The Merciless II (17 page)

H
e's coming.

I stumble into the narrow room beyond. I prop my uninjured hand against the wall and kneel, my broken arm still cradled at my chest. The soles of my feet sting and ache.

I try the back door first—locked, of course. There's a window next to the door, one of the few in the chapel with the glass still intact. I briefly consider going back through the chapel and climbing through an already broken window, but they're all much higher off the ground. I could break my leg or twist an ankle if I jumped from that height. I shift my weight away from
the wall—biting my lip through the pain—and fumble for a brass candleholder sitting on the table. Sweat coats my palms and my fingers slip over the heavy metal.

I groan, lifting the candleholder in my uninjured hand. It's heavier than I thought it would be. Or maybe my arm is weaker, tired from bearing the weight of my body on the cross. I aim the candleholder at a crack cutting down the center of the stained glass window, narrow my eyes—and throw.

Glass shatters outward, raining red, green, and blue shards across the snow. Cold gusts in through the opening, making me shiver. I rip a silky cloth off the table, wrap it around my fist, my broken arm still clutched to my chest, and knock the remaining glass from the window frame. I think, briefly, of trying to find my shoes. But there isn't time. And I'll run faster barefoot than in heels, anyway.

The window isn't far from the ground. I wedge one hand against the frame, hug my broken arm close to my body, and shimmy through the opening. Broken glass dusts the ground below me. I grit my teeth together and pull my body outside.

The ground rushes toward me. I swing my uninjured arm around to brace for the impact. Pain slams into my palm and shudders through my elbow. Glass bites into my skin. I roll away from it, my chest heaving.

I'm free.

A dozen tiny cuts tingle across my face, and my broken arm is useless. I clutch it with my opposite hand and make myself stand, my legs wobbly beneath me. The snow soothes my shredded feet, numbing the pain enough that I can stagger forward without gasping.

“Okay, Mom,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “What now?”

Find a phone. Call the police
.

The answer comes to me instantly, like my mother really is standing beside me, guiding me to safety. I take one step, and then another, until I'm sure I won't collapse under my own weight. I think of the cell phone hidden under Sutton's mattress and lurch into an unsteady run.
Please let it still be there,
I pray to God or my mom or the Universe—anyone who might be listening.

My body isn't well enough to move quickly. My muscles and skin and bones scream with pain, and it takes all the strength I have to keep my bare feet moving over the icy ground. The bones in my broken arm jostle against one another with every step I take forward, sending waves of nausea rolling over me. Snow flurries through the air, covering the trees and bushes, crunching beneath my toes. It glows white in the darkness, transforming the grounds into someplace unfamiliar and strange. Cold ripples through my bare
feet and up my legs, coaxing goose bumps from my skin. I tighten my jaw and focus only on putting one foot in front of the other, on moving faster, faster . . .

A voice weaves through the trees.

“. . . please . . . Sofia . . . come back.”

I freeze, horror wrapping around my chest. My breath claws out of my lungs and up my throat, upsetting the silence around me with deep, ragged gasps. I press a fist to my mouth to hold it back. I duck behind a tree and sink into the snow, trembling.

Cold hugs my body. It's moved past soothing and onto brutal. Icy wind snakes up my velvet skirt and down the back of collar. It freezes the tears leaking from my eyes. I curl my arms and knees close to my body.

I grit my teeth together to keep myself from shivering. Wind blows in my ears, making it impossible for me to hear anything else. But the noise means Jude can't hear me, either.

Footsteps crunch in the snow. Then the wind shifts, carrying the sound away. I press my lips together, breathing through my nose. Tiny silver clouds hover in the air before my face. Darkness around me. I listen so hard that my head aches and my ears buzz. I strain my eyes staring into the darkness, but I see only ice-coated trees, their bare branches clawing at the sky.

I exhale, and my muscles start to relax. He must have
passed me. The tension leaves my neck and shoulders. I stretch my legs out to keep them from cramping.

The wind shifts again. It tickles my arms and creeps into my ears. Then—

“I know you're out here.”

The voice sounds close, maybe a yard or two away from where I'm hiding. A scream bubbles up my throat—I bunch my fist in front of my mouth to keep from letting it out.

A tiny, dancing flame appears in the darkness—Jude's lighter. He'll see me if he keeps moving forward.

“I'm sorry,” Jude calls. His voice makes my stomach turn. I press my back against the icy bark behind me, holding my breath. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

I hold my breath. My heart thuds in my chest, so loud that I'm certain Jude will hear it, even with the wind blowing in his ears. Jude walks behind a tree, his lighter flickering out as he disappears from view. My leg muscles contract, tensing to run. It takes me another moment to spot the tiny orange flame again and, when I do, it's smaller. Like a firefly in the darkness.

My muscles relax—he's walking away from me. Silently, I pull my legs closer to my body. Something catches my eye. I turn—then press my lips together to keep from gasping out loud.

A single, bloody footprint mars the virgin snow. I
shift my gaze farther down the path and there's another one. And another. They glare up at me, such a bright red against the white. I stare at them in horror, willing them to disappear.

They lead right to me.

Jude heads farther into the trees, the darkness swallowing his tiny lighter flame. I exhale, my heart still hammering in my chest. But he'll circle back this way eventually, and then he'll see the bloody footsteps and follow them to me. I can't just run. I need a plan.

I hear my mom's voice.
If you can't walk, then crawl
. It's something she used to tell me when I was frustrated.
Keep going,
it meant. Never give up.

I ease down onto my knees and one hand, still clutching my useless broken arm to my chest. Even though I'm not putting any pressure on it, my arm still feels numb and unsteady and
wrong
. I dig my teeth into my lower lip and force myself forward.
It's no worse than the cuts on my feet,
I tell myself. But that's not true. It feels like something isn't lining up right, like all my nerve endings are grinding against one another. I cringe against the pain and do an awkward three-legged crawl through the snow. After a few feet, I glance over my shoulder to see whether I'm trailing blood.

Nothing but pure, white snow stretches behind me. I exhale, relieved. My hands and knees leave pockmarks
in the path, but the snow's still coming down hard. Soon, even that trail will be hidden.

I groan and stagger forward. A shallow creek runs through the woods ahead. I can't hear the sound of water but I know it's close; I can practically picture it weaving through the trees. It cuts across the grounds and flows up past the dormitories. I'll be able to run in the water without worrying about trailing blood. Then I'll get to the dormitories, to Sutton's phone under the mattress in our room. Maybe Sister Lauren's there, too—her room is on the ground floor. She'll help me.

I move my hand over the ground as I crawl, preparing for the earth to transform into wet, slimy rocks. Darkness presses in, thick and ominous. Even the moon has ducked behind a cloud. I watch for Jude's lighter, but see nothing. Snowflakes kiss the back of my neck. I shiver as the cold melts into my skin.

I crawl onward, dragging my knees through the snow, ignoring the pain stabbing into the bones of my injured arm. Cold air numbs my shins and nose and mouth. I lower my hand to the ground—

—and pitch forward. Hard. My palm slams into ice and slides out from beneath me.

“Dammit.” I breathe, pushing myself back up. I run my hand over the water's frozen surface. It's solid, but thin. I lean forward and jam my elbow into the ice. It
cracks beneath me, soaking my arm with freezing water. I push myself up to my feet and step in.

Cold like I've never felt before envelops my feet. I swear under my breath, and hug my broken arm closer to my chest. It's so cold it burns, so cold that the bottoms of my legs disappear. It feels like my body ends at my knees, like I'm tottering forward on bloody stumps. I force myself to move. To walk. Then run. I can barely feel the sharp rock bed beneath my feet, digging into my ragged skin. The icy fire licks at my legs, creeping up past my thighs. Broken ice floats through the water around me.

Jude's voice echoes through the woods. He must've realized he went the wrong way. He's circling back now. I release a choked sob, fear curling around my spine. I push my legs against the current. Faster,
faster
. A dim light flickers through the trees. I glance over my shoulder. Looks like his lighter, but I can't be sure. I turn back around and press onward.

The girls' dormitories materialize from the darkness, the moss-covered brick barely more than a shadow in the trees. I stumble out of the creek, my legs so numb they give way beneath me. I slam into the ground, ice tearing the skin along my knees. I gasp and shove myself back to my feet. My toes curl into the snow as I pitch forward. I sprint to the first-floor entrance, my fingers fumbling
for the doorknob. For one horrible second I worry it'll be locked. But it turns, easily, beneath my hand.

“Sister Lauren!” I throw the door open and hurry inside. My voice echoes off the walls. I push the door closed behind me, taking a second to slide the dead bolt shut. There are at least three other entrances into the dorms, but the lock could hold Jude off for a few precious minutes.

“Sister Lauren!” I call again. Her room is at the end of the hall. I stagger forward, collapsing against her door. I beat my fists against the wood. “
Please
,” I whisper, closing my eyes. I lift my hand to knock again and that's when I remember—Midnight Mass. Sister Lauren isn't here. Nobody is.

I wipe a tear off my cheek and try the doorknob—locked. My heartbeat speeds up. I force myself to breathe.
In, and then out
. The auditorium is back toward the chapel—too far to run without Jude catching me. So what's next?

“Phone,” I whisper out loud. Sutton's phone is one floor up, but I remember seeing a landline in the kitchen on this floor. I push myself off Sister Lauren's door and lurch down the hall.

My bare feet slap against the floor. The icy water numbed my wounds, and I barely even feel the sting of pain through my skin as I run. I glance behind me to
see if I'm leaving behind bloody prints. The cold must've done something to the cuts because I spot only a few drops of blood glistening from the tile.

I push through the kitchen door, pausing for a moment to catch my breath. The phone hangs on the far wall, next to the fridge. It looks like something from the '70s—avocado green, with a curly cord dangling from one end. I dart toward it without bothering to turn on the lights, yanking the receiver from its cradle. I lift the phone to my ear and poise my finger to dial.

No dial tone.

“
Shit!
” I jab the dial pad with my finger, but nothing happens. The storm must've knocked out the phone lines. I push down the hook, then release. Silence.

A door creaks open. I freeze, the phone still at my ear. The door swings shut with a soft thud.

“It's Sister Lauren,” I whisper to myself. Footsteps move down the hallway. Creaking. I sink back against the wall. The footsteps don't sound like Sister Lauren's. They're heavier. A boy's.

Fear creeps down through my arms and legs. I hug my broken arm to my body and curl my toes into the linoleum. My fingers dig into the sides of the phone so hard that the plastic creaks.

I place the phone back on the cradle. An axe hangs on the wall behind a pane of glass that reads
BREAK IN
CASE OF FIRE
. My eyes linger on the case, but I don't have time to break the glass—and, besides, Jude would hear it shatter. I lower my hand to the drawer nearest to me and pull it open gently. A two-pronged carving fork lies inside. I curl my fingers around the wooden handle. It feels good in my hand.

Someone moves down the hallway, his footsteps almost silent. I swallow, staring hard at the kitchen door. I won't be able to leave this room without him seeing me. I need to hide.

I sink down to the floor, carefully opening a cupboard door. There's a lot of space below the sink, as if it was made for trash cans and recycling containers. It's empty now, so I climb inside, leaving the cupboard door open a crack so I can see out into the kitchen. My broken arm screams with pain as I squeeze into the tight space, but I grit my teeth together, refusing to make a sound.

I watch the door, the carving fork clutched tightly in one hand. And wait.

T
he kitchen door creaks open, and a shadow spills across the floor. I stare at the dark shape, willing it to go away.

“Sofia?” Jude steps into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind him. He flips the light switch, but nothing happens. The storm must've knocked out the electricity, too. Jude swears under his breath and rakes a hand back through his hair.

“I saw the blood in the hallway,” he says. “I know you're in here.”

Blood
. My eyes dart across the kitchen floor. It's hard to make out anything in the dark, but the more I search,
the more I see. There's a bloody toe print next to the phone, barely visible in the shadows, and a smudge across the drawer where I grabbed the carving fork. Tiny red drops glisten on the linoleum, stopping directly in front of the cupboard where I'm hiding.

I tighten my grip on the carving fork. Sweat gathers between my fingers and the wooden handle. It's only a matter of time before he sees all that blood. And then he'll know exactly where I am.

“I love you, Sofia,” Jude says in a low voice. “Everything I did was for us.”

His footsteps are silent, his movements careful, like a predator. He reminds me of videos I've seen online: jungle cats hiding in tall grass, coyotes stalking their prey.

I lean as close to the crack in the cupboard doors as I dare, wincing as I shift my broken arm to the side. Jude stops in front of the pantry, then leans close to press his ear to the door. He lowers his hand to the doorknob and turns it, slowly, so the latch doesn't click.

He waits a beat—then rips the pantry door open.

I feel a little flicker of triumph.
Not there, asshole
.

Jude pushes the door closed and lowers his forehead to the wood. “Please, Sofia. I only wanted to help you.”

His voice sounds soft, almost sweet. But I see how the muscles in his shoulders have tightened, and how
he's curled his hand into a fist. I'm not fooled. I squeeze the carving fork tighter.

“I was just trying to take care of you.” He pulls the door to the walk-in freezer open, then swears under his breath when he finds it empty. He shakes his head, pushing the door shut again. “I want us to be
together
.”

He practically spits the word
together
, giving it sharp edges. He's getting frustrated. He runs a hand through his hair again, and this time he leaves it mussed. It sticks out on his head in odd angles. He's running out of places to look. My eyes shift to the blood spots on the floor. In the darkness, they look black. Like drops of oil.

“It'll be better this time. I promise.”

I curl my toes into the splintery cupboard floor. Blood pools beneath them. The skin along the bottoms of my feet stings.

I barely notice. I have a plan.

Jude moves away from the freezer. He takes a step closer to the sink. I can't see his face from this angle anymore, so I study the soles of his heavy leather boots. They're all water-stained and flecked with ashes and blood. My blood.

Something sour hits the back of my throat. I imagine jamming the carving fork through the leather, and down into his toenails. I imagine driving the forked prongs deep enough to pierce flesh. I tighten my grip on the
weapon. It feels good.
Right
. As though the wood was designed to fit against my palm.

Jude steps closer. The glistening drops of blood I trailed along the linoleum are less than a foot away from his shoes. All he has to do is glance down at the floor and he'll see them. I swallow. My chest feels tight, my throat dry. It's now or never.

“Sofia—”

I push the cupboard door open. Jude takes a quick step backward, eyes going wide.

“Wait,” I say. I'm kneeling on the kitchen floor, my broken arm curled against my chest like an injured bird. I use the cupboard door to help push myself to my feet, careful to keep my uninjured arm hidden in the folds of my dress. I lean against the door and wince at the sudden flare of pain through my broken arm. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hidden from you.”

The surprise drains from Jude's face. He presses his lips together and the muscle in his jaw tightens. He's all control again.

“I was worried,” he says. I tilt my head down, looking up at him through my eyelashes. Concern creases the skin between his eyebrows.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. “I know I went pretty hard on you.”

“Nothing more than I deserved.” I take a step toward
him, my uninjured arm still pressed to my side, hiding the carving fork in the tattered folds of my dress. Jude looks down at my feet, at the blood pooling on the linoleum beneath my dirty toes.

“The Lord will make you clean,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He reaches for my shoulder, and it takes all of my willpower not to cringe away from his touch. He pulls me toward him, wrapping one arm around my back to hold me to his chest. My broken arm is pressed between us.

“I knew you'd understand,” he whispers into my hair. “I'm doing this for you. For us—”

I whip my arm out from behind my skirt and drive the carving fork deep into his shoulder.

Jude's face crumples. His eyes lose focus. I wait until they flicker back to mine, until I'm certain he can see my face. I twist the fork. Jude opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“Go to hell,” I say.

Jude stumbles backward, smacking his hip against the side of the fridge. I shove past him, and scramble onto the counter. Pain flares through my broken arm and licks at my shredded feet. I barely notice. I reach for the window above the sink, grunting as I shove it open one-handed. Cold air gusts in, wrapping around my body and making my skirt flap up around my legs. I climb out, holding
tight to the window ledge as I lower myself to the ground. Snow crunches beneath my bare feet.

Jude grabs my wrist before I let go of the window. He digs his fingers deep into my skin, cutting off the circulation to my fingers.

“
Devil
,” he chokes out. I try to yank my arm away from him, but he holds tight. My other arm is useless—there's no way I'll be able to push him off me.

“Let me
go
!” I snarl. Jude cocks an eyebrow. He reaches for the carving fork still jutting out of his shoulder.

Brooklyn's voice echoes through my head.

You'll have to use your teeth.

I sink my teeth into Jude's hand, biting down until I taste blood. He screams and reels away from me. I can't seem to unclench my jaw. I dig into his skin until something tears, and flesh comes loose in my mouth. My weight shifts backward. I'm falling.

I slam into the frozen ground shoulder first. Pain rips through my broken arm. Everything feels white-hot and dazzlingly bright. Stars explode in front of my eyes. I clutch my arm, groaning. Blood coats my lips and teeth, filling my mouth with the taste of salt and pennies.

Jude's blood. That thought makes me grin. The pain in my arm doesn't seem so bad all of a sudden. It's just a dull, throbbing ache, like a muscle cramp. I push myself to my feet and stumble toward the driveway twisting
past the dormitory. If I follow it for long enough, it'll lead to the main road, which runs all the way to Hope Springs. Someone there will help me.

Snow swirls around me, thick and cold. I can't hear Jude, but I know he's coming. I picture him pulling the carving fork out of his shoulder, climbing through the window after me. I shuffle through the snow, willing my legs to move faster. The pain is back. It doesn't feel dull anymore. It's bright and sharp. It burns through me like a fire. It's so all-consuming that I can't tell whether it's coming from my broken arm or my shredded feet or the whip marks across my back. My knees buckle. I stumble, and then collapse onto my knees.

Something moves through the trees. I stiffen and squint into the swirling snow. It's too big to be an animal, and it can't be Jude—Jude's still behind me.

“Help.” I try to shout, but my voice is too weak. I crawl forward, every movement agony. I'm in the middle of the driveway, I think. I feel concrete beneath my knees.

“Help!” I call again, louder this time. The figure pauses, and then, slowly, turns toward me. I think I see a white coat. Dark hair.

Mom
, I think, desperately. Tears clog my eyes. It can't be my mom. She's dead.

“Help,” I call again. And then my arm trembles and gives out.