by Cyn Balog
She gives me a quick nod and hurries inside. A few minutes later, light floods her bedroom window. I wait a few moments, until I’ve completely faded, then scale the tree. Mr. Colburn is there, at his post, chewing on his lip, watching her. He sees me coming up and offers a hand to hoist me to a nearby branch. “And?” he asks.
I nod. “You were right. About that friend of yours.”
“What?” His voice is ragged. “Did he hurt her?”
“No. But he might have, had I gotten there a moment later.” He’s standing up, getting ready to climb down the tree. “Where are you going?”
“To his house. I’m going to put him to sleep. Forever.”
I grab him by the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “You’ll do no such thing. You will surely go to the Last Place.”
“But see? I told you he was no good for her. So you let her know? About me?”
“No,” I say. He whips his head around and focuses on me, jaw tightening. I can tell he doesn’t know how to deal with disappointment; he’s used to getting his way. “I delivered the message. But she has already been through quite an ordeal. I didn’t see how telling her of you would improve things.”
“You don’t get it. It will,” he says. “She needs to know I’m there for her.”
Despite his being correct about Mr. Anderson, it’s still obvious that this is more about helping himself and less about helping Julia. She doesn’t need to know of his existence as much as he wants her to. “You actually believe that her knowing you’re there will make her feel safer?”
“Yeah. You don’t?”
“Well, certainly,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’ll probably check herself into an insane asylum because she’s hearing the voice of her dead boyfriend. I suppose she’ll be very safe there.”
He threads a small twig from the tree through his fist, pulling off all the leaves. “You don’t know her like I do.”
That is true, I think. I know her much better. “Mr. Colburn, things between you and Julia will never be the same again, even if you could let her know you’re watching her. I am sure you are not so selfish as to put your own vanity ahead of the happiness of others.”
He’s silent.
“Let her live her life.”
For a moment I think that perhaps my words are penetrating that thick skull of his. Then he says, “Bret has it coming to him.”
I see the gears in his head turning, and I don’t like it one bit. “Mr. Colburn, if you hope to become one of us, there is nothing you can do.”
“You said Sandmen protect their charges. But you’re going to let him get away with what he did? You know he’ll do it again. Julia’s too nice. Too naive.”
“It’s not that,” I say, but even as the words come out, I know he is right. Even as I argued with her, she was protecting Mr. Anderson, calling him her friend. She has no idea what she’s up against. “If you put him to sleep forever, you will ruin my chance at becoming human, and your chance of assuming your powers,” I say softly.
“But,” he says, “if you were the one who put him to sleep …”
I meet his eyes in the darkness. “What makes you think I’d risk—”
“Because you’ve done it before,” he says, grinning triumphantly.
I swallow. “What … what do you …”
“Chimere covered for you, right?” He shrugs. “Too bad she isn’t the best at keeping secrets.”
I clench my fists. Cursed Chimere!
“I didn’t know you had it in you, old man. You could have gone to the Last Place for years, if Chimere had told the elders. But she didn’t. You’re her pet, right? Still … I think the elders would be very interested if I told them, don’t you? You’d both end up in the Last Place. Right?”
I think about the last human whose life I ended, all those years ago. I suffered, yes, but even now I’d do it again, and again, if I had the choice. And looking at Mr. Colburn, his face red with rage, I know that he isn’t bluffing. I know that if he had the opportunity, he would damn both me and Chimere to the Last Place to protect Julia. I know he’d go there himself if he had to.
Perhaps we have more in common than I thought.
I whisper, “Yes. I will take care of it.”
Julia was seven when she was kidnapped by a horrible monster and made to spend three days in a dark, dirty trailer. I’m not sure how or why this creature selected her; all I know is that one morning, she and her mother left the house on a shopping trip, and that afternoon, her mother returned, alone and frantic. And when I sought out Julia to perform my duties, I found her whimpering in fear, curled into a ball on the floor of the vehicle, not three miles from her home. The man didn’t hurt her, other than scraping one gash in her cheek for every day he kept her. I saw his dreams. I know that he planned to do much worse to her, to hurt her in unspeakable ways. Ways I didn’t think possible.
I spent two days watching over her, keeping her safe. Keeping her asleep so she wouldn’t be afraid. So that every remaining night she spent on this earth wouldn’t be filled with nightmares.
But I knew how it would end if I did nothing.
After Mama, I simply could not stand by and let those despicable things happen to Julia. Not when I had the power to stop them.
I knew I had to take care of him.
And so I know, all too well, what Mr. Colburn must be feeling. Mr. Anderson sleeps as I stare over him, readying myself to perform the seduction. Readying myself to end his life. My hands shake. I spent my entire trip here hoping that the second time, it would be easier. But, no. I turn away, feeling my heart hammering in my chest. No.
The monster in the trailer dreamt of hurting Julia. I saw the knives. I could see his memories of other girls he’d hurt, and I could sense that he was proud of that. I look around Mr. Anderson’s room, hoping to find something, anything, to convince me that this boy is a monster as well. But there is nothing … just running trophies, pictures of performers, piles of classic novels and books on rocketry and science … It all seems so typical and benign. That is when I notice something on the bulletin board behind his desk. Pictures of Julia, all of them smiling down at me. There are some pictures of Mr. Colburn as well, but for the most part, they are Julia. In one, it’s just Julia and Mr. Anderson … and someone has drawn a heart around it.
I turn to him. Julia was right. You wouldn’t have hurt her. You’re in love with her.
My body quivers. What was I thinking? Mr. Colburn clearly has no idea what he is asking. Ending a life is not something to take lightly. This is a boy, not even a man. He can redeem himself. I had no hope of using my powers as Sleepbringer to save Julia from that madman in the trailer; she was trapped. Luring that man to death was my only choice.
But Bret Anderson is not the same threat to Julia. And if he does try to hurt her … in a few days, I will be human. I can devote my life to ensuring her safety.
That will be my unfinished business.
I take the sand from my pocket and spread more than the normal share over him. As it settles, I whisper in his ear, “If you ever see Julia again, you will apologize profusely. And you will never, ever lay another finger on her. Understood?”
He tosses his head and mumbles a yes.
The girl with the white-blond hair fumes at me. “What was that all about?” She runs to him, puts her hand over his forehead. “He’s going to sleep all day now.”
I nod and step to the window. “Exactly.”
CHAPTER 19
Julia
“Mom,” I say, “I would feel a little more confident about my abilities if you would remove your foot from the dashboard.”
My mother has been pressing her sandal-clad foot so hard against the glove compartment that I think she might leave an indentation. She pushes down so hard that her baby pink–polished toes turn white every time she wants me to brake. “Sorry, hon.”
She removes her foot, but slowly, and only for a second. When I stop at the next light, it pops above the
seat again, toes peeking up like pretty pink soldiers readying for attack. “Mom!”
She shrugs. “You’re a lead foot. Just like your dad.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just late for work,” I explain, counting the hours until I’ll be able to drive alone, until I won’t have to con my mom into taking me for “practice” drives. Three days. Just slightly over seventy-two hours.
I drive down Main. It’s the quickest shot to the mall, though I’ve avoided it. I’m sure the tree is still there, with a massive bite in its side, just like I saw in the newspaper, but without Griffin’s mangled Mustang. I guess the wreckage is gone, but they wouldn’t uproot a tree. It wasn’t the tree’s fault, after all.
I try to keep my eyes straight ahead when we pass it, but of course we stop at a light, and there it is, staring at me. The white wound in the black bark is a hideous smile, taunting me. I imagine blood, pieces of Griffin’s bone burrowed permanently in that tree. I wonder if it was the last thing he ever saw. I take a breath. A car horn blares.
“Light’s green,” my mom reminds me gently. From her tone, I can tell she knows what I’m thinking about.
“Oh.” I press on the accelerator too quickly. The car bucks a little. Whoops. “Sorry.”
She kneads my shoulder, pats my knee. I feel goose bumps there prickling against her smooth hand.
We pull up to the mall entrance, and I throw the car into park, open the door, and start to slide out. Health week is clearly over, because my mother decides to climb over the console to the driver’s seat. If she were still in fitness mode, she would have gotten out and jogged around the car. She struggles a little, groaning and letting out a big “oof” as she plops into the driver’s seat. “Pick you up at nine. We can practice your night driving,” she says, not sounding very thrilled by the prospect. Seeing the place where Griffin met his end probably has that effect on lots of parents.
I hurry through the entrance to the food court, shuddering so much at the thought of that horrible smile in the tree that I plow right into a gigantic potted plant next to Sweetie Pi’s. I’ve gone this route across the mall a hundred times, and the plant is so big it probably can be seen from outer space, and yet I manage to jam my shin into it. When I pull my leg away and crouch over it, wishing I’d worn pants instead of shorts, I see another hideous smile there, this one red. It’s already oozing blood, and on my pale gooseflesh it looks like the mouth of a vampire. Pretty.
Before I can wonder if anyone saw my latest act of stupidity, somebody is standing over me with a messy pile of little paper napkins. I take them and press them against my shin, then look up. It’s Mr. I-Have-a-Message-for-You-That’s-Not-Really-a-Message. From the party. “Hello,” he says, handing me more napkins.
“Oh. Hi,” I say. Great, he’s stalking me. Maybe I shouldn’t have been such a moron and told him to find work at the mall. My mall.
I blot the wound a little more and stand up. He has lost the tuxedo—well, kind of. He’s still wearing the white shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and the dark pants with spats. The shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, which suits him. Oh, hell, he’d look hot in a chicken suit. But then I notice he’s wearing a white apron with blue printing on the front, just like mine. A Sweetie Pi’s apron.
I swallow, trying to remember if I ever told him where I work. No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. There are four hundred stores in this mall, and yet he manages to get a job at my place of employment? This is all too creepy. But my heart begins to flutter. Those dark eyes. That stubble-dotted movie-star jawline. He’s so different from Griffin, who had an all-American wide-eyed baby face, and whose best attempt at a beard was a few downy platinum whiskers. This guy could be a serial killer, yet my ticker is still screaming, “Bring it on!”
I’m not sure how long I stare at him, openmouthed, but the next thing I know, he reaches down and begins to pat my shin with a napkin. I have no idea how I miss the ceiling, because I jump like I’m on a trampoline. I look over the tie of my apron; the blood is trickling down to my pink Crocs. I snatch the napkin from him and back away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You should get that looked at.”
I ignore him; it’s nothing a good Band-Aid won’t fix. “How did you know I worked here?”
He shrugs. “Oh. I didn’t. The owner told me that one of his employees would be spending the summer away, so he needed the help. Is that you?”
“Um …” I am about to say yes, but I’m afraid if I do, this guy will show up in New York, too. “Maybe?”
He nods, as if I make any sense, and puts his hand under my elbow. “You should sit.” At first I want to say, Get away, but then I feel the blood seeping under my heel. With his help, I limp to a bench and collapse onto it. He inspects the gash. “You might need medical attention.”
“I’m fine.” I crane my neck toward Gyro Hut. I haven’t spoken to Bret since last night, and I don’t want to. Ever.
“He’s not there,” the guy says gently, still dabbing at my wound. With every dab, a new goose pimple appears. I realize that they’re multiplying like rabbits. And that my leg has all these blue veins in it. Great, a hot guy is playing nurse to me, even if he is a stalker, and I have skin better suited to poultry.
“Who?”
“Bret. Your friend.”
Okay. Back up now. “Wait. How did you know that he …”
He pauses for a moment, looking flustered. “I’m sorry. I’m frightening you. That’s not my intention. Bret … overslept, so he will not be in today.”
I squint at him. “And you know that because …”
“He, uh, nine-one-oned the shop a moment ago.”
Is he speaking English? Or is that new Canadian slang? “Huh?”
The guy’s hands twitch and his olive cheeks take on a rosy sheen. It has the effect that puppies in a pet store window have on me; I fight the urge to scoop him up and say, “Aw!” Finally, he stutters, “Um, t-telephoned? The shop. He asked me to l-let you know, in case you were looking for him.”
“Oh,” I say, relaxing. Like I would be looking for him now. And why did he bother calling the ice cream shop when he could have just called my cell? I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone, but there are no messages, no missed calls. Something sounds fishy, but I can’t bother thinking about it, because a couple of preteen girls wearing way too much makeup are in the Sweetie Pi’s queue. “Customers.”
I struggle to my feet but he holds out his finger, then hurries behind the counter, saying, “How may I help you?” to the giggling schoolgirls like he’s done this all his life. My bleeding has slowed, so I stand up and make my way toward the storefront. I hear the soft-serve machine purring; then the cash register dings, and the girls stroll away, licking their cones. When I arrive behind the counter, he’s fishing an errant Swedish Fish out of the rainbow-sprinkle tray with a plastic spoon. “So … been an ice cream scooper before, have you?”
He shakes his head. “I have visited a soda fountain, though, many a time. I’m quite fond of sweet treats.”
Soda fountain? Maybe that’s what they still call these places where he’s from. Someplace in … Canada, or so he said. Is it possible for there to be a place up north where they’re that closed off from the world? Maybe they’re like the Amish. I wonder if they still ride in horse-drawn carriages and use outhouses. “Listen,” I say. “I do want to thank you for your help last night. But you may have gotten the wrong idea. Bret wouldn’t have hurt me. He’s been a—”
“Friend for a long time,” he finishes, nodding. “I understand that’s how you feel. But people you know, even very well, can surprise you.”
“Maybe. How did you know where to find me, anyway?”
He shrugs, then reaches over and grabs a cup. “Do you think the management would object much if I …”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Would you like anything?”
An hour ago, my mom made me her famous graduation pancakes, complete with a whipped cream smile
y face and strawberry sauce, which she does the morning after every school year ends. My stomach is already pressing against the waistband of my shorts. “No thanks.”
He gets to work, busily compiling ingredients, and I can’t help wondering how he can be so proficient at this on his very first day. Finally, he pours chocolate syrup over a frothy mixture in the Styrofoam cup, then slides a straw into it and takes a sip. “Ah. Haven’t had one of these in ages.”
I stare at him. “Did you just make an egg cream?”
He nods. “Is there a problem?”
“No, I …” Suddenly, I feel tingles everywhere, and not the good kind. “It’s just not exactly a very popular menu item.”
“Is that so?” He takes another sip and swallows, punctuating it with an exaggerated “Ah!”
“I’ve just … had an inexplicable craving for one in the last day or so. I quite enjoy them.”
After that, the conversation lags. I end up staring awkwardly at the giant rotating light-up cone in the corner while he inspects the flooring. Finally, I say, “What did you say your name was, again? Aaron?”
“Eron. Eron DeMarchelle.”
“Eron? Is that short for something?”
He nods. “Geronimo.”
“Eek. No wonder you go by Eron. Are you named after a relative?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a very popular name in Italy. I was born there.”
“Italy?”
“Yes. Mama and I moved here when I was five. I mean, to, um, Canada. And then I moved here a few weeks ago. It was quite a bit different, where I came from.”
“Oh.” No duh. Based on his weird dress and stiff way of talking, he could be from Mars. Maybe his mom is adamant that he not stray too far away from the customs of his homeland. My mom always insists on bringing out her record of goofy Polish folk songs whenever we have company. I can’t think of anything else to ask, so I say, “DeMarchelle sounds French.”
