She shakes her head slowly, sadly. Like she’s explaining something to a toddler throwing a tantrum. “It’s not a two-way street. I’ve already left. I’m just holding the gate open because I wanted you with me. It’s never the same without you.” A slyness creeps into her silver gaze, a cat-like calculation. “Besides, you can’t go back now. Can you?”
“You can’t make me stay. Not if I don’t want to.” I say it out of reflex, out of stubbornness. But it’s true. If I had a choice—if I always had a choice—I have one now. An open door. The last one.
“But you do want to.” When I open my mouth to argue, she cuts me off. “You will. Just wait. I have something for you.” Her smile is small, this time, a little sad. “I thought I would be enough to make you stay. But I guess it doesn’t matter. I saved this for you in case. I saved the best for last.”
She stands up with an imperious toss of her gleaming hair, and her silver gaze travels to a point above and behind me.
“Well, come on,” she says. “Help her up.”
I twist around to find a shadow standing over me, a stark silhouette against the sky. A person, bending down. Just above the hand held out to me, a white bandage glows in Deirdre’s faint green light. The end of a braid dangles in my face.
For a frozen eternity, I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t think.
“William?” It comes out a whimper.
“It’s me.” He sounds strange. Far away. Dreamy or feverish. “Come on, the water’s cold.”
His hand is cold, clasping mine, but his grip is strong, and as he pulls me up, my feet find steps—not solid exactly, but enough to bear my weight—to climb up to where they both stand. Deirdre full of ghostly light, and William dark, giving back none.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “William, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” It’s a contented sigh. As if he’s talking in his sleep. “You had to. I understand.”
“How can you say that?” I cry.
“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I’m here. We’re together.”
Should those words be comforting? They’re sharp as knives. It’s not possible. It’s not right.
“But they were… What happened?” I can’t see his face. I can’t see anything. “Did they hurt you?”
“I don’t really remember.”
Dread blooms in my stomach. He doesn’t sound right. Why can’t I see him? I almost reach out to touch his face, but I hesitate, pull my hand back. Remembering the antler poised above his eyes.
“It’s the end of the world, isn’t it?” he continues dreamily. “It’s different than I thought it would be. I can see so much more clearly here. I can see everything. Even you. Right down to the very bottom. And it’s—Skye, you’re beautiful. You’re a hero.”
He takes a splashing, lurching step toward me. He moves like it hurts. He moves like one of them. And I scramble backward, away from him, and lift the sword between us.
“It’s okay,” he says again. “Really, Skye, it is.”
“That’s not William,” I breathe.
“What do you mean, it’s not William?” Deirdre demands. “Of course it is.”
“You’re making him say all of that! Stop it!”
“But don’t you get it?” Deirdre says. “I’m giving him back. He’s for you! He’ll do whatever you want now. I don’t have to make him. Neither do you. We’ll be queens together. And you can have your own champion. Just say you want it. Use the words—our words—and it’s done.”
“But that’s not what I want!” I cry. He stands there unmoving, not protesting. Silent. “That’s not—that’s not him!”
“Oh, come on! You only ever liked him because he does what you want. That’s why you picked him from the start! That’s what you’ve been doing all this time! He’ll cooperate now, see? And you can keep him. You get him back, like I got Mog back. But only if you stay!”
I feel sick.
“What did you do to him?” I whisper.
Deirdre sticks her chin out, folds her arms.
“Everything has a price,” she repeats.
“I don’t want it. Undo it. Whatever it is. Let him go.”
“Don’t be like that,” Deirdre pleads. “Stay. Stay with me! He’s for you, Skye. Just like the monsters I made for you to fight. I made you a real sword, even. Isn’t it beautiful? Mom and Dad won’t even know we’re gone. Not once the door is closed behind us. I promise.” When I hesitate, she stomps her foot, sending a little ripple through the water. “How do you think it’s going to work out if you go back? Do you think he’ll cooperate if you go back? Do you think any of them will forgive you? You’re better off here. Stay with me!”
I squint at William, trying to make out his face. I step one way, then the other, trying to catch a little bit of light. It doesn’t work; the dark hangs like a curtain between us, Deirdre’s glow casting only the faintest of halos around his hair, outlining his arms.
“Why can’t I see him?” I demand. Deirdre doesn’t look at me, doesn’t answer. I clench my teeth, speak through them. “It’s you. Isn’t it? You don’t want me to.”
“I’m doing it for you,” she says sullenly. “It’s easier this way.”
Oh God. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you still asking questions?” She comes closer, hugs my arm. Her touch is faint and cool. “All you have to do is say the words. You know the ones. And then you can look at him all you want. Okay?”
I pull away from her, focus on William’s silhouette. I’m steel. Steel. I lift my hand slowly and reach for him. I have to know.
Under my fingers, his cheek is clammy. I feel blindly across his face. Lips and nose. I can’t feel his breath. And under my touch, at the edge of his mouth, is a wet, ragged edge. Something tacky clings to my fingertips. Something gives where it shouldn’t. When I jerk my hand back, it comes away stained with a dark smear of something that collects slowly at the base of my fingers, runs in a single drip across my palm.
Deirdre’s light isn’t bright enough to betray colors, red or otherwise. But I know what I’m looking at.
“It’s okay,” Deirdre coaxes. “It’s not your fault. It’s just the way you are. Stay here. I understand you. So does he, now. Come on, just say it. Wood, stone, water, bone.”
“You can’t make me stay,” I whisper, looking up at her from my bloody fingers. “Can you?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” Deirdre huffs. “Nobody ever could.”
“If I have a choice,” I say, and my voice is stern and final, the voice of the Queen of Swords, “then I choose to go back. With or without you.”
“But, Skye—”
“You don’t get to tell me who I am!” I cry. “You don’t get to decide who I’m going to be! If it has a price, then I’ll pay it. I’m Skye, and I’m going back! By wood, stone, water, and bone!” I drop the sword at her feet. The water closes over the hilt with a gulp and a splash. Deirdre reels back a few steps, staring at me in disbelief, in anguish.
William staggers, stumbles against me, and I have to throw my arms around him to keep him upright. He sags in my arms, dragging us both down. The water rises around us, claiming my ankles, my knees, my thighs.
“You can’t take him,” Deirdre protests. “You’re not allowed.”
“You gave him to me, didn’t you? I can do whatever I want!”
She balls her fists at her sides.
“You chose him. You chose him. Instead of me.”
“Come with me,” I beg. “I’m not the only one who has a choice.”
“I’ve already made my choice.” Her voice is hollow, made of the wind in the trees. “Maybe this is part of the price. My price. Giving you up.”
“You don’t have to!”
She’s going dim, the moon shining through her hair a
s if it’s caught in a net—no, caught in the branches. The tears sliding down her face are stars falling from the sky. I want to tell her I love her, in spite of it all, in spite of everything, but the moon is all that’s left. The shifting green light fades from the sky. The water is closing over me, pulling at me. I hitch William up a little higher, trying to keep his face above the surface.
“Come on.” His head lolls against my shoulder. “Come on, stand up, help me—”
“Skye?” he murmurs. “I can’t—I can’t see—”
After that, he’s silent. No matter how many times I call his name.
So here we are, in the water, in the dark. I’ve made my choice. Deirdre is gone. And I’m so tired of fighting. William is the last thing left in the world. I cling to him, and I push my feet forward through the mud, one after another. I don’t let go.
Somewhere, someone is crying. Maybe it’s me.
* * *
The sound of my name is what pulls me back.
“Oh my God,” someone says. Then they’re yelling. “Over here! Quick!”
It hurts. I hurt. My head is too heavy to lift, cradled into the ground in a hollow that feels like it was made for it. When I open one eye by a crack, a strange white shape takes me a fuzzy second to decipher: my hand. Curled like a dead thing in the black mud, the sleeve of my sweater dusted with snow. Is it snow? If it was snow, I’d be cold, wouldn’t I? Beyond it, cattails stand over me, tall sentinels.
“Skye,” the voice says again. “Hey, kiddo, come on. Come on now.”
Hands, searing hot, turn my head, so I have to face a silhouette bending over me, framed by a dim gray sky, crisscrossing branches. A man I don’t know—kind of know—with a round face, a fuzzy military haircut. He’s shaking me, patting my face, won’t let me sleep. I manage a groan of protest.
“Come on, Skye, we’ve got you. Stay with us now. Let’s get you warm, okay? I’m going to pick you up. Ready? One, two, three—”
Hands on my arms, pulling me up; arms under my knees, my shoulders. Gravity resents it, dragging at me. The sky, pale featureless clouds, swings over me, anemic with dawn. The branches part, recede.
“He’s over there,” the man calls, somewhere above me, a little breathless with exertion. “Under the trees. Hurry.”
Other footsteps. Other voices. A confusion of them, shouting. Flashing lights stab through my eyelids until I peer out at them, and they resolve themselves into the ambulance, waiting by the road. That’s not right. They left days ago.
I’m set down somewhere hard, unforgiving, hands all over me, a ceiling sliding over me with a jolt and a rattle, faces swimming in and out of view. One constant, tearful.
“Mom?”
I can’t do more than shape the word with my lips, but she folds her hands over a wobbly smile.
“You’re okay, honey,” she quavers. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
And then it crashes over me. Where I’ve been.
What I’ve done.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” says a male voice, stern and professional, when I try to fling myself upright. “Stay still. You could hurt yourself.”
He eases me back down, ignoring my feeble flailing hands trying to push him away, holds me there. Someone else is slicing through my jeans with gleaming scissors, a sharp efficient snip, snip, snip, all the way up my leg, through my sweater, peeling the fabric away. I’m the only patient, but Officer Leduc’s voice echoes in my ears. He’s over there.
“William,” I croak. “Where is he? I think he’s—and I found—”
“He’s safe, Skye.” Mom clasps my hand, her face earnest. “Just relax.”
They pile blanket after blanket on top of me, tuck them close around. There’s a pinch inside my elbow, a slow, spreading bloom of warmth that loosens my joints, makes them start to jump and quake. My teeth clack together. I can’t stop shaking.
“There,” the man says soothingly, rubbing my shoulder. “That’s good. Shivering’s good. Keep it up.”
“L-listen!” I can hardly talk. “Deirdre, Mom. I found Deirdre!”
Mom’s eyes go wide. She clutches my hand.
“You what?”
“I found her. I found her. At the end of the creek.” Hot tears spill over my cheeks. “She’s gone, Mom. I couldn’t bring her back. I tried. I tried so hard—”
“It’s okay,” Mom chokes, and kisses my hand. “It’s okay. I’ll go talk to the police.”
She flies from the ambulance. I crane my neck, trying to follow her path, but she disappears into a sea of milling bodies, the hungry round lenses of cameras. Beyond them, the castle is a sullen, humped shadow, the trees a gray smudge behind it. The door of the ambulance swings closed, blocking them out.
Twenty-Eight
William’s alive.
“He’s in pretty rough shape,” Officer Leduc says gently. “But he’ll make it. Thanks to you.”
Am I relieved? I can hardly tell. I wade through the questions like they’re icy water. One foot after another. What were we doing? What kind of animal was it that attacked us? How did we get away? I repeat variations on I don’t know until my voice gives out. It was dark. I can’t remember. It happened so fast. All the clichés. They nod sympathetically. Squeeze my hand. Tell me I’m a real hero.
This time, when my parents called, the police had it easy. They found me almost right away, sprawled in the grass next to William, half in the creek at the edge of the woods. They can’t believe I’m unhurt. I’m lucky I didn’t freeze to death. I’m lucky I’m not losing fingers. The news is all over it: TEEN RESCUES FRIEND AFTER WILDLIFE ATTACK. Is there a bear on the loose? A cougar? That’s their best guess, based on his injuries.
His injuries. I don’t ask. Over and over again, I don’t ask.
I watch the segment from the news on the computer. My dad gives a hurried, tearful statement. I hardly recognize myself on the stretcher. My face is slack, wax pale. Like a zombie’s.
I feel like a zombie. Burnt out. A hollow shell.
Look at me. I’ve survived the end of the world.
* * *
A skirt and tights feels exactly as unnatural as the occasion. Deirdre’s memorial.
It was a while before they told me. Hypothermia leaves you fragile at first, apparently. Prone to blood clots, heart trouble. But when we got home from the hospital, they sat me on the couch with snow sifting down outside, smudging the woods into gray shadow. Mom explained in a halting, broken voice that they’d checked the end of the creek, where it meets the long swamp, and found her dress. What was left of it. Nothing else, not yet. But that was enough, after what happened to Kevin, what happened to me and William, to draw conclusions.
She cries a lot. But at least she lets Dad hold her. At least she sleeps at night. That’s something.
I don’t sleep much.
The snow is still falling, softening all the edges, erasing the paths. I watch it through the tall church window as I drift through the songs and the hugs and the whitewashed stories about how “special” she was. It’s tempting, it’s so tempting, to let go. To let the snow bury me too, fill my mouth, erase my memories, all my crimes. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it did happen the way they say it must have. Maybe trauma is messing with my head, mashing guilt and fear and childhood games together into impossible scenarios. If I’m not sure where my nightmares start and my memories end, maybe it’s all nightmare. Maybe none of it really happened.
Maybe.
What shocks me awake—truly, painfully awake—is Angie Wright showing up among the murmuring, soberly dressed well-wishers that fill our house afterward. It’s not my parents she seeks out first.
It’s me.
“I’m sorry,” she quavers, clutching my hand in both of hers, her eyes spilling over. “I’m so sorry. For everything. If it weren’t for you—”
I think
I might throw up. She won’t let me go. “Listen, Mrs. Wright—you don’t understand—”
“Angie,” she sniffs, and manages a lopsided smile before pulling me into a tight hug, crushing my nose into the soft, scratchy wool of her fancy shrug. “Thank you for bringing him back to us.”
This is hell, isn’t it. I’m in hell. I’m paying for everything. I smile and smile and smile and extract my hand from her grip.
“Excuse me,” I say, much too brightly, and flee the room.
Instinct draws me downstairs. To my room, to my refuge. But when I close the door behind me, I’m left facing a wall and ceiling stripped down to bare studs and joists, cracks snaking through the concrete foundation, filled with some sort of stabilizing compound. The crawl space yawns open, the doors off their hinges, empty again except for smears of sawdust. It all insists on reality. My reality, the one I remember. The one I wish I could forget.
My bed has been shoved over to the side, covered with a cloth. I sink onto it, drop my head into my hands.
She’s never coming back.
That luminous, silver-eyed girl crowned with the crescent moon wasn’t anything human anymore. Whatever’s back there in the woods did devour her, in a way. I can still hear her laughing response to my question. Are you dead? She might as well be.
Could I have stopped her if I’d been paying attention, if I’d been there to wade after her, sword in hand? What’s the point in even asking? I’m no one’s hero. Not Deirdre’s, and definitely not William’s. I don’t know if there’s a word for what I am. Liar. Traitor.
Monster, maybe.
When the door swings open, I take a deep breath, determined not to snap at the intruder. My parents have been through enough lately. “Just give me a minute,” I say through my teeth. “Okay? I’ll be up in a minute.”
No response. When I look up, it’s Kevin looking back at me, hollow-eyed and tousle-haired in a jacket and tie. Leaning on crutches.
“Can we talk?” he says.
When I don’t answer, he hobbles into the room and lowers himself slowly onto the bed next to me, grimacing.
Here There Are Monsters Page 25
