The Silver Kiss

by Annette Curtis Klause

  Wham! Stars in his head. Blackness. He fell.

  “I forgot something,” a small, hard voice said, and the bear was snatched from Simon’s hands.

  “Thanks for the use of the stick,” called the voice from far away.

  His vision cleared before he had finished retching. The clothes were gone, but the stake lay at his feet where it had fallen after the blow. When the dry heaves abated, he pulled himself to his feet, using the slimy wall. He couldn’t stay here.

  It hurt his head terribly to move, but he did anyway. He had to find a place to hide. At least he had found out something important: if Christopher carried the soil with him, it was his last. He was afraid of losing it, and that was his weak spot. There would be many sleepless days if he lost it, and it would be a long journey to replace that native soil. He would become weaker and weaker along the way. Many things could happen in that time. If someone were to get hold of that soil …

  But now that Christopher knew he was here, the wretch would be more alert. It would be harder than ever to trick him, almost impossible. Meanwhile, he’d start plans to move on. I’ve failed again, Simon thought. I’ll never beat him. It was so unfair. With all he’d done, he’d never pay the price.

  I’m so alone, he thought miserably. I’ll be alone forever. There’s no one to share my burden and make it lighter. He thought of Zoë, and the glimmer of life she kindled in him that he thought had been doused for good. It was useless. It could never be. The beast in him would not allow it, but he craved her nevertheless.

  “If only. “He sighed.

  9

  Zoë

  It wasn’t until the first trick-or-treaters came that Zoë realized it was Halloween. When the doorbell rang, she had opened the door, puzzled, only to be confronted by a huddle of little goblins and witches. A smiling man waited for them by the front gate. All the children would be supervised this year.

  “Wait a minute,” she’d said, trying to cover her fluster, and raced to find her mother’s stash of Three Musketeers bars.

  The chocolate bars, and a bag of cookies she’d found in the back of a kitchen cabinet, had lasted through the first wave of tramps, monsters, and ghouls. Now she was down to the three jars of pennies her father kept on his dresser top. The pennies earned her some hostile looks. She was glad that the children were mostly young. If they hadn’t been, she’d have been sure to gain a trick or two tonight.

  In between visitors she had changed into a long black evening gown of her mother’s and combed her black hair carefully around her face. I hope the added atmosphere will take their minds off the lousy treats, she thought. It still needed something, however. She went to the hall closet and rummaged through her jacket pockets. She pulled out the small mottled box, opened it, and tied the crucifix Lorraine had given her around her neck with its red ribbon. Her reflection in the hall mirror pleased her, yet she touched a finger to the pendant sadly.

  They hadn’t spoken in two days. In fact, Zoë hadn’t even seen Lorraine at school except for once in the hall yesterday, and Lorraine had turned on her heel and walked away. It was a relief, actually. She wouldn’t have known what to say, how to explain.

  I have to apologize, she told herself, just as she’d told herself over and over yesterday. But no matter how often she said it, she still couldn’t seem to do anything.

  “I’m such a jerk,” she suddenly said out loud, and snatched up the phone.

  The number jabbed automatically from her fingers, then she waited, almost holding her breath. The third ring was cut off short.

  “Hello?”

  “Diane.” A reprieve, she thought. Time to ease into it. “Is Lorraine there?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Zoë. She’s spending the night at her mother’s.” She didn’t sound sorry at all. “She won’t be back till tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, thanks, Diane, maybe I can call her there.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea, Zoë. It’s their last night together for a while, you know. Monica probably wants Lorraine to herself tonight, not chattering forever on the phone. Be considerate, babe.”

  Like you care, Zoë thought. “Well, okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Bye.” Diane hung up.

  “Yeah, no problem,” Zoë mumbled. Now, where was her phone book? She found it in the drawer and flicked through to find the number, but when she found it she started having second thoughts. Maybe Diane was right for once. Maybe she shouldn’t call. I might not see her again, she thought. I can’t let her leave on these terms. But Lorraine wouldn’t be spending Halloween with her mother if I hadn’t been such a turd, Zoë decided. She probably doesn’t want to talk to me. She snapped the phone book shut.

  She already missed Lorraine dreadfully. I don’t want to be alone, she thought. She reopened the phone book tentatively and leafed through, looking for someone else to call. She realized that most of the girls she had listed were Lorraine’s friends really, there was nobody she kept up with herself, and anyway, anyone in touch with reality would already have plans. As she leafed through the giltedged pages, she ran across Carol’s number. Maybe she’d call her mother’s friend. Carol is always kind, she thought, and I was pretty intense the last time I saw her. But the line was busy. She shut the book again and tossed it back into the drawer.

  Zoë was looking through her parents’ records for some spooky organ music, when the next group came. Among them was a nasty little girl in a nurse’s uniform, who poked her tongue out when she saw the pennies being tipped into her bag. She’s lucky to get anything, Zoë thought. It’s that or popcorn, and I know which one I would prefer. She found the record she was looking for after they left.

  The doorbell rang again, and Zoë dispensed more pennies. The organ music seemed to be quite effective—eyes blinked, and bags were held out hesitantly. She hammed it up a bit with the witches’ lines from Macbeth, as she dropped the pennies into the bags. Eye of newt was much more interesting than copper coins.

  The second jar of pennies was now half empty, and the groups arrived farther and farther apart. Zoë was getting sick of the organ music, so she turned the stereo off.

  The bell rang again, and she opened the door.

  Simon.

  She slammed the door shut. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  He knocked this time.

  “Go away.”

  “Please.” She heard him faintly, muffled by the door. “Please let me in.”

  “Go away, or I’ll call the police.” She shot the dead bolt home, trembling.

  “Why?” The voice was louder.

  “You know why.” She leaned against the door, as if helping the locks to hold. Oh, God, I wish Lorraine was here, she thought.

  “You would have told the police about me already, if you were going to.”

  “How do you know I didn’t?” She hadn’t, though. What could she tell them—she felt herself blush—that she had stupidly walked down a dark alley, at night, where there had been a murder, and seen a boy eating a bird? If she was crazy enough to go there, would they believe what she saw? “How do you know they’re not waiting for me to let them know if you turn up?”

  “Zoë, I’ve lived the darkest lie of all.” His voice was sad. “I can recognize a lie.”

  Why did she believe him? “I can call them right now.” She groped for a reason. “I’ll say you’re trying to break in.”

  “But I can’t come in unless you invite me.”

  She heard a catch in his words, something like anguish. It didn’t stop her from stepping toward the phone. His statement was absurd.

  “It was just a bird, Zoë. You could see the feathers, surely?” It sounded as if he was kneeling by the mail slot now, because his voice was clearer.

  She froze. He knew exactly what was bothering her, as if he had read her mind. She pictured again his beautiful face smeared with blood. Yes, she had remembered the feathers later. She had seen no body, no human body, only crushed feathers.

  “I w
as hungry.” He sounded miserable.

  She shuddered. What kind of person ate raw birds? Could he be that desperate and hungry? Was he homeless and destitute enough to do that? Her disgust was almost tempered with pity. Or was he really sick, crazy sick? The pity fled, and she was shaking again. There had been a body later on that night, in another place. She had read about it in the newspaper the next day. Her mouth was unbearably dry.

  “If you’re sick enough to do that, you might do other things. You might be the killer they’re looking for.” There, it was out. Let him know she was on to him. She turned, hugged herself, and leaned with her back against the door.

  “That’s not me!” He sounded indignant.

  “Maybe not”—though she wasn’t sure about that—“but you’re weird.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” he said quietly. There was silence just long enough to make her hope he’d left. She turned to the door again and cautiously bent down to the mail slot to look out.

  “I know who the killer is.”

  She jerked upright, sucking her breath in sharply. Was it him? Was he playing games with her? “Then tell the police.”

  “They wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “I don’t know yet. I thought you could help.”

  “Help what, for Christ’s sake? Bring him to justice?”

  “I have to.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. She was shocked by the intensity of his feelings. She slowly crouched on the other side of the mail slot, trying to make sense of the confusion she felt. A minute ago she thought he was a crazed killer; now she was wondering if he wasn’t an aspiring, lunatic vigilante. God knows what was pushing him so hard. Was it delusion?

  “Why do you care so much?” she asked, almost before she realized she was speaking out loud.

  “He killed my mother.” The voice broke.

  My God, Zoë thought. I believe him. I don’t want to, but I do.

  “He’s the cause of my loneliness.”

  Tears stung her eyes.

  “But you’ve been spying on me.” Dammit, she wasn’t going to feel sorry for him; he was dangerous, crazy. “You were on my back steps. Why?”

  He didn’t even try to deny it. “Because you talked to me, and I felt like a person again. Maybe I hoped to catch a glimpse of you through the window. Maybe I hoped you would come out, and we could talk again. I don’t know. Perhaps being close to you made me feel safe and real. Zoë, please let me in. I need you.”

  She could feel the truth of it in his voice. If she turned from him, would it be an act of cowardice, another hospital room she couldn’t cross?

  She stood up and pulled back the dead bolt. Oh, God, she thought, I’m letting a crazy boy into the house, a crazy boy who eats birds. She slowly opened the door.

  He was tall and slim. Beneath his tight black jeans and leather jacket she could sense lean, powerful muscles. Motionless, yet taut with energy, he was like a dancer a breath before movement. His dark clothing emphasized the pallor of his finely sculptured face and the ashy silver of his hair, fluffed to an almost airy, spiky texture. He reminded her of a thoroughbred animal gone feral. His eyes glittered to match the sparkling of the metal studs in the jacket he wore. She couldn’t tell if it was just the light, or if he had tears in his eyes, like she did. But he winced as if the light from the house were too bright, and averted his face before she could tell for sure. That’s when she noticed he was carrying something under his arm. It appeared to be a painting.

  He held out a slender hand to her, but he made no move to enter. “You have to invite me in,” he said. “I can’t come in unless you ask.” He waited for her answer with eyes lowered.

  There was probably a name for this type of behavior in psychology textbooks, she decided. “Come in, Simon.”

  A smile lit his face, although he seemed too shy to look at her.

  That face could break a heart, she thought. It was suddenly hard to think of him as a murderer.

  “You had better sit down,” she said, and wondered where to take him. She led him to the den, and he gazed around as he followed her. “Would you like something to drink?” She was unsure of this new role as hostess.

  He glanced at her, then smiled faintly. “I’ve been fed at the breast of death, and no other food now can sustain me.

  She giggled nervously. “Is that yes or no?” Good grief, listen to me, she thought. How sophisticated.

  “Sorry,” he said stiffly. “It’s something I wrote once. I never thought I’d see the day when an opportunity arose to use it. I couldn’t resist.”

  He writes? Her eyebrows went up a little.

  “I am not illiterate,” he said, piqued at catching her surprise, in another of his swift glances. “And I don’t want any of your beverages.”

  “Well, I think I’ll have something.” She left to get a Coke. He’s as jittery as I am, she thought. She took her time in the kitchen, time to steady her nerves and take a few deep breaths.

  When she came back, he was fiddling with the radio. The painting he had carried in was propped up on the couch. He found a rock station that seemed to suit him and came over to stand next to her in front of the gilt-framed portrait. He still wouldn’t look at her, and it was beginning to bother her.

  He reached out as if to put an arm around her shoulders, and she stepped aside hastily. “No,” he said, sounding anxious to reassure her. “I just want your necklace.”

  She wondered why, so she stood still as his fingers nimbly untied the knot and freed the crucifix from around her neck. He dangled it gingerly by its ribbon at arm’s length and, for the first time since he had entered, looked her full in the face. Without taking his eyes from her, he deposited the crucifix in a ceramic jar on the coffee table, with uncanny accuracy. “The dress is beautiful, but that thing doesn’t suit you.”

  She was angry but afraid to protest. Let it lie, she thought. It’s not important enough to fight over. And she moved away to sit in an easy chair with the coffee table between them.

  To her relief he didn’t follow, but sat on the couch and looked around the room. He relaxed into the cushions like a cat at home, all nervousness now gone. He seemed especially interested in the paintings on the walls. He rubbed his hands as if warming them by a fire. “I have a painting too,” he said unnecessarily.

  The Ramones filled the air around them with pulsing music. “I love rock,” he said. “I have ever since it started. There’s something elemental about it. It’s the pounding of blood through veins. Before that there was the blues, and jazz—I liked that, too, but not this way. Not this heart-thumping way. They didn’t allow music in the village I was born in, you know, but I’ve had plenty of time to make it up since.”

  “Psychotherapy. Psychotherapy,” the lyrics pounded.

  He turned dreamily to face the painting he had set up on the couch. “I wanted you to see this.”

  Slow motion, Zoë thought.

  “Come look.” He beckoned her.

  Curiosity lured her, and she knelt on the floor in front of the couch, pushing the small glass-topped table askew with her feet. The frame was battered and chipped, and one corner had been crushed. The painting within looked old. It was a family portrait: a stern man in black, with a large white collar, stood by a chair where a woman, also in black, sat with a baby in her lap. A small boy of about six stood proudly in front of his father, dressed in the same severe clothes. He reminded her of someone. The painting was full of shadows. The furniture was sensible, and their expressions somber. Well, perhaps not the woman’s. It seemed like she was trying very hard not to smile; her eyes sparkled, as if she were too merry to stay solemn for long.

  Zoë looked up questioningly at Simon.

  “My family,” he said.

  “You mean your ancestors?”

  “My parents and brother.”

  Zoë frowned. She wasn’t sure if she really felt like dealing with this. “Like those fake old photos you can have taken?�
�� she asked. “Dressed up like cowboys or something?”

  Simon turned the painting around and handed it to her. There was faded brown writing on the back, a date—1651—and words that curled in unexpected ways. Edmund Bristol Gentleman and his ladie wyfe (she couldn’t read this part) their sons (unintelligible again).

  “It was the year Old Rowley came back behind a Scottish army,” Simon said. She stared at him. “He became Charles II,” he explained, “but not that year. Cromwell sent him running at Worcester.”

  Zoë waved him quiet, impatiently. “What does that prove? People can fake that stuff.”

  He took back the painting firmly and turned it around again. He looked at it longingly. “That’s me,” he said, pointing at the baby.

  Oh, no, she thought.

  “And that’s your killer,” he said, pointing at the other child. “My brother, Christopher.”

  “How can you expect me to believe that?” she cried, and started to stand up. He grabbed her hand in an icy grip and held her there while he awkwardly slid the painting between the end table and the couch. This was a mistake, she thought, a stupid mistake.

  “He waits by dark places,” Simon continued.

  Oh, no, it’s not you. Please, it’s not you, Zoë begged silently.

  “He tells women he’s lost, then he takes advantage of their kind hearts.” Simon’s eyes burned, terrifying her. “He leads them into the dark and slaughters them, then cuts their throats.” His grip tightened with the urgency of his words. “He looks like a child, but he’s old as sin, and he’s bloated with filth and corruption. They think he’s only a child.”

  Zoë grew colder and colder, as if the chill of his hand were seeping into her. She saw back to the little boy at the alley’s mouth, talking to Lorraine. “I’m lost,” he had told her. She trembled. He’s tricking me somehow, she thought. But no, she’d never told him about that. How could he know? My God, she realized. It could have been Lorraine lying there dead. No, it wasn’t true.