The Cemetery Boys (15 page)

They exchanged glances before Markus shrugged. “Not much. Just getting a few things in order before we head to the Playground tonight.”

Devon shot him a look that screamed
shut up
. It brought an immediate question to my lips. “Anything I can help with?”

Devon nodded for Markus to keep going on without him. Markus continued up the street, joining Nick and Thorne, who were standing outside a liquor store that looked like it doubled as a Laundromat. When Devon turned back to me, his eyes took on a steely gaze, as if I were causing a problem. “You're not invited tonight, Stephen.”

I had no idea where this was coming from. Was he embarrassed after telling me they believed in stories about giant, winged monsters? Because all sorts of people believed in all sorts of things, as Cara had reminded me. I didn't care.

I said, “Come on. Seriously? I need to get outta the house. My dad—”

“Stephen.” Devon's eyes went cold. “Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I said.” He looked over his shoulder and I followed his line of sight. A man who I'd guess was homeless by the looks of him had stepped out of the liquor store and was engaging in conversation with Markus and the others. Even from this distance, I could see the ugly hat on the man's head. It looked like something a fisherman would wear, only instead of various hooks and bobbers, it featured ugly patches of several different colors.

After a moment, Markus waved to Devon. Devon nodded and turned back to me. “Look, tonight's about me and the boys. Go home, sleep off what's left of that hangover, and tomorrow everything will be right as rain.”

“Tomorrow?” My stomach clenched. He was making me the same promise I'd made to his sister not ten minutes before. Whether or not either promise was an empty one remained to be seen.

“Yeah. You have my word on that.” He slapped me on the back and continued his trek toward the liquor store and the rest of the boys.

I called after him, “Who's the guy?”

He didn't turn back to me—Devon was finished with this conversation. But as a small token of our friendship, he shouted his best advice. “Trust me, Stephen. The fewer
questions you ask, the better off you'll be.”

“Devon, have you seen Lane?” I called, but he didn't answer or turn around at all. Maybe he didn't hear me. I hoped he just didn't hear me, and wasn't avoiding the question altogether. I really wanted to believe that Devon was a boy that Spencer had the wrong idea about. That even if he was a little off, he was no more dangerous than the rest of us. But I had a feeling he knew exactly where Lane was. And where Lane was just might be in a hospital bed two towns over.

I hoped that man was just buying their liquor.

Later that night, after I'd walked everywhere I could think of that wasn't anywhere near our block, I snuck back inside my grandmother's house and stowed away in my room, successfully dodging my dad on the way. Moonlight drifted into my room, painting everything a pale blue. It was a full moon tonight, and surprisingly cool. A voice in the back of my head kept whispering, but I put on some music and tried not to listen to it. Even so, the voice came through loud and clear.

As any Hollywood movie could tell you, a lot of rituals were tied to the full moon. For everyone from ancient Mayans to voodoo conjurers to modern-day witches, full moons were supposed to be the nights for performing all
sorts of crazy shit . . . including sacrifices.

Devon's voice echoed through my mind.
“It's said that the only way to appease their fury, the only way to make the bad times go away again . . . is by offering up a human sacrifice.”

Okay, so Devon and the others believed in the existence of the Winged Ones. That seemed hard to deny after everything. But how far would they be willing to go to appease the monsters and bring about an end to Spencer's so-called “bad times”? Would they kill a man? Maybe a homeless man who they'd encountered outside of the liquor store? If my hunch was correct, Devon may have been responsible for one death already.

Just how far were the boys willing to go for a belief?

How far was I willing to go for mine?

The next morning, I rose early—mostly because I'd barely slept the night before. How could I sleep when my brain absolutely refused to shut up, and my imagination insisted on dredging up horrific images of Devon and the guys taking the life of some helpless guy, just to slake the bloodthirst of imaginary flying monsters?

So instead, I tossed and turned and tried as hard as I could to make sense of it all. And try as I might to be logical and sensible, my thoughts kept going back to Devon's journal. I might not believe in the Winged Ones, but the boys clearly did. And belief was a funny thing. It made people
do things that theories and ideas couldn't. Beliefs made people associate with certain people or not. Beliefs made people give money to certain causes or avoid them altogether. Beliefs made people sacrifice, be it luxuries or lives. Ideas could be changed. Theories could be modified. But beliefs were hard-core. They were solid. They were something that the believers took very, very seriously. And the notion that Devon, Markus, and the others believed in something I expected to encounter only on late-night TV scared the hell out of me. Not because the monsters might exist—really. But because my friends might be on their side.

The sun had barely come up when I stepped out the front door, and as I passed Devon and Cara's house, I felt like I was walking through a ghost town. No lights were on in any of the windows I passed. No people were moving about on the streets. No human sounds were in the air. It was just me and my footfalls moving through the town of Spencer before anyone else was awake.

I had to visit the Playground—had to know if there was any real, solid reason to suspect Devon and the boys of wrongdoing. But I had to do it when I could be relatively certain that no one else would be around.

For once, I felt safer during the day.

So I moved as silently as I could and hoped that no one would see me. As I passed a house on the far end of town, only
about a block from the cemetery, I thought I saw a curtain move, and my heart jumped into my throat. It was paranoia, I was sure. No one was watching me. The boys weren't really killing people in order to save their hometown from ancient beings. The entire town wasn't somehow in on it. I was being ridiculous. My imagination was on overdrive—something not out of the realm of possibility.

But . . . if I had dreamed up the entire idea, then why was my heart rattling inside my chest as I reached the Playground and passed William Spencer's headstone? Why did I have a gut feeling that said I should be extremely careful in my search, so that I would have proof to show the police? Because deep down, I was already convinced that Devon, Markus, and the others had done something truly horrible.

And even if I was wrong about the rest of the boys, I didn't have to dig very deep to find my belief that Devon would resort to something like that. Devon had a touch of Martha in him, for sure. And, more dangerous still, the kid had nothing to lose.

A thin layer of fog covered the cemetery, snaking between the tall tombstones. The ground looked marshy at first glance, but that observation proved wrong when I crossed the grass between the graves. I looked around every stone I saw, hoping for either irrefutable evidence to prove my terrible theories or else a lack of evidence to prove my friends' innocence. I left
the tallest tombstone for last. That was Devon's stone—the one he liked to perch on top of. If there was evidence of ritual sacrifice anywhere, it would be there.

Ritual sacrifice? Really? Was that what I was looking to prove? The idea sounded so insane, even though it seemed entirely plausible. I needed evidence, because without it, who was going to believe me? Without it . . . how could I be sure I even believed myself?

The ground around Saint Devon's perch was bare—nothing but dirt and rocks and dying grass. Sighing heavily, I turned toward where the road dead-ended, where Devon had nearly killed me that first night with the group. The thought entered my mind jumbled, but quickly that jumble turned into what seemed like an obvious question. What if Devon had pushed the homeless man off the cliff? He wouldn't even need the help of the guys to do that.

Gravel crunched under my shoes as I approached the cliff. Crouching, I looked over the edge, but saw nothing. No remnants of the man's clothes, no evidence of blood or even a struggle. I began to stand again, but something caught my eye. It was small, relatively thin, and poking out from under my shoe. I moved my foot and picked it up, turning it over in my hand to examine it. Rope. The ends of it were burnt. It was probably nothing, but it might've been everything. I walked back toward town, shoving the bit of rope into my
front pocket. Maybe my friends had been pulling my leg about believing in the Winged Ones. Maybe this was all part of the same joke that began the night Devon pushed me over the edge. In a way, finding inconclusive evidence was the worst thing that could have happened.

But my thoughts turned to the cast on Markus's arm, and the fear in his eyes when I'd asked him if it had been Devon's doing.

No one could possibly understand how I was feeling. But one person could make me forget about it—if only for a little while. And if I happened to see her brother in the process, well, I could confront him about what happened and kill two birds with one stone.

As quickly and quietly as I could, I made my way to Cara's front yard and tossed a discarded bottle cap at her window. The metal made a
tick
sound as it bounced off the glass, and I wasn't sure if she'd heard it or not. But then a moment later, her bedroom window opened, and she poked her head outside. Her hair was tangled and yesterday's eyeliner was smudged all around her half-asleep eyes, but I'd never seen her look so beautiful, so real. Remembering the last words I'd said to her, I whispered loudly, hoping not to wake anyone else. “It's tomorrow.”

“Barely.” She snorted, rolling her eyes. “What do you want?”

She was pissed, and rightfully so. Suddenly, I was sorry for not telling her about my dad and what he'd said about breaking up with her. Suddenly, I wanted to tell her everything and anything else that she wanted to know. Because she was important to me. Because she was the only thing in my life that didn't make me question who I was or what I was doing. Tilting my head slightly to the right, I smiled up at her. “To apologize for acting like a jerk. Is that okay?”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a sultry smirk. “Yeah. But it'll be better if you come inside. Just be quiet on the stairs. Don't wake up my mom.”

“Or Devon.”

“He didn't come home last night. Probably staying with Markus or something.” Her words gave me pause, but there wasn't much more I could do about it now. Stepping up on the porch, I moved as quietly as I could, crossing the old, creaking boards and opening the door. The hinges squeaked, sending a barrage of swear words through my mind. I crept up the stairs and each step squeaked, too. It was as if the entire house were trying to do me in and prevent me from ever getting inside Cara's room again.

At the top of the stairs was a small hallway, and to the right there was an open door. Cara's room was to the left, and I was pretty certain that Martha's room was downstairs on the main level. So that had to be Devon's room. Curiosity
steered me right and plain old nosiness flipped on the light.

There were no windows in Devon's room, and the room itself was only about half the size of Cara's. The far wall featured a closet, its entire door covered with posters from bands. Old bands like the Ramones and the Sex Pistols were featured right alongside the White Stripes and Florence and the Machine. A bookcase took up the rest of that wall, but few books occupied the space. Instead, Devon had an impressive collection of vinyl. A record player sat to the right of his bed instead of a nightstand. Each wall was painted a different jewel tone, but the bedding on his queen-sized mattress was all black. To the left of his bed sat a freestanding shelf, with a menagerie of weirdness. One shelf held an anatomical model of a hand—the wooden kind that artists use for drawing. It was posed with its middle finger up, flipping the bird to all who entered his domain. On the shelf below that sat six old dolls' heads—none with eyes. On the shelf below those sat a half-empty two liter of Mountain Dew and a jar filled with some viscous liquid, along with something that looked like it might have once been alive. Something else was laying on the shelf, but I couldn't quite make it out without picking it up. I took a step farther in, and headed for the shelf.

“Wanna see something cool?” Cara's voice made me jump. My heart flew into my throat and I stumbled backward before realizing that it was her. Giggling, she gave my
shoulder a playful shove and nodded into the room. “He painted liquid Tide on the walls. You know, the laundry detergent. It glows under black light.”

She flipped the wall switch, turning off the overhead light, and I heard her clicking something on to my left. Suddenly, the walls lit up with her brother's artistry. I stood there in shock for a moment, almost unable to breathe.

On the wall behind his bed, a pair of giant wings had been painted in broad, almost frightening brushstrokes. The wings glowed blue under the black light. But what had shaken me to my core were the words painted beneath them.

All things to Them. All lives for Them. All praise the Winged Ones.

As Cara flipped the ceiling light back on, my eyes caught the unidentified item on the bottom shelf by the bed. I didn't know why I hadn't recognized it before, but now it seemed so obvious.

It was the homeless man's hat.

Devon must have killed the man and taken his hat as a memento. Simple as that. But if Devon hadn't come home last night, when had it gotten here?

Cara hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, and I wasn't about to tell her she was living with two lunatics instead of just one. No, I was going to turn her brother in, and then take Cara away from this town, this place, this
family. I was going to save her. The way that no one else could. The way that no one else would.

“Come on.” She gave my sleeve a tug before releasing it and moving down the hall to her room. After she was out of sight, I grabbed the hat and hid it behind my back, exiting Devon's room with an awkward shuffle. On the way out, I noticed an old, beat-up baseball bat sitting beside Devon's door. Painted on it in bright red were the words
problem solver
.

Cara was already sitting on her bed when I got to her room, and immediately patted the seat next to her. Crossing the room, I felt my heart racing, but not because of the flirtatious look in her eyes or the fact that she'd just beckoned me to her bed.

Her bed. That place that she slept at night. Possibly naked.

My heart was racing because of what I was holding in my hand, and what it would mean if I gave it to the police and explained what Devon had done. It would mean Cara losing her brother. It would mean crushing her, just to save her. But I had to do it. There was no other way.

As I took a seat beside her, I carefully dropped the hat to the floor. Cara lay back on the bed, bringing me with her. She laid her head on my chest and we stayed like that, silent, for several minutes. Her cheek felt warm, even through the fabric of my shirt. I could have lain there for hours, days, months, years, forever.

It was Cara who finally broke the silence. “So about that apology . . .”

Running a hand over her silky black hair, I said, “I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't have left like that.”

Her words were hushed. “You were acting so weird, and then you just took off. Were you mad at me or something?”

“No.” I swallowed hard, and tried to pry my thoughts from the hat on the floor. “Not just you. I've been avoiding everything. Things are just rough right now, y'know?”

“Don't do that again. I may not forgive you so easily next time.” She flashed me a small smile and then ran her fingers over my chest. I melted a little into the mattress. “What's wrong?”

“It's . . . nothing.”

“You're lying to me. Something is really bothering you, Stephen. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me.” She sat up then, sudden, overwhelming concern in her eyes. “Did Devon do something?”

“No.” I sat up, too, wishing so much that we could just go back to lying down together and not talk about her brother. Or murder. Or monsters that might or might not be real.

“Did I?”

“No. No, Cara. It's nothing like that.” I rested on my elbows, the half-truth ready, aimed, and cocked. “Look, I'm just having a really hard time lately, with my grandmother
and my dad and all. It's just stress. Promise.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not sure if I believe you.”

I reached out with my right hand and cupped her chin in my palm. The way her makeup was smudged made her look so young, so innocent, so lost. “I'd do anything to protect you, y'know. Even if it meant hurting you.”

She grabbed my hand in hers. “You're scaring me, Stephen. What's going on?”

“Nothing. I'm sorry.” I pulled my hand away and lay back on the bed, wishing that she'd join me. Wishing that I could just forget about all of this and go back to thinking about her fingernails scraping slowly across the skin on her thigh. But it was too late for that. This had to be dealt with. And soon.

“About what? What are you sorry for?”

“I can't really say.” I swallowed again, my throat getting drier by the second. To save her, I had to hurt her. To do the right thing, I had to betray her trust completely. I shook my head, the words soft on my tongue. “Not yet.”

First, I'd try the police. I'd give them the hat and tell them everything they needed to know. I'd answer any questions they asked. I'd do whatever they wanted me to do to help prove this case. And if they didn't believe me, I'd find another way.