Of Starlight (3 page)

Should I gouge them out?

It would take too much time. I punched him in the face and he scrambled away. I rolled off the bed and grabbed the lamp, yanked out the cord, and chased him down. He saw the lamp floating toward him and his eyes went wide. He made a break for the window, fumbled with the latch, got it open—

I yanked him back by his sweater and kneed him in the crotch. He yelped and twisted away, clutching himself, and I brought the lamp down on the top of his head, cracking the bulb. His knees buckled, and he fell on his back. I stooped over him, fueled by pure adrenaline. He gaped up at me, searching but seeing nothing. I stomped on his face and heard another crack, and he winced and rolled into a fetal position, arms covering his head.

I wanted to kill him.

But I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

I knelt and whispered in his ear. “Next time you try to rape someone, I will kill you.” My voice earned a nod and satisfying whimper.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me,” he pleaded.

I left him begging and hurried toward the front door. The moment I hit the street I ran like hell, and only when I reached the car did I remember Megan. We’d gotten separated.

“Megan, are you here?” I hissed, hoping she’d had the smarts to get the hell out of the house. My voice receded into the night.

“Megan?” I called louder.

No reply.

For the first time that night, my skin felt the chill. Where was she?

Cursing, I sprinted back to the rapist’s house and charged in through the front door, then went room by room, whispering, “Megan . . . Megan . . .
Megan!
”

She’d vanished.

I went back
to the bedroom. The guy was still huddled on the floor, muttering, “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t kill me . . .”

But the girl.

The girl was gone.

Huh? I ran back the way I’d come and stormed through the kitchen. The back door creaked on its hinges, swinging open as a breeze blew in from outside. Someone had just left.

I ran out into the backyard. More weeds. A barbecue grill. No one in sight. A strange panic took hold of me. How could I have lost her? We never should have separated.

“Megan?” I whispered.

Or was she still in the house?

“Megan!” I yelled.

Finally, I heard her in the distance. “Leona?”

Relief melted into me. “Stay where you are,” I shouted, hurrying toward her voice. Back around the side of the house, I crept past the row of trashcans under the bathroom window. No one around.

“Okay, help me out here,” I said.

“Over here,” said her voice below me, and I traced it back to the bushes behind the trash cans, where I could just make out a girl’s body hidden in the shadows, chest slowly rising and falling.

“Wait, is that . . . ?”

The bushes rustled, and a trashcan slid out of the way. “I went back and got her,” said Megan’s voice. “We couldn’t just leave her there with him. Come on, help me get her back to my car. She’s sort of awake.”

“God, you’re right,” I said, stooping to get under one of her arms so we could stand her up together. “I wasn’t even thinking. What happened to you back there?”

“What happened to me? What happened to
you?
” said Megan. “You didn’t come back to the bedroom, so I went looking for you. When I came back, the guy was on the ground, and I’m guessing that was you that beat the crap out of him. Nice. I called your name like fifty times but obviously you weren’t there. So I tried to put myself in your shoes, and I figured you’d head back to the last safe place where we were together, which was out by these trash cans. Since I didn’t want to risk dragging her all the way to the car and being seen by anyone, I brought her here so I could wait for you.”

“You were being smart,” I said. “Me, I kind of freaked out . . . He was about to rape her.”

As we marched the girl forward, her head lulled to the side and she mumbled something incoherent. I caught bits and pieces.

“ . . . Josh . . . love you so much . . .”

“What should we do with her?” I asked, helping her into the backseat of Megan’s Ford.

“One step ahead of you,” she said, wagging the pink smartphone I’d seen inside the rapist’s house. “Someone called her phone while I was walking by it, and I decided to pick up and it turned out to be her boyfriend. He’s on his way here right now. I grabbed this too—” Also clutched in her hand was a wallet. “Took it right out of the guy’s khakis . . . In case she wants to press charges.”

“You’re brilliant,” I said. “High five.”

We missed—she clumsily hit my face and I didn’t hit anything—and we broke into laughter. Together we climbed into the front seats, panting from the exertion. We caught our breath and stripped out of the dark matter, still riding on the adrenaline rush.

But as the high faded, my giddiness gave way to agitation. I had almost killed someone again. On purpose, this time.

“That was awesome,” said Megan, her face hovering next to me.

“Yeah, it was,” I said, lifting my hips to peel the stuff off my legs.

“We could keep doing this,” she said. “We could be like vigilante badasses. We could get back at everyone who’s ever been mean to us . . . I could get back at Tina . . . we could steal from the rich . . .”

“No, we’re only going to use it for good, okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” she said.

“And next time, we’re sticking together. That was stupid to split up.”

She glanced at me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I mumbled.

We’d stopped a rape, but it didn’t feel like enough.

We’d killed a girl.

That guilt weighed on me more than ever.

No amount of good deeds could erase murder. After tonight, I had hoped for an instantly clean conscience. Like making a deposit in an overdrawn bank account. It hadn’t worked. If anything, pretending to be good only clashed with what I’d done, making me painfully aware of it. I knew the evil I was capable of, and tonight I felt like a fraud.

“Shit—” Megan reached for the cabin light, and its orange glow flooded the car. She poked her bare shoulders. “It’s getting worse.”

I crossed an arm over my chest so people outside wouldn’t see my boobs. “What? What is it?”

“Look!” She pointed to her arm.

But it wasn’t just her arm. It was everywhere. Everywhere she had just peeled off the dark matter.

“Megan . . .” I breathed.

Rows and rows of perfectly spaced black smudges followed the contours of her skin, like body art. As I stared in horror, the smudges began to move, to
wriggle
, like there was something crawling under her skin. They coalesced into sharp edges, shapes, strange symbols, then melted back into smudges. I looked down at myself, but my own skin was unblemished.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

“What do I do?” Megan stammered. “What should I do?”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it just . . . it tickles a little bit.”

“But they wear off, right? They fade?”

“Yeah, but it feels like something’s still there. After last time, I could still feel them under my skin.” Her throat moved up and down in a swallow. “It’s really creepy, but I feel like it’s marking me . . . like it’s giving me a serial number or something.”

Chapter 3

The bell rang.

I waited outside Emory’s last class on Monday, fidgeting under the curious stares of students as they crowded into the halls. They knew. I was acting suspicious, and they knew. I squeezed my backpack strap tighter and tried not to meet anyone’s gaze. I had a present for him, which I’d skipped first period to buy.

Inside the classroom, true to his intimidating reputation, the AP European History teacher Mr. Delaney was holding everybody after the bell to explain a frightful homework assignment. I would get him next year.

Last night, a boy named Josh had picked up the girl—her name was Serena—and seeing her collapse sobbing into his arms, seeing his relieved expression and the adoring way he helped her into his car, seeing her safe, had made it all worth it. Apparently, she’d gotten way too drunk at someone’s birthday party—held in a club—and they’d lost track of her. If Megan hadn’t seen that guy pull up with his BMW, or if we had turned onto that street ten seconds earlier, or ten seconds later . . . I shuddered at the thought.

But how many other rapists had attacked last night that we hadn’t seen? We couldn’t stop them all.

Sure enough, the markings on Megan’s body had mostly faded by the time we made it home. It was still creepy, though.

At last, the seniors in Emory’s history class shuffled into the hall, looking shell-shocked and depressed.

But no Emory.

I peeked into the room. It even smelled like a senior classroom. The dusty, faintly sweet smell of sophisticated cologne and book glue that said this is where the real scholarship happened.

When I saw him, my stomach did a flip.

He was packing up his bag while a girl chatted next to him, playing with her hair and obviously flirting with him. A jealous heat rose in my cheeks, and suddenly the gift bag felt like lead in my hands. What had possessed me to buy him a gift? I wasn’t his girlfriend.

Was I his girlfriend?

This girl was probably his girlfriend, this ditzy blonde who giggled at every darkly muttered word from his mouth. How was I supposed to compete with that? I never giggled or flirted or did any of that girly stuff. Plus I was only a junior.

Of course he wouldn’t date a junior.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Watching them now, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

Had I really thought we were dating?

After I killed his sister?
What kind of monster would I have to be?

He shouldered his backpack and ambled toward the door, calling out a casual, “Later, Mr. D,” to the teacher, who merely nodded. The girl scrambled to Emory’s side, still chattering like a little bird.

He reached the doorway and saw me, still standing there like an idiot.

“Yo,” he said, like he wasn’t at all surprised to see me. Not excited or happy, but not surprised, either. I guess that meant it was okay for me to be here.

That was something.

“Hi,” I said, and without thinking I stepped right into his personal space, as if to declare,
I’m here
. Belatedly I realized how forward that probably came across, and I blushed a little.

A hint of amusement crossed his face.

Then something weird happened. It was like the girl became invisible, her voice fell away. I was looking up at him, and he was looking down at me, and we were alone in our own bubble. Nothing else existed.

I noticed the bag in my hand, and extended it to him. “I got you something.”

He took it and slid out a big hardcover book—
Communicating with Ghosts
. He turned it over in his hands, and his eyebrows knotted together. He opened the cover, flipped a few pages.

I bit my lip, waiting for his reaction. Was it inappropriate?

Stupid question. Of course it was inappropriate.
I
was the ghost he thought he’d encountered. I’d faked the whole thing. But I’d wanted to get him something meaningful, something that might help him find closure.

We were now alone in the hallway.

At some point, the blonde girl must have left.

I’d been so focused on Emory, I hadn’t even noticed.

He shut the book carefully and slid it back into the bag, his lips pressed together. I held my breath. Did he like it? My heart raced faster and faster.

“Every time I think I’ve got you pegged,” he said finally with a strained voice, “I don’t. I turn around and you do something like this.” He turned away from me and hurriedly wiped his eyes, his lower lip quivering. “It’s awesome. Thank you.”

My body felt light and heavy at the same time. “Do you think she’ll visit you again?”

He shook his head, blinking as he regained composure. “I think she’s gone. I think she showed me what I needed to see, and now she’s gone.”

“So now what?”

“I can stop looking,” he said. “She’s given me permission to stop looking. I found her body, and now it’s up to the police to find her killer. I’ve done my part.”

I swallowed and nodded.

“They . . . uh . . . they identified the remains,” he said.

My pulse jittered. “And?”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “That was her out there. They think it was a hit and run, and the driver dumped the body.” He shrugged. “They’re looking into it, but they said there’s not a lot to go off after three months.”

They knew. The police knew.

I said nothing.

“But there’s still one piece I can’t figure out,” he said. “It’s still bothering me.”

“What?” I croaked.

“She kept track of her sleepwalking in a diary,” he said. “I think she might have written something in there, a clue to what happened, but I can’t find it. No one ever found it. I figured she had it with her when she died, but it wasn’t next to her body either. The police searched around the area and didn’t find anything.”

“You think someone took it?” I said. I certainly hadn’t.

“Nah, it’s probably nothing,” he said. “The only reason I’m still thinking about it is because she got really mad when I tried to read it. Madder than I’d ever seen her . . .” He gave a weak chuckle. “I remember it was all wet.”

“Wet?”

“Slippery, like she’d spilled lube on it. Kind of sticky, too.”

My eyes flew wide open. “And since she died you haven’t been able to find it? The diary, it’s . . . it’s gone?”

“Probably nothing.” He readjusted his shoulder strap, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah . . . I got to go.” Without another word, he brushed past me and hurried toward the parking lot.

I stood there, too stunned to move.

Ashley’s diary had vanished, like Salamander the snake, like Sarah.

I was so preoccupied I barely noticed a rabid dog had taken hold of my arm and was shaking it viciously. Finally, I peeled my eyes off Emory’s receding back. No, just Megan, tugging for my attention.

“What . . . what do you want?” I said.

“Look!” She thrust a sticky note into my palm, which read,
Kick me
.

“Um . . .”

“That, on my butt. All day.” She nodded, a crazed look in her eyes. “Yep. And I know who it was.”

“Who?” I could hardly focus on her.

“Tina Wilkes,” she said gleefully. “Want to know what else?”

My mouth opened, but I couldn’t form words.

“She’s throwing a party on Friday,” she said, “and we’re going to crash it . . . invisible.”

But I didn’t hear, didn’t register. My brain was still reeling.

Dark matter
.

Had there been dark matter on Ashley Lacroix’s diary, two months before I even knew it existed?

Had it found her first?

“Megan, what are
we doing here?” I said, craning in my seat to get another look at the packed front lawn of Tina Wilkes’s house as Megan passed it again in her widening search for a place to park. Loud music made the windows buzz. “Someone’s going to bump us.”

“It’ll be fun,” she said.

“Why are we here?”

“Because she’s a bitch.”

“I
like
Tina.”

“I can squeeze in there, can’t I?” Megan pointed to a gap between an SUV and a Honda.

“It’s red.”

“Oh, who’s going to check?” In fits and starts, she backed us into the spot, leaving four feet to the curb. “Good enough. Let’s suit up.” She reached for the contact lens case.

I grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at me. “I don’t want a repeat of last time. Where we got separated.”

“We’ll stick together, I promise,” she said.

I held out my hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

Reluctantly, she set her smartphone in my hand. I placed it in my lap, opened the contact lens holder next to it, and began stretching dark matter around the camo case.

“Really, Leona?”

“Put it on vibrate,” I said. “Mine’ll be invisible too. This way if we get separated, I can call you.”

“How are you going to dial my number on an invisible phone?” she said.

I hesitated. She had a point. “No, it’s easy,” I said. “You tap contacts, favorites, then swipe.”

“I’m never going to remember that.”

“Then
ask
your phone to call me. It’s voice activated.” I finished wrapping and handed the invisible phone back to her, which she stared at even though she couldn’t see it.

“Where am I going to put it?”

“Just hold it in your hand,” I said impatiently, busy making my own phone invisible. “If you feel it vibrate, then get your ass somewhere you can talk.”

“Fine, can we do this now?”

“I still don’t get why we’re here.” I propped my own invisible phone on the dashboard and reached into the contact lens case for another dollop of dark matter, which I stretched over my nose. Instantly the membrane spread out across my face. I glanced in the makeup mirror, and saw a very disturbing sight—the back half of my skull and a cross section of brain dissolving away.

“Ew, ew, ew, don’t look at me,” I said, feeling woozy.

“What?” Megan looked over and shrieked.

“Sorry,” I said.

Clutching her heart with an invisible hand, she gasped, “Next time, warn me when you go face first, you sick freak.”

“I told you not to look.” Dark matter crept across my scalp, joining around the roots of my hair and climbing each individual strand. I ran my fingers through my hair. It felt sticky, like I’d sprayed on hairspray, then silky smooth when the dark matter soaked in.

Sticky
.

Like Ashley’s diary.

The one missing piece.

I thought back to Monday’s conversation with Emory, and my prior frustration came rushing back. He hadn’t called me or texted me once since then. Had I offended him with the book? The idea that I had blown my one chance at redemption nearly brought me to tears, and I instinctively turned away from Megan to hide my already invisible face.

Could Ashley really have been in contact with dark matter way back then? Why not? Her dad worked for Rincon Systems, the defense contractor supposedly under contract with Major Rod Connor’s space division or whatever, the guys trying to contain the stuff.

No, not trying to contain it . . . collecting it
.

So many new questions. That night Ashley died, she had been sleepwalking. Sleepwalking . . . did I ever sleepwalk? I had woken up once clutching the meteorite with no memory of grabbing it. I could have done other things, too. Maybe dark matter had influenced Ashley like it had influenced me. Maybe it was dark matter that had sent her out to Foothill Road to die that fateful night three months ago.

Maybe it wasn’t really my fault . . .

I shook those desperate thoughts out of my head, all too familiar with the cycle. The
what-if
path only brought more pain.

Once Megan and I were both invisible—and both clutching invisible phones—we stepped out of her car. A chilly breeze lifted my hair and swept it across my back, instantly unleashing shivers. I unclasped my hand from Megan’s and squeezed my arms to my chest, teeth chattering.

It was only the second day of October, but I was feeling it.

“Stop being a pansy, it’s not that cold,” said Megan’s voice, already drifting toward the party.

I scrambled after her and groped around until I caught her hand again, which I gripped tightly. We came to a waist-high gate. High schoolers gathered in loud groups on the other side, no one looking our way.

“Hold my phone,” said Megan, prying my fingers off her hand and replacing them around the device. Then she let go.

“Megan!” I hissed.

“Shh . . .” The gate rattled, followed by a grunt, a clumsy landing, and a loud, “Ow!”

The heavy bass pouring from the house masked the sounds. No one looked over. I found her again, handed off the phones, and vaulted the gate myself. Then she dragged me across the yard, weaving between the groups and around a pair of kegs, where my toes sank in wet, trampled grass and sloshed through muddy pools of spilt beer.

What the hell was I doing here?

We reached the porch, just as someone pushed open the screen door. Megan hurried to catch it, yanking me up the steps. The screen swung shut, magically stopped mid-swing, and I was tugged into a humid living room. An obstacle course confronted us inside. Gesturing and shouting wildly over the music, drunk kids barreled about the room, colliding and squeezing past each other like the intermeshing teeth of so many gears.

Not one of them could be allowed to touch us.

I had two seconds to take it all in before Megan’s hand was roughly yanked out of my own, leaving me alone.

“Megan,” I whispered.

No reply.

Typical. So fucking typical.

I had my phone up, finger already on the screen, when I spotted Tina Wilkes in the kitchen pouring out drinks, all the way across the living room. Megan must have seen her. Bet that was where she went.

But how to get to the kitchen . . .

Hugging the wall, I slid into the party, squeezing behind a group of jocks. My hip bumped a side table, shaking a lamp and drawing a brief glance from a nearby girl. I took a deep breath to calm my speeding pulse, then darted around the table and backed against the wall again. No one saw, no one noticed.

Tina Wilkes had been our friend last year, probably our best friend, aside from each other. We’d quit hanging with her at the beginning of summer, after Ashley. Murder had a way of doing that. She’d taken it as a snub, and now she talked crap on us to anyone who’d listen.

I really, really couldn’t give less of a shit. I felt bad for her.

But Megan took these things personally.

I scooted another foot along the wall, turned the corner, and ran into the couch, a tangle of groping limbs . . . like the wriggling feelers of an amoeba.

I had to go around.

So I left the security of the wall and tiptoed into the center of the room, moving an inch at a time. My eyes scanned the bodies, calculating which ones might move into my path.