Mr. Feiffer looked up with empty eyes. JD could see Drea in his features—his wide forehead, his striking nose.
“I just came by . . . to drop this off,” JD said feebly, holding up the lighter. “But is—is there anything I can do for you?” His eyes went to the empty beer bottles on the coffee table and then to the door to the kitchen, where JD could only imagine the state of disarray.
Drea had often mused about how lost her father would be without her around to cook and clean. It wasn’t that he was lazy, she’d said, or even selfish. Just that he wasn’t used to having to do things for himself. He needed someone to look after him.
“It was my fault,” Mr. Feiffer said, his voice breaking. “My fault she went after them, my fault she died. It was my fault they both died.”
“It’s not your fault,” JD said automatically. That was what you were supposed to say. Mr. Feiffer was shaking his head. JD took a tentative step toward him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
With unexpected force, Drea’s dad reached out his hand and swiped his arm across the side table, knocking over a couple of bottles. JD watched as stale beer seeped onto a pile of photos. He took a step back, wondering if he should call his parents, or someone else. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this.
“No it’s not. Nothing is okay,” Mr. Feiffer countered. “If I’d just gotten to them sooner . . . they wouldn’t have gotten their claws in our baby. And now, no one will listen to me. No one will listen. Because I’m a drunk. Did you know that, boy?”
JD shivered, as though the temperature in the room had dropped. He tried to focus on the paisley pattern of the Feiffers’ couch. “No, sir. I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Feiffer squinted his eyes. “The Furies,” he whispered.
“Sir?”
“The Furies!” he yelled. “I’ve been whispering their name for twelve damn years. I don’t care if I scream it. I don’t care if they hear me. They’ve taken everything anyway. There’s nothing left for them to steal. Nothing left for them to kill.”
JD couldn’t believe it. There was that word again: “Furies.” He felt like he had swallowed metal. There was a knife of fear lodged in his gut.
“I knew . . . I knew the moment I laid eyes on Edie,” Mr. Feiffer said. “I had to protect her. It was my duty. I saw it.” He convulsed into another coughing fit and the blotches on his face went white, then red.
“Let me get you some water, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said, stepping toward the kitchen. He needed any excuse to get away. What did it mean? The Furies. Who were they?
“Crazy—they said I was crazy,” Drea’s dad said as JD began backing into the hall. “They said I’d get what was coming to me.”
It reminded JD of what Ali had said about the man in the pizza place. . . . He’ll get what’s coming to him.
“I’ll be right back, sir,” JD said, but Mr. Feiffer kept talking even as JD went into the other room and filled up a water glass from the tap over the overflowing sink.
“The things I see . . . the things I’ve dreamed. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy. That’s why . . . ” He trailed off as JD came back into the room.
“Drink this,” JD said, handing him the water and clearing some photos off a spot on the recliner so that he could sit down and face the couch. As Mr. Feiffer took a few thirsty sips, JD took a moment to glance at the photos strewn about the room. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that while many of them were personal snapshots of Drea and her mother, others were images ripped from magazines—creepy pictures of flowers, fire, snakes. Like his snake pin . . . the one that had burned Ty. JD felt like he was swimming through murk. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Feiffer.”
Mr. Feiffer laughed. A laugh without humor or hope, it seemed to say: What could you possibly understand about my misery?
“She thought she could keep secrets from me,” Mr. Feiffer said, and for a moment JD didn’t know if he was talking about his dead daughter or his dead wife. “She didn’t know how much I knew. That she’d conjured them. That we were all in danger. She didn’t know I was trying to protect her, and protect Drea. I loved her. I loved them both.” A cry gurgled from his throat, and JD looked away, uncomfortable.
“I’m sure you did,” JD said softly, helplessly. “Drea loved you, too.” Conjured them. Em’s book was called Conjuring the Furies. Was that why she’d been so weird lately? Had she been messing around with this all this crazy stuff?
“I didn’t know they’d come back,” Mr. Feiffer said. “I thought I’d gotten rid of them. . . . That they’d gotten what was coming to them for a change. But then . . . that boy off the bridge. The flowers. My girl . . . It must not have worked. Not permanently.”
“What didn’t work?” JD repeated, hoping for a further explanation.
Creak.
They both heard it. A footstep. And was that the sound of laughter, from the other side of the living room window?
Walt’s eyes widened in terror. “We can’t talk here,” he whispered. “It’s not safe. I’m being watched.”
“By the Furies?” JD ventured.
“They’re killers. Once I break my vow . . . They’ve killed before, and they are going to kill again. I have nothing to lose.”
Killers. The Furies. The flowers. It was all connected. Somehow.
Then Walt was on his feet as well, lunging forward and grabbing the collar of JD’s flannel shirt. JD stood frozen, breathing in the man’s fetid breath and trying not to look into his watery eyes.
“They’re here,” Walt said menacingly. “Get out of here, while you can. We have to meet in the open. In public. For your sake.”
For his sake. JD racked his brain for a meeting place. “How about the football field at AHS? First thing tomorrow morning?”
“I’m an early riser,” Walt warned.
“I’ll be there by eight,” JD said.
Walt nodded in assent and JD was secretly relieved. He’d rather meet Walt in a place where, if he had to, he could call out for help. He still wasn’t really sure what he was getting himself into. . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
The stream water slid around Em’s feet, cooling them as it rippled around moss-fuzzed rocks. Eventually it would reach the ocean. With her face turned toward the sun, Em wondered if she would ever see the beach again.
The Furies always win. She’d replayed that conversation in the greenhouse over and over, but nothing came of it except more questions.
She was glad to be out of the house—here with Crow, sitting in the grass at the edge of the stream at Devil’s Run, a small park off a back road where water had cut a deep canyon through rocky banks over the years. He’d called her there. Another vision to report. His yellow-green eyes were intense and serious, like a cat’s. Against his torn gray T-shirt, they somehow looked even greener.
“I’ve been . . . feeling the Fury in me,” Em said. She slouched forward, looking at her hands. “The anger. And also—the strength. It’s growing.”
It was terrible to say it all out loud. Every part of her wanted to scream and beg and hurt something the way she was being hurt. Birds flew from branch to branch in the trees nearby, oblivious.
She wished he’d put his arm around her, or scoot closer, or do something to act like he cared—like he’d protect her the way he said he would. Instead, he was just staring at her, biting his lower lip as though holding himself back from speaking. He couldn’t sit still, kept shifting his weight and fidgeting like he were a little kid.
“Thank god I’m out of that house,” he said finally.
“Were your parents really pissed?” she asked. Em had never known Crow’s parents to punish him—when there were no rules to break, it was impossible to get in trouble.
“They’ve been watching me like a hawk,” he said. “They know something’s up. I think they’re . . . I think they might be scared for me. Or of me. Who knows. The only reason I was able to escape today is because
they went on some epic shopping trip.” As he spoke, Crow rubbed his forearm absentmindedly. Following his fingers, Em noticed Crow’s hands pass over a cluster of thin scars. Stripes on his arm, like a body bar code.
“What are these?” she asked, grabbing him.
They locked eyes for a moment, and in that second Em felt as if he wanted to devour her. Then he looked down and pulled her arm back, then tugged his sleeve down over the marks. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a little scrape.”
“Don’t. It’s not ‘just a little scrape.’ ” She’d seen it; four or five lines all about an inch long. Em stared for a moment at the bags under his eyes. She suddenly felt very thirsty, and even more exhausted than she’d been in weeks. “Crow, talk to me. Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Listen, princess, I really can’t handle this right now. There’s something more important. . . . The reason I called you here . . . ”
She swallowed hard. “Fine,” Em finally said. If Crow didn’t want to talk about the cuts on his arm, she wouldn’t make him. Not yet.
“I had another vision,” he said, looking forward at the running stream. His jeans were rolled up and his feet were in the water. For some reason, she found it hard to look at his ankles. They made him seem bony, human, weak. She wanted him to be strong, to have some kind of magic ability to change everything.
The stream gushed past them happily. It wasn’t warm enough for what they were doing, not really, but the sun was shining and the ice had melted and this was what Mainers did after long, cold, wicked winters. And anyway, she never got cold. Not anymore.
“Happened this morning.” He dipped a cupped hand into the stream and let the water sift out through his fingers.
She lifted her toes out of the water and hugged her knees to her chest. “Okay. Tell me.”
There was a flash of discomfort in his eyes. “I saw a woman in a dress. Or not a dress, exactly. Like a robe or something—long and white and flowing,” he said, staring across the stream into the trees, the dappled patterns of sun and shadow. “I couldn’t see her face. Or, well, I could, but it was dark, and the light caught something on her face that wasn’t human. Her face had these pale lines across it, like stripes. It was like she was a tiger. A white tiger woman. I have no idea what it means.”
Em plunged her feet back into the water, barely noticing how the icy water sliced into her skin. She was unconsciously balling her fists. “A tiger woman? Seriously?”
“It’s hard to explain,” he said defensively. “It’s like a bunch of images and, I don’t know, a certain feeling. She was saying something. About a prophecy, I think. Someone is plotting vengeance. Then I saw you—” He cut himself off, staring into the distance. His skin looked pale. The shadows of leaves played across his face.
“What? What about me?” Em urged.
He looked at her anxiously. “You were . . . on fire. In fire. It was almost like you were swallowed into the smoke and flames and then, and then . . . ”
“And then?”
“And then you were gone, and I snapped out of it.”
The words were even colder than the water. They carved straight through her heart.
“It’s useless,” she said. She cleared her throat, willing herself to stay calm. “They are taking over. Spreading through my life. Everywhere.”
She lay back onto the muddy grass, willing herself not to cry. The blackness she was feeling inside crept over her in a thick blanket, making it hard to breathe. She felt she’d never be able to stand up again. How many times had she lain here next to Gabby or JD, when the woods were warming and the world was shaking off its layer of ice? How many days had she taken for granted, days she could never have back?
“I understand,” Crow said in a low voice. “But I’m not just giving up. I have a plan.”
He picked up her hand, massaging his thumb into her palm. She had to admit it felt good. Em stared down at their intertwined fingers. He had nice hands. His nails were clipped short. His knuckles were rough. She tugged her hand away.
“Okay, so what is it? What’s your brilliant plan?”
He leaned even closer, as though he were about to cuddle up next to her on the grass. She didn’t move away. “I can’t tell you,” he said.
“You . . . what?” She struggled to sit up. “What do you mean? Why the hell not? What if I can help?”
Crow shook his head. He smiled, but his eyes were black, expressionless. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re too stubborn. Like a mule. You’d try to get in my way.”
“So you have a plan, and you won’t let me help—much less even tell me about it. And I’m just supposed to trust you?” she asked, feeling her voice rise. She wasn’t sure she could, not sure if he could even trust himself.
“Looks that way.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Believe me, you don’t want to be part of this. You’re in deep enough already.”
“But I do want to be a part of this. It’s my life—and yours. We’re supposed to be here for each other.”
Crow cocked his head, like he was really thinking about it. “Well, all I’ll say is—I’ve gotten nowhere ignoring them. So maybe instead I need to study them,” he said.
“Study them?” she repeated incredulously. “Who? The Furies?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “The visions. I have to let myself listen . . . and give in to them.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked, jerking her hand away from his and sitting back up, a little dizzy. “You’re saying you’re going to surrender to them? Try to get closer? Whose side are you even on?”
“I’m not even going to answer that,” Crow said with a hint of bemused humor in his voice. “You think I’m a Mr. Fury?”
“This isn’t funny to me. And the fact that you can joke about it makes me sick. I’m scared, Crow. And I’m worried about you too.” All she felt was sadness and worry, but her words were coming out so angry. She couldn’t control herself.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Crow fired back. “And I sure as hell don’t find this funny either.” She felt him drifting back into the abyss.
“I know,” she said, trying to reel him back in. But it was too late. He was on his feet, leaving wet footprints on the warm rocks in his wake. Already, she regretted her reaction. But she was terrified by what he wanted to do. Submit to his visions? Give in to the darkness? It was too dangerous, too awful to consider. And yet, a chord was struck deep within Em. Would Crow’s strategy work for her, too? If she played Ty’s game, did she stand a better chance of winning?
Impossible. She’d lost so much of her old self already—she couldn’t risk letting go of the last threads holding her to this life.
* * *
On her drive home from Devil’s Run, Em got a text from Gabby: Excited for the movie—glad you called this morning. See you in a few!
Her stomach plunged all the way down through her toes.
She hadn’t called Gabby this morning. She wasn’t going to meet Gabby at the movies.
But she had a feeling she knew who had, and who was.
Instead of going home, as she had intended to do, Em headed straight to the theater. Rage began to overcome her. Ty was impersonating her—that much was clear. The dyed hair. And now this. She gunned the gas petal with her foot and felt the car groan in response. She kept reminding herself to keep her eyes on the road. It had to be the work of Ty. But why? What was she hoping to achieve?
The only rom-com currently playing—the only movie Gabby would agree to see—was in Theater Five. Em paid for a ticket and stalked across the lobby, deliberately avoiding looking at the new girl working the concession stand—the girl who’d taken Drea’s place. Only a few short months ago, she’d come to the movies with JD . . . sitting in the front row, like always, craning their necks up to the screen and sharing popcorn out of a jumbo-size bag. . . .
It seemed like a memory from someone else’s life.
She made her way past the EMPLOYEES ONLY velvet rope. There w
as no way she could just barge right into the theater itself—if Gabby saw her and Ty together, she’d be completely confused. No, Em needed to figure out a way to get Ty out of there, to confront her privately.
She hated to believe that Gabby, her best friend in the world, would ever confuse Ty for Em. Not up close, anyway. But if Ty met her in the darkness of the theater, it might be possible. . . . And what other explanation was there? Unless Em had made the plans and somehow forgotten. It seemed anything was possible these days, including the fact that she might be completely going crazy.
Perhaps that was all Ty was after—threading her way deeper into Em’s life, confusing her, spinning different realities.
As Em moved up the back stairs, she felt like she was coasting on her anger. She was invincible, as though a bubble of protection had formed around her—as though, like a character in one of JD’s video games, she was suddenly infused by a volcanic force, and could do anything.
She pushed open a door that said DO NOT ENTER. The projection booth was tiny and dark and the guy running it was small and pimply. He whipped around, clearly shocked.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Um, you can’t be—be up here,” he stammered. His eyes were wide and he looked Em up and down nervously; Em felt power radiating from every pore. She felt like she owned this boy. She felt . . . like Ty.
“There’ s a problem with the film in Theater Two,” she purred. “I thought you might be able to help us figure things out? I can stay here and make sure this one runs smoothly.”
“Theater Two?” He seemed hypnotized by her words. This was so easy. He didn’t even question her.
“Theater Two.” She nodded, slithering forward. “I’ll stay right here until you get back.” He was gone in seconds. As soon as he left, she peeked through the small glass window down into the audience. It took a minute to scan the darkened room, but her eyes seemed to adjust quickly—too quickly. Bingo. There were Gabby’s blond ringlets, and next to them, a head that could be hers—a pile of messy dark hair, big gold hoops. Ty.
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