen of mud. It feels delicate, but alive and real. Its edges are sticky and cling to my skin like cricket legs, gripping and releasing, pulling on me as I pull on it.
The air around me cools, and I have the sudden and fierce sensation of being watched. I spin and search the clearing, ready to run.
A figure lounges a few feet away, half hidden in shadows, but enough in the light that I can see it’s a boy not much older than me. He rests an arm over the knee propped in front of him. It’s an unbearably beautiful and commanding pose that’s only accentuated by the strangely old-fashioned shirt he wears. His black hair sweeps away from his face as though pushed by a constant wind. But it’s his eyes that pull my gaze: dark as mud and steady as rain. I can see the smile in them without having to find his lips.
“Sterling.” His voice is a murky whisper.
“I know you?” I reach into the foggiest parts of my memory for a name and find none. If he’s from Sticks, he’s no one I’ve ever met, but if Lenora May’s story was even partially true, there’s no telling how many people are trapped in here. His clothes aren’t from this century, which means he’s probably been here for decades. Another victim the swamp claimed and the world forgot.
“No,” he says. “But I’ve met your brother. I’m Fisher.”
I spring to my feet and close the distance between us. “Phineas? Where is he? Is he okay? Please, take me to him.”
It’s only when he glances down that I realize not only have I tugged him to his feet, but I’m gripping both his hands. With an apology, I drop them and remove myself from his personal space.
“It’s all right,” he soothes. “I can understand and sympathize, but I don’t think taking you to him is the best idea. He’s . . . not quite himself these days.”
“What do you mean?” A hum begins in my ears. Beetles and frogs and night birds provide a background chorus as shadows thicken.
Fisher stands close enough that he can speak low and be heard through the din. ”He’s trapped. Someone trapped him in order to free themselves, and his cage, well, it’s not a pretty sight.”
I can’t tell if I’m furious or terrified. Probably both. “Lenora May. She appeared the day he went in, and everyone in town thinks she’s always been there.”
His expression darkens. “Lenora May,” he says with so much knowing behind it that all my questions fall flat. “I knew she was up to something. She’s always up to something.”
Vindication pushes me forward. “What’s she done to Phin? If she’s hurt him, I’ll—”
Shine snaps around my neck and tightens a split second before Fisher’s hand presses against my mouth. The shiver that assaults my spine tacks my feet to the ground. I’m suddenly six years old, hiding beneath my bed, keeping so still, so, so still.
“Don’t. Don’t threaten her.” He releases me just as quickly, the tendril uncoils, but I can’t swallow for the rock in my throat. “Forgive me, Sterling,” he continues. “I don’t mean to scare you, but this swamp listens. You must be careful what you say.”
It’s another minute before I can speak. He stands so close. I take in his dark hair and eyes, his pale skin, the strange cut of his clothing, the way the swamp seems to lean toward him. Does it obey him or fear him? I wonder. Or does he simply know how to protect unwitting souls from it? As my adrenaline wanes, I find I’m practically cozy with his presence.
“What are you?”
His smile is sad when he answers. “Once, I was a boy. Now, the swamp is my home. I’m as much a part of it as it is of me.”
“A ghost?” This is the sort of question that should make me nervous. Any rational girl would be if she encountered a well-dressed, smooth-talking boy in the middle of the swamp. He paces the length of the clearing before answering, holding his hands behind him as though they might prevent him from thinking. The drape of his sleeves does little to hide the strength of his arms. All sorts of words spring to mind and none of them are the usual sort I’d use for boys my age. Like “poised” and “noble.” Mud coats his shoes and the bottom six inches of his dark pants, but it doesn’t detract from his bearing.
He comes to a stop by the cherry tree, one hand resting on its branches. “I’m not sure what you’d call me, but I suppose ‘ghost’ works well enough. I exist as a part of the swamp’s magic. An extension of it, you could say. It keeps me alive, but only so long as I stay here.”
“And that’s what Lenora May was, too?”
“Yes,” he says with more longing than I could unpack in a week. “It was not always the case. Long ago, she was a girl, like you, who wanted to be safe from a world that would decide her fate for her. She escaped by bonding herself to the magic of the swamp. It was a desperate choice.”
I recognize the story. It’s the same one Lenora May told in the car, only where she told it with anger, he tells it with something like sorrow. He holds his gaze away as he speaks.
“Over the years, her desperation turned into resentment and jealousy. She wanted to leave, but that was impossible, so she captured anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in the swamp. She was so viciously resentful of anyone who lived a normal life. I can’t count the number of souls she’s trapped here. I believe you encountered a few tonight.”
My terrifying flight through the swamp from that pale-faced beast is too close for comfort. What could anyone have done to deserve such a fate as that? I search the dark woods behind Fisher, and again I’m struck by the way even the Shine seems passive in his presence. There’s no hint of concern about him and that serenity trickles into me until each of my nerves has calmed.
I ask, “One of them was—is—a friend. How can I free him?”
“Only Lenora May can free them, unfortunately.”
His body is so still as he talks. I study the slender line of his nose, the curl of his dark hair. It’s a combination I’ve become reluctantly familiar with.
“You’re her brother,” I say.
He nods. “And I love her, but she’s become devious. She’s been looking for ways to extend her reach beyond the boundaries of this little world. I’m afraid she’ll not take kindly to the idea of you having found me.”
He falls quiet, watching me for a long moment. I fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but I’m utterly unable to look away. Finally, having reached some conclusion, he shakes his head. “No, she won’t like this at all,” he mutters, and plucks a blossom from the tree. Cupping it in his palms, he whispers through the gap in his thumbs. A glow seeps between his fingers, white and red and ochre.
“But I’m her brother and that means this is partly my fault. I will help you.” He moves to my side once again. “If it’s in my power, I’ll help you free your brother and remove Lenora May from your home. Take this.” He offers a small, perfectly formed cherry. “If you can slip this into her food, she’ll be powerless against the pull of the swamp and will return. Once she’s here, I should be able to reverse what she’s done.”
The cherry looks unremarkable in my hand. Small, red, and perishable. “How?”
“It is of this swamp and anyone who eats it will be irresistibly called to return.” He seems amused at my skepticism and adds, “Where things come from matters.”
I roll the fruit from side to side before dropping it into my pocket. It seems so simple, so easy. Bu
t it sure didn’t seem very difficult for Lenora May to cross the fence in the first place and take what didn’t belong to her. If it’s true, then I’m one bite away from saving my brother’s life and putting my own world back to normal. That’s a chance I’ll gladly take.
“Thank you.” This could all end over breakfast. By tomorrow, Phin could be home where he belongs, cussing at his hair for being curly instead of straight. But he’s been trapped for so long already. “Is he okay? Is he in pain?”
Fisher’s smile is understanding and sympathetic. “I give you my word, he’s in no pain, only trapped. In his mind, this is like a very strange dream. Confusing and mysterious, but nothing painful. I imagine your experience has been more painful than his.”
It’s a comforting thought. For all the frustration I’ve experienced, it’s been bearable. With a solution in my pocket, the burden I’ve carried for days feels lighter than ever. So long as Phin is safe and not in pain, I can focus on what needs to be done.
“How do I find you again?” I ask, thinking of the pale-faced beast. “For that matter, how do I get home?”
“It seems you have a knack for navigating the swamp already.” Shine sharpens his smile. “Don’t fear. Your way home will be clear and as for finding me again, all you need do, my brave girl, is say my name. And I will find you.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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PART TWO
With howls and groans and pleading, dear,
The swamp will call you near,
Beware the songs it sings to you,
Beware the things you hear.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
PRETENDING IS THE SORT OF lying I learned from my mama when I was six years old. When there’s a bear living inside your house and he’s got a tendency to get spitting mad, you don’t tell anyone about it. You pretend it’s normal. You ignore the spitting as best you can and clean up after. And when that bear gets to swinging his big paws, you pretend you’re the clumsy one. After all, mishaps are bound to happen when you aren’t paying attention. There’s always a little piece of truth stuck inside a good pretending.
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