Witch-Child

by Gerilyn Marin

  Funny, I've always wanted to sneak out to meet a boy. I think every girl wants to do this at least once in her life, but creeping around with the intention to dig up a mysterious grave isn't quite what I'd thought my reason would be.

  And certainly not while wearing raggedy old jeans and one of my brother's jerseys from when he played baseball for our local church's junior league.

  As I walk up, I see Grey seated on the ground. He’s mostly blocked from the light of any nearby streetlamps, by some crazy-overgrown shrubbery that hangs down across this section of the fence. He, too, is clad in jeans and a t-shirt that both look like they have seen better days.

  The boy looks surprisingly chipper. Odd, considering that, in order to keep him from excluding me from this endeavor, I kinda had to resort to blackmail.

  I threatened to place an anonymous call to the cemetery and warn the caretaker that an individual, whom I would not name, had been overheard while planning to vandalize some of the more historic graves.

  He cracks a grin, and climbs to his feet. "That what you wear on all your dates?"

  "Only the ones that I don't think I'll forget anytime soon." I spare a second to cast a glance around. I find that silent emptiness is always much more nerve-wracking when I'm about to do something I'm not supposed to; even the oh-so-quiet and rare sound of cars on distant streets threatens to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. "So, how are we doing this?"

  He crouches down, and from the darkened nook in which he'd sat a moment ago, he pulls a shovel. A big shovel.

  A serious, heavy-duty, dirt-scooping type shovel.

  "I'm going to dig; you're going to play look-out."

  While I'm relieved that I won't have to participate in the actual digging, I can only watch mutely as he carefully lowers the shovel over the other side of the fence and lets it drop. The impact makes a soft, dull thud we just barely hear, so I feel confident that the caretaker—in the closed office on the other side of the cemetery—didn't detect the sound, either.

  "Did we pilfer that from the hardware store?"

  Grey arches a brow. "Pilfer?"

  "It is a word," I whisper as I give a shrug.

  "No," he says with a shake of his head. "Landscaper's crew left it at our house."

  I frown in response.

  "What? It's not like I'm not going to return it."

  Now I notice the straps over his shoulders, but I can't imagine what he could be carrying.

  "Backpack?" I pull two mini-Maglites from my pocket, eliminating the only possibility I can think of as to what he's got in there. "I thought we agreed I'd bring these because they're less conspicuous than regular-sized flashlights."

  "Huh? Oh, no. This is empty."

  My eyebrows shoot up. "So why'd you bring it?"

  We'd also agreed that the lighter we travel, the better, in case we get caught and need to run away. This is not a scenario I want to consider, but to ignore that the possibility exists doesn't erase it.

  Of course, I'm not sure how the massive shovel plays into the running away idea, either; guess there's a chance the landscaper won't be seeing that again.

  "Well, I was thinking about something." Though we've been whispering this entire time, he now drops his voice so low that I have to take a step closer to him. "What if they never reported finding Jack's remains not because they didn't find any, but because the remains weren't entirely human?"

  My gaze roams for a second. "I don't follow."

  "If Jack was a devil-thing and we find a bone that looks weird in his grave, like a tibia that's attached to a hoof instead of a foot, or something—"

  "None of the descriptions said anything about hooves," I point out, my brow furrowing.

  He shoots me a withering look. "I also said 'or something.' If I find some kind of clearly not-human part . . . I'm taking it with me."

  The bridge of my nose crinkles. "That's gross."

  "Yes, but if we find something tonight, I'm still going to need to know tomorrow that this is real."

  "I think I understand."

  This situation is getting more surreal with each passing minute. I suppose if I were in Grey's shoes, I'd want to hang on to any physical evidence there might be, too.

  He checks his watch and then gestures toward the fence. "Shall we?"

  "Yeah." We have wasted enough time standing around, even if it is just an attempt to settle our nerves.

  He offers to give me a hand, but I wave him away. After he has tried to exclude me, twice, in the name of wanting to protect me, I feel like I have to show him that I don't need any assistance. Gripping the wrought iron scrollwork, I firmly plant a foot against the stone part of the fence and boost myself over.

  "So stubborn," I hear him grumble, as I land on the balls of my feet beside the shovel.

  "Shh," I breathe harshly as he hits the ground beside me. Maybe not as gracefully, but steady on his feet, just the same.

  He hefts the shovel with one hand and takes the miniscule flashlight I offer with the other. "Which way?"

  "And here I thought you were the expert on navigating this place after dark."

  "Cute," he says with a smirk that I can only just make out in the darkness. "Never going to hear the end of that, am I?"

  "Nope."

  I twist on my Maglite, but keep the beam trained on the ground only a few feet ahead of me.

  My dad adores old-timey spy shows, and one of the things I learned from watching with him was that nothing gets a person lurking in the dark caught faster than waving a light around. Well, that and loud noises. But since I don't imagine Grey will be overcome with the desire to start banging the shovel against the headstones, I think we're safe on that count.

  I delicately pick my way to the nearest grave, painfully aware of the sound of my own footsteps as I walk, even though I can just barely hear them. My hope is that I recognize either some part of the path or the name on the stone, so that I can get my bearings. I know we're in Old Part, because the spot where we hopped the fence is approximately where I'd seen him the other morning, but the darkness makes me feel a bit disoriented.

  This is the first time I realize that the morning when I'd seen him sneaking out of here was less than a week ago. Wow, feels like a lot has happened in a really short time.

  Along the edge of one grave, I notice a mossy, round rock that I remember clearly. Every time I've seen it, the thing has stuck in my head because I recall that when I was little, I thought it looked like a fuzzy green bowling ball.

  I glance through the ironwork of the fence, gauging which shop across the street we line up with, and then give a nod.

  I twist off the Maglite and shove it in my pocket before hooking a finger in the sleeve of Grey's t-shirt to tug him along behind me. "It's okay," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I know where we are."

  He nods back at me, but doesn't reply.

  I think now that we've gotten this far, he's afraid if he opens his mouth, the sound of him speaking will be the thing that gets us caught.

  The air is quiet. Numbingly, skin-crawlingly quiet as we inch our way through the old graves and finally reach the row of ancient mausoleums. I can't exactly remember between which two of these crypts Jack's headstone is hidden.

  But the grave is at the base of that big ol' tree.

  I halt and look up. Crap, it really is dark here, but the sparse and distant light from the streetlamps combined with a bit of dabbled starlight from the surprising clear night sky provides enough illumination that I can see the tree branches.

  In the back of my mind, I feel relief that the caretaker actually seems to do his job. Given the time of year, we'd be crunching over fallen leaves, otherwise.

  My gaze follows the darkened limbs to the tree, which disappears behind a small, and even darker, steepled roof. I breathe out a tiny, forced sigh.

  This is it. Giving myself another nod as I try to steel my nerves, I find that I have to will my legs into motion.

  I still have my fin
ger twisted in Grey's t-shirt, so as I move, he falls into step behind me. There's an image tumbling around in my head of a ghostly, white, disembodied hand reaching out from one of the mausoleums to grab my arm as we pass.

  A weight falls on one of my shoulders and I nearly jump out of my skin. Whirling on a heel instantly, I open my mouth to let out a shriek.

  Grey clamps a hand over my lips and says in a rushed whisper, "It's okay, it's okay!"

  Even seeing that it is only Grey who just gave me the scare of my life doesn't ease the buildup of air in my lungs. I press my hands over his, and let out the scream, muffled against his skin, so all I hear is a faint keening sound.

  I drop my hands, and he pulls his away.

  Catching my breath, I swat his arm, hard. "What is the matter with you?"

  "I'm sorry." He spares a second to rub the spot where I struck him, and then once more places his hand on my shoulder. "You were shaking, I just wanted to see if you're all right."

  I laugh quietly and shake my head at him; the rush of adrenaline has made my limbs jittery. "Next time, just use your words."

  Turning away for a mere second, he props the shovel against the wall of the mausoleum beside us so that his other hand is free, and puts that one over my left shoulder as he stares down into my face. "I said I'm sorry. Seriously, are you okay?"

  Damn it. Even in the dark—in a graveyard, with my nerves shot all to hell—his eyes are still pretty.

  Stupid boys.

  "Yes. My imagination was getting to me, is all. And then some giant asshat scared the bejeezus out of me, but other than that, I'm perfect."

  He doesn't laugh, but I see a little grin curve his mouth. "Okay, this is the last time I'm saying sorry."

  I nod, turning away as he retrieves the shovel, and we're on the move again.

  At last, we reach the little alley with the tree. Now that I'm here, I realize how hidden this spot really is, and that eases my nerves.

  Well, about being caught, anyway.

  I seat myself on the ground at the mouth of the alley, with my back to the grave. Pulling my cell out of my pocket, I quickly consult the time and then replace the phone.

  Wow, from meeting up outside to getting to this spot has been the longest ten minutes of my life.

  "I'm giving you one hour," I whisper as he passes me and thunks the shovel's spade down into the old, dry soil. "If there's nothing, we fill it back in and get the hell outta here."

  "An hour?"

  I look back over my shoulder at him. "Yes. This might take a while. Don't you watch TV?"

  "What if it turned out that an hour and two minutes of digging would have turned up something? And we'll never know?"

  "Look, the soil will be loose from digging it up tonight, so if we have to come back, it'll take less time to scoop it all out a second time." Okay, I'm totally not positive of this, but it sounds legit to me.

  And apparently to him, too, because he gives a shrug and starts shoveling.

  Time ticks by so very slowly. If time made noise, I'm sure there would be a very drawn-out creak dragging through the air around us. I take back what I said about getting to this point being the longest ten minutes of my life.

  The next forty-five minutes are completely empty and uneventful . . . with the exception of me checking to see that oh, goodie, finally, just fifteen minutes to go.

  "Oh, forget it," Grey says with a hushed groan.

  Arching a brow, I shift sideways, turning my attention to him.

  He's already filling the dirt back in.

  I frown as I push up from the ground and walk over.

  "Huh," I say under my breath—he actually got pretty deep in just forty-five minutes.

  Either this was easier than I'd thought, or he's stronger than I've given him credit for. I refrain from stepping back, simply to watch him for a moment, wondering if this bit of knowledge will give me any newfound appreciation of his stature, even though I'm so sorely tempted just stare at the boy, wondering what he looks like without a shirt. I also need to give some thought to how difficult it's becoming not to get distracted by him at totally inappropriate moments.

  "You sure?"

  He nods, but doesn't say anything. His shoulders are slumped, though, so I can guess that he probably feels defeated right now.

  "Let me help," I say, as I step around to the other side of the mound of loose soil.

  "There's only one shovel." His voice is just a low, tired rumble of sound.

  "Yes," I sit on the ground on my knees and wiggle my fingers in the air, "but I have hands, and an outfit that I'm pretty sure I don't care if I ever wear again."

  Once more, he nods, but won't lift his eyes from the task before him.

  With a heavy sigh, I set to pushing the soil into the hole he's made. Filling the grave takes far less time than scooping it out had, and the two of us working together make the job go even faster.

  I dust off my hands, then grab the nearest thing for leverage to push myself up. My palm closes over Jack's headstone. The worn hunk of marble isn't set in the ground as securely as I think, so it moves a little under my weight, and one of the dry vines has a sharp, jagged split that slices into my skin.

  I gasp, but manage to press my lips together to keep from yelling, as I snatch my hand back. Grumbling and holding my injured hand, I struggle to my feet, nearly oblivious of Grey as he steps up beside me.

  "You okay?" he asks in alarm as he pulls out his Maglite and flicks it on to examine the cut.

  "Mm-hmm," is all I say as I try not to wince; I have a pretty high pain threshold, but this stings like a bitch.

  Frowning darkly, I kick the side of the headstone. The force of impact knocks it loose from the tree. All that keeps it from hitting the ground are the vines, which strain with the weight, but hold it up.

  Grey makes a small noise of aggravation in the back of his throat. "Like we need this right now?"

  "Sorry." I hang my head sheepishly as I pull my hand out of his and bend to push the stone back into place.

  His flashlight, though lowered, is still switched on, and at this new vantage point, I can see that there's a hollowed-out crevice in the base of the tree, behind where the headstone was.

  Forgotten, all this time.

  My stomach ices over a little even as I scramble to dig out my own Maglite and twist it on. Again my imagination kicks up, showing me pictures of some massive, mutated spider family living inside the tree.

  "What is it?" Grey asks, but I just shake my head.

  I peek inside as I get my feet firmly under me—ready to bolt if anything bites or grabs, or even touches lightly in a friendly manner. Huh, somehow that last idea is creepier than the others.

  But all I see is an old satchel.

  I gently tug it out and set it on the ground beside me. I wedge the stone back into place against the tree as Grey delicately opens the bag and looks inside.

  "It's a bunch of books," he says after a moment.

  I wave him aside and peek in. Old, old books stare up at me. With the use of our lights, I see the edge of one that stands out from the rest, because the design is vaguely familiar.

  Unease coils in the pit of my stomach as I reach in and retrieve the thick, black, leather-bound book. Opening it carefully, I read the words on the first page and let out a trembling sigh.

  When I look up at Grey, his gaze fixes on my face. I think the anxiety of this night has finally gotten to him.

  His expression is blank, closed off, as it had been with the computer when we were researching. He refuses to see for himself something that might be evidence, as though not looking will change whatever information might be found.

  I try to read aloud what the pages say, but my voice sticks in my throat. With a deep breath, I close the cover and offer simply, "This . . . . it's your family's ledger."

  "I don't understand why they went to all this trouble," he whispers blandly.

  We share a glance—his expression an odd combination of tri
umph and terror—and then turn our collective attention to the bag. I can tell we're both thinking the same thing.

  If this is the Addison family's ledger, then what are the rest of those books?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Sibling Bond

  "No one will remember," she whispers, her strained voice weighted down by caution and fear.

  He looks away from her, casting a quick glance to the circle of people gathered around them, and then drops his gaze to the hole they've carved in the tree. "You recall what you are to do? Why we take this road?"

  "Yes," she says simply.

  "Then perhaps it is best that no one remember."

  The buzzing of my alarm clock pulls me away from the scene.

  The sound is annoying, as usual, and I want to switch it off, but I'm so tired that even opening my eyes feels like a chore. Grumbling under my breath, I sit up and stretch.

  Since Grey had the backpack, he'd taken the books with him.

  Now that the dangerous part of our investigation was over, I had little difficulty in getting him to agree not to read any of them until we could go through them together.

  I want nothing more than to faceplant into my pillow and stay that way the rest of the day, but I can't. Last year, I stayed with Dad, and he spoiled me rotten by falling for excuses to stay home from school; cramps, exhaustion; generally anything related to his daughter having PMS allowed me an absence. Mom was not particularly happy with either one of us when she found out, and made me promise I wouldn't miss any days this year unless I'm on-death's-doorstep sick.

  I remember distantly that Mom mentioned going in early today, which means she's already out of the house . . . . huh, I suppose I could risk staying home, she might not find out. But then I might miss answering the phone when the school's nifty new automated system calls the house to inform her of my absence.

  Just thinking that I'll have to wait by the house phone—and trying to explain why, when Wendi or Grey can just call me on my cell—or catch a Mom-lecture, and probably get grounded for going back on my word, brings a new level of exhaustion.