Eternity tft-3

by Elizabeth Miles

  Em shivered. Bad energy was whirling around the table. Skylar dug her fingernails into the soft wood of the table.

  “Edie was so angry,” Nora said. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “So scared, too. She . . . she wanted protection.”

  “So she tried to summon the Furies for help,” Em said. She was beginning to understand.

  “She didn’t try,” Nora said dully. “She did it. She succeeded. Last she heard of Jack was a month later. He’d been found dead in a house he was working on, his head split clean by a circular saw—”

  “But they weren’t done,” Hannah interrupted. “That was only the start. Edie thought she could control them. But that isn’t how it works. They wouldn’t—they wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  They won’t leave me alone either . . .

  “But she hadn’t even done anything wrong,” Skylar pointed out.

  “They’d gotten their claws in her,” Nora said. “They’d found their way into our world again. They didn’t want to leave. They kept saying she owed them. . . . ”

  Em fought a surge of nausea. It was all too familiar. And now, finally, the pieces were all in front of her. Still, she was having trouble putting them together. When she spoke, it was to the floor. “So they killed her, right? Just for fun?”

  Hannah surprised Em by shaking her head. “No. Not directly. They wanted something from her—she would never tell us what. All we knew was that it was something she would never give them. It was driving her insane.” Hannah’s voice broke. “And so she took the only way out she thought she had.”

  Skylar inhaled sharply.  The four of them sat for a moment in stunned silence. Em turned over the information in her mind. So Drea’s mom had killed herself, rather than give the Furies what they wanted?

  What had they asked of her? And would they ask the same thing of Em?

  “She left us a note,” Nora said, breaking the spell to dig into her sweater pocket with shaking hands. “I’ve kept it all this time.” She locked eyes with Em and handed her the paper; it was old and had been folded and unfolded hundreds of times.

  I did a terrible thing, it read. They are eating me from the inside out. I can’t stand it. It isn’t just about me anymore. I have to save her.

  The words felt like tiny sparks showering over Em, making her skin burn. This was a message from someone desperate.

  Someone just like her.

  “They put their darkness in her,” Nora said, as if she was reading Em’s mind. “Just like they’ve put their darkness in you.” For once, she didn’t look terrified or disgusted when she stared at Em. It was pity Em saw in Nora’s eyes.

  They see Edie in me, Em realized. I am a reminder of their long-lost friend. I am the carrier of that.

  “But after she died . . . they just . . . left?” Skylar asked. Clearly she was thinking of the next logical question: How can we get rid of them?

  Hannah spread her hands. “That was the last we heard of them. I guess they were . . . satisfied when Edie died. We thought they were gone for good, until . . . ”

  The sentence didn’t need to be finished, but Em did it for her: “Until now,” she said. “Until me.” No one bothered to respond; they all knew the answer.

  Em lungs felt like a pressure cooker that was about to explode. Was the only solution for her to do as Drea’s mom had done, and do the Furies’ dirty work for them? Is that what had happened to Sasha and to Chase—had they leaped from the Piss Pass, driven to suicide by Ty, Meg, and Ali?

  Possibly. But then why had the Furies had stuck around, instead of fleeing as they had in the wake of Edie’s death?

  “There must be a way to stop them,” she said, as much to convince herself as the people at the table.

  Nora set her mouth into a grim line. “Of course, we all have our theories,” she said, staring into the space behind Em, where the overgrown flora suffocated itself beneath heavily glazed panes. “I carry my snake pin. Never been without it since what happened to Edie. Some say that rituals of purity and sacrifice will mollify them, and Hannah once read there was a way to undo the curse if you’ve been poisoned by them—an antidote of some sort.” She shook her head. Now Em could read the pity in her eyes again—the resignation, too. “But we tried all we could. I fear no mortal can stop them.  And their game never really ends, you know.  The Furies always win.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Only you would wear a suit to Fun Zone,” Ned said as his ball ricocheted off the fencing behind them. Foul.

  “It’s not a suit,” JD said, taking a few strong practice swings as he got into position. “It’s my dad’s blazer with pants that aren’t ripped jeans. And stop trying to throw me off my game.”

  It was Saturday morning and they were at the indoor batting cage in the middle of a much-larger sports arcade near Ascension, a place made for kids’ birthday parties and rowdy teenage boys. JD and Ned weren’t the usual clientele—a few too many honors classes (not to mention years) under their belts—but it was a spring tradition for them to come here every year before opening day of baseball season.

  JD was grateful for the chance to blow off some steam. The interaction with Skylar’s sister in the graveyard was etched in his mind, mingling with unavoidable image of Crow stalking Em, and of that snake pin buried in the mud. . . . And then there was Ty. Ty texting him, teasing him; Ty’s laugh echoing in his mind. Like she’d implanted herself there.

  He couldn’t shake a bad feeling. He’d woken up from a nightmare only to forget the details but be haunted by the sense, all day, of darkness.

  “Don’t forget that Keith wants us to come over tonight to pick our fantasy rosters,” Ned said, squatting in the corner of the cage and tearing into a bag of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. Dressed in a T-shirt and army-green cargo pants, Ned looked ripped from the pages of an online gaming brochure. As for JD . . . well, it wasn’t clear what type of catalog he was modeling for. His pinstripe pants, buckled boots, plain white T-shirt, and glasses . . . None of it suggested Sports Guy.

  The first pitch from the machine came barreling toward JD and he let it go by. He liked to get used to the space, to the feel of the bat, to the speed of the pitch, before taking his first swing. “You’d be having a better time if you hadn’t gotten off to such a crappy start,” he said, and Ned grunted in assent.

  “You gonna wait all day there, buddy?” Ned called out as JD let another one fly by his head.

  “It’s called patience,” JD said, tightening his grip on the bat.

  “It’s called being a—” Ned cut himself off as JD swung at the next pitch. Made contact. The ball soared straight toward the back wall, getting stuck in the netting that lined the rear of the cage. “Okay, beginner’s luck,” he said. “Nice one.”

  JD smiled, feeling the dancing sensation in his stomach that came whenever he did something well. Like when he aced a test, or figured out a complicated circuit. Like every time he beat Em at Scrabble.

  “You call it beginner’s luck; I call it having a good eye,” he said, grabbing for the chips. “You’re up.”

  On his next turn, Ned managed to hit another foul ball that shot straight up in the air above them. He had to scramble out of the way when it came back down. “I knew you had it in you, Nedzo. Next Coke’s on me.”

  They went back and forth like that for a while, getting into a comfortable rhythm with the machine-thrown pitches and the weight of the bat in their hands. When he made contact, the wooden crack of the bat was the sweetest sound there was; it cut through the all the noise going on in his brain. The questions, the anxiety—they softened, faded somewhere into the background until he was ready to handle them again.

  JD started to feel a little better. A little back-to-normal. He allowed himself to revel in the simplicity of it. The tiny routines he developed every time he approached the plate—brushing the bat against the floor before hoisting it over his shoulder, squinching his face, and adjusting his glasses.

  “We should
have gone out for baseball,” Ned said after his first decent hit of the day.

  “Yeah, we would have fit right in with that crowd,” JD answered, rolling his eyes. But it got him thinking again. “Hey, dude, you ever hear anything about Chase Singer?”

  “What do you mean? That he’s dead?” Ned took a swig from his soda bottle.

  JD winced. Ned didn’t mean to be a dick, he just had all the subtlety of a Mack truck. “Obviously,” JD said, tapping the bat mindlessly against the metal cage. “I meant about his death. About when they found him.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ned said. “Impossible to ignore that stuff. Like how people thought he was gay because he had that flower in his mouth or whatever? Come on. People in this town are so freaking homophobic. They see a dude and a red flower and all they think is . . . ”

  But JD didn’t hear the rest. Red flower. His pulse quickened. All the mystery-girl stuff, and Ty’s red flower, and the detail about Chase’s body, and everything. His suspicion that Ty was somehow connected to Chase’s death was getting stronger by the minute.

  Beep-beep-beep. His text alert sounded, and JD went to grab his phone from the pocket of his blazer. As he did, something fell to the Astroturf with a thud. He looked down to see a silver Zippo, engraved with pine trees on one side and To WF, with love on the other. It belonged to Drea’s dad, and it looked nice, expensive. He must have accidentally pocketed it after lighting Mr. Feiffer’s cigarette at Drea’s funeral.

  What are you up to today?

  Ty. Of course.

  He should have been psyched that she was into him—she was definitely the hottest girl who’d ever even looked at him—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about her was off.

  She wasn’t Em. How similar they looked only made it more obvious how different they really were.

  JD pocketed his phone without responding, then turned the lighter over in his hand, flicking it open and lighting the flame once, twice. He recalled Mr. Feiffer and how distraught he’d been at the memorial service. How alone he must feel. He shoved it back into his pocket.

  To return the lighter would mean going to Drea’s house—potentially walking into an emotional minefield. Not to mention standing face-to-face with an unhinged, grieving man. But it would also mean doing something kind for the father of his dead friend.

  He decided he’d pay a visit to Walt Feiffer after Ned dropped him off.

  “You giving up?” Ned jabbed JD with the bat, looking at him expectantly.

  “Sorry, got distracted for a sec,” JD said, grabbing the bat and moving toward the fake home plate.

  “Does your distraction have a name?” Ned asked.

  JD raised his eyebrows. “I, ah, I . . . yeah,” he said, lifting the bat into the air.

  “You and Em talking again?”

  “Ha, not quite,” JD said. “It’s a different distraction.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Ned said, perking up. “Do I know her?”

  “Nothing to get all worked up about,” JD laughed. “I barely know her myself. In fact, I’m not sure I want to be distracted by her anymore.” Did he like Ty? Part of him knew he only liked her because in certain lights, when she tilted her head a certain way, he could pretend she was Em.

  But another part of him suspected he was just trying to find excuses to keep hanging on to hope: that someday Em, the real Em, would realize they belonged together.

  “Well, then cut her loose, Fount,” Ned said with mock-seriousness. “You’re the one who’s always talking about honesty being the best policy.”

  Ned was right. Honesty was a point of pride for JD, and he didn’t want to be one of those douche bags—stringing a nice girl along while he waited for something better. He’d just have to tell Ty he wasn’t sure they should be hanging out. Besides, a beautiful girl like that couldn’t be too disappointed. She’d bounce back in a few hours. Right?

  This time at bat, JD didn’t wait for the perfect pitch. He went for the first ball that came toward him, swinging hard, letting the weight of the bat propel his whole body forward. For the first time that afternoon, JD struck out swinging.

  * * *

  Once JD got home he texted Ty back.

  Let’s meet up, he wrote. Coffee?

  Nah, she responded. How about the hidden courtyard behind Town Hall? That’s one of my fave spots.

  Random—but he should have known not to expect anything else from Ty.

  Driving downtown, he rehearsed what he was going to say.

  “You’re great, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be hanging out right now.” His words echoed emptily in the Volvo. “You are obviously very pretty, but I don’t think you’re right for me.” Ten times worse than the first one. He sighed deeply. How did you break up with someone you weren’t even going out with?

  She was waiting for him on a metal bench, wearing shorts, a tank top, and some sort of see-through flowy top that made her look like she was wafting in the breeze, not fixed to any one spot. He tried to smile as he approached, but his mouth wouldn’t obey his brain.

  “This isn’t a good talk, is it?” she said easily as he sat down next to her. “I’ve seen that look before.”

  JD coughed. “Well, um, I . . . I guess not,” he admitted. “It’s just that . . . I know that we haven’t really labeled this”—he motioned to the space between them—“but it feels like we might be, ah, headed in a certain direction . . . and I don’t—I don’t think it’s a good idea. Right now. For me.” God. He’d really mangled that one.

  Ty sighed and turned away from him for a minute, squinting. There was that flash of vulnerability again, the part that drew him to her, just a little. “Is this about something else?” she said finally. “Because, it’s just . . . We have a great time together.”

  Stay strong. This was what he had to do. “You’re right. We do. We totally do. But things are crazy for me right now. With Drea, and Em, and school . . . it’s just not a good time for me to be getting to know someone new. Someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”  Ty raised her eyebrows.

  “I mean, of course I can see why you’re . . . I mean, you’re beaut—”

  She cut him off, laughing, and stood up. “It’s okay, JD. It’s cool. Don’t worry about it. . . . ”

  Relief washed over him. If he kept talking he’d just trip over his own tongue. “Thanks. Thank you for getting it.”

  He stood there for a minute, feeling a thousand times awkward, then decided to lean in for a hug. As his sternum touched Ty’s, she pulled back with a strangled gasp.

  “Ow!”

  She reeled backward, and JD saw that her chest was marred by a swollen red mark. A burn. For a second, her eyes flashed practically black with anger.

  “Holy shit, are you okay?” What the hell had happened? He leaned in to get a closer look but she sidestepped him, her hand flying up to cover the burn.

  “I’m fine, silly,” she said with a flat grin. “We must have shocked each other. I knew we had chemistry.” When she took her hand away, the mark was gone. Nothing. Her skin was back to its usual milky pureness. She gave a final, flirty wave. “I’ll see you soon.”

  He stood there stunned, watching her walk away. She’d recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. For a single moment, Ty had totally lost it. Confused, he ran his hands down his sweater. What could have possibly hurt her so badly? His left hand caught over his chest.

  And there, in his breast pocket, was the snake charm, the one he’d found in the marsh. It had been there since yesterday.

  It didn’t make any sense. That bad feeling—the one JD had been trying so hard to dismiss—came rushing back. But with it came a tremendous feeling of relief: He was glad that he had gotten rid of Ty for good.

  * * *

  Drea’s house was dark when JD pulled up, except for a bluish television glow coming from the living room window.  The place looked sort of wilted, as though the air had been let out from the inside. Weeds in window boxes
seemed suctioned to the glass behind them; the roof was missing some shingles. Newspapers were accumulating in front of the doorway, a garish display of bright plastic against the dirty siding.

  Squeezing the Zippo to remind himself why he’d come, JD walked up the steps and knocked tentatively on the front door. No answer. He knocked again, more forcefully the second time. He thought he heard rustling on the other side of the door, but he couldn’t be sure. He debated whether to bang on it a third time. As he did, a loud crash came from inside, followed by a wordless cry.

  Shit. JD inhaled deeply. He regretted coming already, but he knew there was no turning back now.

  He tried the knob and when the door swung open he went in—through the dim entryway, where Mr. Feiffer’s work overalls hung on a hook, into the dark hallway, where he fumbled for a light switch.

  “Mr. Feiffer?” he said. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but . . . ”

  “Who is it?” a voice yelled.

  “Mr. Feiffer? It’s JD. JD Fount. Do you need any help?” He continued to advance toward the source of a flickering light.

  It was only the second or third time he’d set foot there; the handful of times he’d been over, Drea had shepherded him directly down to the basement. Rounding the corner into the Feiffers’ living room, the first thing he saw were the photographs: hundreds of pictures, some of them ripped, on the table, the rug, the couch. There was a slowly creeping puddle of moldy water around an overturned vase of flowers on the floor. On the television was a twenty-four-hour news station, but the volume was turned way down and all JD could hear was a low drone of words. That and the sound of Mr. Feiffer coughing up a lung.

  This sad squalor . . . It made JD want to turn and run. He was intruding. He shouldn’t be seeing this.

  “Mr. Feiffer, I’m so sorry,” he said, wondering how long it had been since Mr. Feiffer had been here, in this house, in this room. How long it had been since he’d gone to work at the docks. The ashtray was overflowing, and there was a pile of pizza boxes underneath the TV stand. The stench of stale cigarette butts and old food drifted into JD’s nose.