Grim (11 page)

“I'll tell you what to do if I feel like it, and you'd better fucking listen because I saved your ass enough times when we were kids. And stop assuming that I see you as my own personal Jesus Christ.
I haven't been following you
.”

“You know,” Shawn said, “if Mom were here right now, she'd agree with me. She keeps hoping that you'll grow up someday, and you keep disappointing her.”

“For the last time, Shawn, Mom's not hoping for anything right now because
she's dead
.”

“Dammit, Becca, are we back to this again? Then how do you want to explain it? How can you make yourself feel better?”

“Shut up.”

“How do you want to explain it?”

“Well, then, where is she? Not here, obviously. So stop it. Stop it and help me find the way home.”

Shawn's eyes widened and he let out an exasperated laugh. “Oh my God,” he said. “You're insane!”

Rebecca slapped him.

They stood watching each other in the thin light, Shawn stunned, Rebecca glaring. Shawn's instinct was to touch the stinging skin of his cheek, but he refused to give his sister the satisfaction. Instead, he ran his tongue along his gums, checking for blood, and stayed quiet.

“
Never
call me that again,” Rebecca said, her voice low and barely steady.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Rebecca took a step back and felt her shell begin to splinter. “Oh, right,” she said with sarcasm. “I have problems. I have problems and my brother thinks that I'm a fuck-up. I'm sorry, I forgot.” Her body started to tremble with the effort of keeping herself reasonable. “Don't you think that I had enough of that after the divorce, Shawn?” Her voice crept higher as she mocked her classmates: “‘Oh my God, Becca Stripling had a screaming fit because some kids were teasing her brother!' ‘No! You should tell the principal, because Becca's not stable and something could happen! Didn't you hear? She's seeing a shrink. She tried to run away from home. She's on
pills
so she won't kill herself.'” Rebecca looked straight into Shawn's eyes. “‘Oh my God,
she's so insane
!'”

He didn't know what to say.

Hot, angry tears started to slip down Rebecca's cheeks. “I'm not going back to that. I don't know how to explain what's happened, but I do know that you're wrong. And I know that I'm not the crazy one here, because crazy people think that they can talk to their dead parents, and crazy people look at a creepy-ass forest and assume that they've found the land of the dead. I loved Mom too, Shawn, but she is gone and it's over, so just give up. I wasn't crazy back then, and I'm not crazy now, so don't you
dare
tell me that I am.”

“Rebecca —”

She shook her head, turned, and stalked off.

Shawn hesitated before starting after her.

“Becca, wait. I'm sorry.” He caught her by the arm. “I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

He held her at arm's length and looked her in the eye. “You're not crazy, and I don't think that you're a fuck-up.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “And stop trying to be funny.” She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

“We can't be like this, Rebecca,” Shawn said. “Not in front of Megan.”

“Megan's asleep.”

“Not while we're lost.”

Rebecca shrugged. “At least this way, no one else can see what bitches we are.”

“Dammit, I just don't want to fight. Is that too much to ask?”

“Well, why don't you just ask it?” Rebecca shook off Shawn's hands and stared at him. “Fine,” she said. “I'm sorry too. Even though I have nothing to apologize for.” She held up her palms. “Kidding.”

“I didn't realize that the kids at school hurt you so much.”

She gave him a look that said
Really?
but then paused and turned away. Shawn was thinking of how his own life had changed after the divorce. He'd never gone to counseling, never blamed himself for it. He'd blamed his mother for taking so long, and blamed his father for putting her through so much. Kids had teased him, true, but even back then he couldn't see why it upset Rebecca so much. The question that had haunted him then, and that still bothered him now, was a simple one: Hadn't he loved his father at all? It used to keep him up nights, and used to make him shut down in class or during lunch with his friends. It used to fill him up, demanding to know why he was so happy to have lost a piece of his family. He had always been upset about how little the divorce had cut him.

“Rebecca,” Shawn began, trying to put these thoughts into words. He'd never talked about it before, to anyone. He wondered how she would react. “When it happened, I —”

“Hush.”

Shawn blinked at her, wounded. “What?”

Rebecca put a hand over his mouth and tipped her head to the side. “Listen.”

“I don't hear anything.”

She tightened her fingers.

They saw the apparition before Shawn heard it — a swirl of blue-black smoke drifting just above the forest floor. And then the skin began to sweep over it, dripping into place like thick house paint.

“Meg,” Rebecca hissed, and ran back to where their sister lay sleeping.

Shawn stood transfixed. He watched as the figure flickered. The emerging face warped, the build of the chest and arms changed like putty. The fingers flexed, sliding out and back, longer and shorter. All the while, the thing itself slid forward, edging closer.

“Shawn!”

He spun around and saw Rebecca holding Megan against her chest. A long, low growl rippled through the woods behind him, prickling the hair along the nape of his neck. Rebecca's eyes were wide, her jaw slack with shock. Shawn couldn't help it; he looked back at the figure.

It was a man with straight, dark hair and a self-satisfied grin. He brought up one hand and held his fingers together, prepared to snap. There came a
crack
, like a gunshot, and the ground shook. Shawn lost his balance. His palms dug into the bed of fallen pinecones and needles and he cursed.

A dog howled behind him, the sound deep and guttural. It was answered by a chorus of barks and growls. Shawn scrambled to his feet and ran for Rebecca. He grabbed her forearm. She stumbled.

“Megan!”

“She's awake!” Shawn yelled back. “Put her down!”

Megan staggered as she touched the ground, but then took off ahead of them. As soon as the kids started running, the pack's hesitation broke with a hungry snarl. The kids heard the eager sounds of paws hitting earth, of claws scattering top-soil, and the fear went straight to their blood.

Megan let out a whimper as she pushed herself harder. Shawn drew on his memories of track and field and forced his legs to keep pumping, but it was a joke. He'd trained for one season his freshman year and hadn't run since. Besides, he'd been used as a sprinter. Even while training, he couldn't keep going for long. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Rebecca lag. She sucked in sharp, frustrated gasps of air, one hand against her chest.

Behind her, the dogs' coats glistened silver. Mouths open, eyes gleaming.
Not dogs, surely
, Shawn thought.
Too big to be dogs. Too big to be wolves.

“Keep going, Meg,” he shouted, though he didn't need to remind her. He dropped back and snatched Rebecca's arm. “Breathe! Run!”

Rebecca looked back and shrieked. The dogs must be close, he realized, and there must be a lot of them. One of them lunged and snapped at his ankle, then pulled back, only to return for another try. Shawn leaped and ran harder. He was almost to Rebecca and Megan. They were slowing down too much. Maybe if he stopped or veered off, he could occupy the dogs long enough for his sisters to get away. But get away to where?

A yelp snapped up from behind as some of the dogs surged forward to make a wide arc around the siblings. They were circling, winding up their catch. Toying with their prey before the kill.

Megan screamed as she tripped, hands splayed in a baseball dive. There were fallen trees in front of her, making a low barrier, and she scrambled to her knees and started to drag herself over. Rebecca pushed her the rest of the way, dropping heavily to the ground beside her and wrapping her arms around her sister's thin waist. She tucked her head over Megan's shoulder and cocooned her. She'd protect her as long as she could.

Shawn stopped in front of the wall of trees and turned back to face the things that chased him. The raspy panting of the dogs was the only sound in the forest.

The figure materialized fully, a tall gentleman in a cape the color of mulberries. He came forward without a smile but with a stride that said he owned everything around him, his huge silver dogs still pacing a half-moon at his heels.

“West,” he said.

Shawn stepped back, confused, and bumped into the fallen trees.

“Taking up guide work, Highness?” came a voice behind him. “Want to see how the common folk live?”

Too afraid to look over his shoulder, Shawn dug his fingertips into the woodpile and kept staring at the man and his cloak.

“Just taking the dogs out for a run,” said the man. “They got carried away.”

“Does Gabriel know you're here?”

He gave a tight-lipped smile. “You watch after these children, won't you, West? In the name of the Sickle.” His gaze shifted to Shawn's face. “We wouldn't want them to get hurt.” The dogs turned on their heels as he dissolved into nothing more than black smoke and shot away. As they all sped off into the woods, their howls echoed back, triumphant.

Erika woke to a burst of hyacinth on her pillowcase. She sat up in bed and lifted the spray of blossoms to her nose, smiling into the open petals.

“Good morning, miss,” Martha called, breezing into the room. She held a stack of towels in one hand and a long brown coat in the other.

“Are you going out?” Erika asked.

“
You
are.” Martha laid the coat at the foot of the bed. “The master is in his study. He told me that he's in no hurry.” She set the stack of towels down on the armchair. “But I know that he is.”

“Oh?”

“I should let him tell you.” Martha moved around to the wardrobe and opened the doors, pulling things down and setting them, piece by piece, on the foot of the bed.

Erika watched her. “That's fine,” she said. “I can wait.”

“It's about your children. He's looking for a consult.”

“A consult?”

“Yes.” Martha looked up from her work. “You've got a touch of pollen, love. On your nose. Just there.”

Erika wiped off her face.

“There's trouble in the transition. You see, you can't bring someone who —”

“Knock, knock.” Jeremiah tapped on the doorframe with his forefinger. “I hope I'm not intruding.” Embarrassment flashed through Erika's eyes, forcing Jeremiah to look away. He hated himself for having hurt her, but he knew that it was for the best. Jegud was right; rogues were never intended to stay this long with their charges. They were too accommodating, too capable of building trust and of meeting expectations. There were reasons why it wasn't allowed.

Martha smiled, tight-lipped.

“I know that I told you there wasn't a rush,” Jeremiah said, eyes riveted to the pattern on the wall, “but I think I may have lied. I'd forgotten about … well, it doesn't matter. I … just …” He nodded. “Wanted to let you know. So. I'll see you.”

Martha followed him out with a sharp
rap
of high heels.

Erika dressed as quickly as she could manage and stripped off the prettiest spray of flowers for her coat buttonhole. She carried her shoes in one hand in order to make it downstairs more quickly.

“I'm sorry about this,” Jeremiah said, holding the door for her. He'd composed himself and now waited as she slipped on her shoes. When she straightened up, he pointed at his lapel. “I'd take that out,” he said.

Erika looked down. “What?”

“Again, I'm sorry.” He plucked the hyacinth away, his skin barely touching the fabric of her coat. He looked as if he wanted to fling the blossoms aside, like hot cinders, but instead he slipped them into his pocket. “I'm glad you liked them,” he said, his tone more gentle, “but if we're out too long and someone notices …” He paused. “Well, flowers are expensive and I might get accused of playing favorites. Souls don't like to see guides playing favorites.”

“I didn't know.”

“I never said that you did.” Jeremiah stepped back and motioned to the threshold. “After you.”

 

Megan brushed the dirt from her hands as she struggled to her feet. Rebecca took up her little sister's fingers and kissed the scraped palms beneath them. Blood came off on her lips.

“Meg, honey,” she gasped, sandwiching her sister's hands inside her own. She looked up into her sister's frightened eyes and felt her stomach turn. “Meg, are you okay?”

Megan had begun to cry. She buried her face in Rebecca's hair, her nose skimming the curve of her sister's neck. Her body shook as she let out her panic. Shawn knelt down and wrapped both of his sisters in his arms, and Rebecca let him. She'd seen the look in his eyes just before she'd gone over the wall. The look that said he would sacrifice himself for them, if only he knew how. Rebecca moved one arm to snake around his, and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. They had to be strong for Megan, she knew, but she was already so tired of being strong. This shouldn't be happening.

“You're welcome, by the way.”

Her eyes flashed up and she saw the man who had intervened for them. He must have been edging on twenty, but the moonlight made him look younger. Under it, his straight blond hair gave off a soft silver glow.

“It's not every day that the crown dispatches a personal welcome party,” he said. “You must mean an awful lot to someone if Michael meant to ransom you.”

“Ransom us?” asked Shawn. He and Rebecca both hurried to their feet. Megan hung close to her sister's legs.

“The king's sons should know better. The woods are not their place, and we don't take kindly to those who don't belong. Present company excepted.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Rebecca.

“You're not dead.” The young man extended his hand in greeting, but Rebecca and Shawn just stared at it. He tilted his arm toward Megan and she stepped forward, ignoring her sister's fingers pressing hard into her shoulder, and accepted his shake. He smiled. “I'm West,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Meg.”

“Who brought you here, Meg?”

She glanced over her shoulder at her siblings, but they just looked frightened. “We don't know. I think my mom.”

“Well then, she must love you very, very much,” said West. “And must be very, very good at getting her way.” He let go of Megan's hand, and she stepped back into the safety of her sister's arms.

“I have a friend on the other side of the lake,” said West, straightening up and looking at Rebecca and Shawn again, “who can help you more than I can. I'll take you over, but you have to earn the oars.”

For the first time, the three of them looked past West to the wall behind him, and the cabin and the statues. They could hear the sloshing of water on a low shore.

“And how do we do that?” asked Shawn.

“You feed the Furies.”

Rebecca slid her hands across Megan's shoulders, to keep her close this time. “What?”

West nodded at the statues. “The maidens. Gentle as a dove if you're steady.”

“And if you're not?”

“You'd better hope you are. Every flower has a bad turn; even Aphrodite had claws.” When no one said anything, he turned and started walking toward the statues. “Come on,” he said. “I'll walk you through.”

“I'll do it,” said Shawn.

“No.” Rebecca tried to smile. “I've got to be the big sister sometime, right?”

“Becca, it's fine. I'll do it.”

“No. I owe you one.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

He shook his head. “This is a bad idea.”

Rebecca took his arm and squeezed it. “You're the smart one, remember? If anything happens, I'd rather you were left with Meg.”

Shawn felt his stomach drop. He thought of West saying, so casually, that they weren't dead, and wondered what it would take to get there. “Rebecca, wait —”

She shook her head and turned to follow West.

“Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone,” he said, pointing to each statue. “Sight, hearing, speech. You have to give one up.”

“For how long?” Rebecca asked.

“I don't deal with that. It depends. Until you find your way out, maybe. You're supposed to have a guide.”

“It can't be too bad, can it?”

“Oh, no,” West said. “It's bad. They say that you get used to it after a while. I'm not sure how.”

“So what do I do?”

“Kiss one,” he said. “And don't resist.”

“Kiss one?”

“I don't make the rules,” West said. “I only see that they're followed.”

Rebecca frowned and looked up at the statues. Creepy things. Especially the one on the end, clutching her jaw like she couldn't stop herself from screaming. Rebecca tapped her own lips and tried to tune out her fear. Something inside of her twisted, making her feel sick, and she hoped that she wouldn't vomit up what was left of her stomach. In the silence, she began to assemble a new façade.
I'm dreaming
, she thought.
I must be dreaming.
It helped her take all this news in stride. She could feel her anxiety slipping away already, and she took a steadying breath and refocused on the statues.

Giving up her tongue, she knew, would turn this into an awful horror movie in which the sidekick tries to warn the hero but can only make desperate and disturbing grunting noises. She looked sideways at Shawn, picturing him as the hero of this nightmare. It didn't make her any more optimistic.

“Do I lose the sense,” she asked West, “or the body part altogether?”

“The latter, I'm afraid,” he said.

Rebecca's frown deepened. No good, then. Her throat would dry up or she'd get an infection. Besides, she had to eat. She wondered why Tisiphone was even an option if it was such a stupid one.

She looked at the middle statue. She'd never been good at charades because she couldn't guess what people were trying to mime, and Shawn was already so bad at making himself clear that he'd render her useless if she were deaf. Besides, she'd snuck out enough times, growing up, that hearing was her greatest asset, as their brush with the rabid ghost dogs had proven. And if she couldn't hear and Shawn yelled for her, she'd keep wandering along, oblivious, and get mauled by something.

Then again, if she gave up sight and heard him yell, she'd just run headlong into a tree, so maybe the point was moot. And if they ever got separated, she would need her eyes. Otherwise, it would be a whole different horror movie scene waiting to happen. Probably a more frightening one. At least for her.

But they wouldn't get separated — none of them would ever leave another behind — and as long as they stayed together, she needed her hearing. It couldn't be too terrible; she'd always been good at Marco Polo. She tagged Shawn every time, even when he cheated.

Rebecca touched her brother's wrist. “You'll help me out, right?” she asked. “If I choose sight, you'll help me get around?”

Shawn looked surprised. “Of course.”

“Just making sure,” she said. “I'll be pissed if you abandon me out here.”

“Why not speech?”

“You think I could go without talking?” She smiled. “And they would've gotten us back there if I hadn't heard them first.” Rebecca breezed past West, with a smile, and climbed the steps to stand level with the first statue.
It's only a dream
, she repeated to herself.
It's only a dream, so nothing bad will happen. I'll just wake up.

West crossed his arms. “She's taking it too lightly,” he whispered to Shawn. “She'll get herself hurt.”

Shawn stayed quiet and kept his eyes on his sister.

A few feet away, the water lapped softly against the sides of the boat. Rebecca leaned in and touched her lips to the statue. It wasn't too bad, she thought. Cold and a little grainy. Regardless, she wouldn't make a habit of Frenching statues anytime soon.
It's only a dream.

Then her body went rigid with pain. A pinwheel spun in front of her eyes, flashing all the colors she'd ever seen. With each new color, the sting increased, and with each new stab, her muscles grew weaker. She reached out and pushed against the arms of the statue, but she could feel them moving toward her, and she could see blood and she could feel it dripping hot down her skin, and she could taste it like iron in her mouth, and she cried blood, and drank blood, and tried so hard to get away. Behind her, through the pounding in her head, she could hear West's voice, and Shawn's, and then she felt Megan's thin arms around her legs, and she tried to pull back, or push her sister off, but she was stuck there. Glued there. Rooted to the stone, and to the earth, and to the anchor of pain that kept her conscious, and then she heard Megan screaming, and realized that she was screaming as well, and that she had been for some time because her throat rasped dry, scraped sore.
Not a dream after all
, she realized too late. Megan's screams were too real — the pain and the blood and the fear too real — and she wasn't going to wake up.

She was going to die.

The blood kept coming, in streams, in rivers, in torrents, and she felt something hard against her eyelids, and then recognized fingers. Hands. She was pushing away and shrieking, and she hurt so much that her knees were weak, but she couldn't fall.

It stopped.

Rebecca staggered back and toppled off the platform. She could feel Megan falling with her. She wanted to open her mouth and call out to her, but her throat was too raw. Megan broke free and rolled away, whimpering like a puppy.

Rebecca reached up to touch her face, but someone else had gotten there first. She was lifted up at the neck, and a knee slid under her upper back to brace her.

“You're fine,” West said into her ear, and he poured a little water down her throat and wiped the sweat from her face. His hands were rough, chapped from work, but he held her lightly, as if she were a doll. Rebecca wanted to open her eyes and smile and thank him, but it seemed too hard. Then she realized that her eyes were already open, but that the whole world was empty.

Her heart burst, the beating so rapid and so hard that she was sure it would rip through her chest. She was going to die.

She gagged on her own breath. “Megan!” she gasped, and dug her nails into West's arms. She needed to feel something concrete. She needed to know that she wasn't crazy. “Is Meg okay?”

West didn't answer. He just cradled her head in the crook of his arm and laid a damp cloth across her burning, vacant eyes.

 

The streets were deserted. A cool sun watched from on high, sending slivers of itself down to dance on the slick cobbles of the Middle Kingdom. Erika and Jeremiah walked side by side, her hand tucked into his jacket pocket, his back as straight as a lamppost. Anyone could tell that Jeremiah was nervous. They kept quiet for lack of conversation and moved quickly for lack of time. Erika wondered how Jeremiah could have memorized the twists and curls of the city streets, when all were lined with the same low brick-and-wood buildings that were more like shacks than houses. Mud for mortar, tin for roofing tiles. The whole city was a slum.