Torn wd-2
Page 12
“Yes. I’m quite done with you.” With that, the Headmistress broke apart into a cloud of sooty vapor. It spread out, rising to the shadowy ceiling, then vanished.
Anne moved shakily down the corridor. She wanted to find the other girls, or more precisely, wanted to find the bones. It was her night to hide them. For one night, they were hers, and no way she was going to let Shirley or Mary or Daphne snag the opportunity.
They wouldn’t even have the bones anymore if it weren’t for Anne. She’d seen daydreaming Mary drop her butt down to cover them when the Headmistress arrived. If Anne hadn’t gotten all up in the Headmistress’s grill, they would have been totally busted. Right now, they’d all be crying over the loss of their precious little bones. Game over.
She only acknowledged a hint of selfishness in this act. Yes, she was also concerned about losing the bones to the Headmistress. No way was she going to spend the rest of eternity in this place with those lame-ass freaks, and the bones, the stories, were her only way out. So yeah, she was protecting her own interests, but the other girls benefited from it. And…
They didn’t even come to see if you were well, after such a difficult night.
“Bitches,” Anne whispered.
For as long as she’d been with them—and god knew it seemed like an eternity already—they’d never once made her feel like she belonged. Always the outsider. Always wrong.
She walked through the decrepit halls, her mood worsening with each step. The memories of the Red Room were already shoved deep in a cell at the back of her mind, but the fear remained and blossomed into rage. She was furious with the three girls: the ungrateful brats.
Just wait until I find them.
In the classroom, Shirley and Daphne looked at the other girl as the final words of the tale left her lips.
Mary lowered her head, exhausted. Her hands gripped the desk in front of her tightly, her body arched over its flat surface. Wind moaned through the hole in the window. The paper map click-clicked against the wall.
“Well, that was a rip snorter,” Daphne said.
“But Mary sang the song,” Shirley added nervously. “What if she summoned that terrible thing?”
“It’s just a story, kid.”
“You don’t know that,” Shirley whispered, looking around the gloomy classroom as if expecting to see the monster already among them. “She shouldn’t have sung it.”
“Strikes me they were lucky,” Daphne said. “I mean, Devin had to sing to call his wild beast. Ours is right here with us.”
“Anne?” This from Shirley.
“No, silly,” Daphne said, laughing. “I meant the Headmistress.”
“I can’t believe Anne was sent to the Red Room,” Shirley said. “What did she do?”
“She was just being Anne,” Mary replied. “Battling when surrender would better serve.”
“I don’t think so.” Daphne leaned back in her chair and cupped her hands behind her head. “This time she may have blown her top for a reason. I think she saw Mary cover the bones, and I think she knew that if she didn’t distract the Headmistress, we’d be sunk.”
“You really think so?” Shirley asked.
“I do.”
“So, she’s like a hero?”
“Inasmuch as Anne can be heroic,” Daphne said. Deep down, she knew Anne was likely more worried about losing the bones herself. But regardless of motivation, she’d done a brave thing.
“I still find her crude,” Mary said, lifting the Clutch. With long willowy fingers, she plucked the bones from her desk and dropped them into the bag one by one. “She’s not nearly as congenial as Sylvia was.” She lifted her head and fixed her eyes on the black glass of the broken window.
“The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole—
And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!”
“Is that another song?” Shirley asked.
“No, it’s a poem,” Mary replied. “Or at least, part of one. It’s from Lord Byron. I thought about it earlier when we were talking about Sylvia, and it’s just going round and round in my head.”
“Well, I like that better than the monster song.”
“I thought the song was rather pretty,” Mary said.
“There was something haunting about it,” Daphne agreed. “But speaking of monsters, we should check on Anne. Mary, you take the Clutch and hide the bones tonight. After what she’s been through, I’m sure Anne won’t want to be bothered with it.”
“You won’t say anything about the game?”
“No, Shirley. We won’t say a word. Especially tonight. We should just be there for her and stay close.”
Unbeknownst to the three, Anne was already close. She stood outside of the classroom, her back to the wall, her hearing tuned to the sound of their voices. She had arrived in time to see Mary gathering up the bones, just in time to hear her stupid poem.
They’d played without her, and they were going to pay for it.
“Speaking of monsters,” Daphne had said, “we should check on Anne.”
A monster, huh? She’d give them a monster, one they wouldn’t soon forget.
About the Authors
STEFAN PETRUCHA was minding his own business writing many books, including TEEN, INC., THE SHADOW OF FRANKENSTEIN, and the award-winning Nancy Drew graphic novels, when a mysterious force entered his car in New York City and started talking about horror stories. Wicked Dead is the result. He has since moved to Amherst, Massachusetts.
THOMAS PENDLETON is a mysterious force with many names. All we know for sure is that under another name he is a critically acclaimed and award-winning horror author. He lives in Austin, Texas. We were afraid to ask him anything else.
You can visit them online at www.wickeddead.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Copyright
WICKED DEAD: TORN. Copyright © 2007 by Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton.
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