The Merciless II (20 page)

I yank the axe out of Brooklyn's chest. The blade makes a slurping sound as it leaves her body. Brooklyn glances at the wound casually, like she's examining a new tattoo or piercing. She drags her fingers through the blood, staining them red.

“Sofia—” Blood bubbles from her mouth and streams over her chin. It coats her teeth and lips.

I swing the axe again and Brooklyn flies backward. Her body smacks into the icy ground, arms flailing above her head like a rag doll. I climb on top of her and I bring the axe down, over and over. Her blood feels tacky and warm against my skin. Almost like candlewax. I feel it in my nostrils and in my ears and in the corners of my eyes. It sinks between my fingers and crusts up under my fingernails.

Brooklyn laughs. The sound is deep and unnerving.
It echoes in my ears. I bring the axe down again. My muscles burn, and my broken arm has gone numb, but I keep swinging. It's as if I'm being controlled by something else, something much stronger than my weak, ruined body.

The flames around me flicker, and then die, until all that's left is a black circle of soot. I pull the axe out of Brooklyn's body and swing it again, almost enjoying the low, meaty sound of the blade sinking through her organs. Brooklyn's eyes have rolled back in her head. Her chest is shredded and bloody. But,
still
, she laughs. The sound echoes through the air. It's like an air siren. Like an emergency alert, warning people of a flood or a tornado. Doesn't anyone else hear it?

Lights flash from in the trees. I notice voices, too, but they don't seem real. They're like something out of a dream. I should look up, but all I can think about is Brooklyn. I have to destroy her. I have to—

“Put down your weapon!”

The command cuts through me. I freeze, finally lifting my head. The sun has started to rise, and a silvery-white glow paints the horizon. The scene around me slams into focus.

Two police cruisers have pulled onto the quad, their thick tires crushing the dry, icy grass. The cops Sister Lauren called. They've parked a few yards away, doors
thrown open to act as barricades. Police officers duck behind the doors, aiming silver-and-black guns through the open windows. Red and blue lights flash from the tops of the cruisers, and a siren howls through the air.

I glance around the quad, dazed. Father Marcus lies crumpled in the snow a few feet away. He's not just dead, he's been completely torn apart. The police officer closest to me levels his gun at my head. His hands tremble.

“I said
put down your weapon
!”

“It's okay,” I shout. I stand, my legs wobbling beneath me. “I already—”

A half-dozen hammers click into place.

“Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head!”

Weapon? I glance at my hand and see that I'm still clutching the bloody axe. I look down at Brooklyn's body.

Brooklyn's bleached pixie cut has grown back into Sister Lauren's shaggy brown bob. The wrinkles have slithered back across her forehead and crinkled the skin around her eyes. Her cheeks have hollowed, making her look older. Sister Lauren's eyes stare up at me, cloudy and still.

I've killed an innocent person. Brooklyn is gone.

“No,” I whisper. I lower my arm to my side, and the axe slips from my fingers, hitting the ground with a hollow thwack. Dimly, I notice a couple of police officers
leap out from behind the cruiser and race toward me. Someone jerks my arm behind my back, and slides a cold, metal handcuff over my wrist. My broken arm is still in its sling, so he lets the other cuff dangle from my wrist, useless. Another officer has his gun aimed at my head. He's saying something I don't quite hear.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you . . .”

But all of this seems far away. Like it's happening to someone else, or like it's a story I heard once, but forgot the end of. I stare at Sister Lauren's face and horror lodges itself deep inside my gut. It seeps into my organs and my bones and my skin. It becomes a part of me at a cellular level.

“That's not her,” I say, more to myself than to the officers leading me back to the police car. “You don't understand. She was a demon, but I killed her. We're safe now. We're finally safe.”

I
've been a patient at the Mississippi Hospital for the Criminally Insane for a month and two days when Nurse Simmons tells me I have a visitor. I curl my fingers into the sleeves of my straitjacket, digging my stumpy nails into the canvas. I'm not sure who it could be. Everyone I know is dead.

The visitor's room looks almost exactly like a suburban living room, except that bars cover the windows and all the paintings and furniture are bolted into place. Two men wait inside. One wears a stiff blue policeman's uniform. The other is dressed in a suit and tie, a wool coat hanging from his shoulders. They sit shoulder to
shoulder on the white sofa, a manila folder on the coffee table in front of them.

I stiffen and Nurse Simmons places a hand on my elbow, gently nudging me forward. “It's okay, Sofia. The nice officers here just have a few questions for you.”

She moves her hand to my back to steady me as I slide onto the hard plastic chair bolted to the ground. She's still holding the restraint chain attached to my straitjacket. When I'm seated, she kneels and fastens it to a metal ring protruding from the chair, then slides a heavy padlock through the links. The chain gives me a one-foot circle of freedom.

I lift my head, studying the men through my greasy curls.

“Thank you for speaking with us, Sofia,” the man in the suit says. He's short, with broad arms and shoulders and skinny legs. He reminds me of a bulldog.

“It's nice to see you again, Sofia,” the man in the police uniform says. He flashes me a nervous smile. There's a gap between his two front teeth.

“I know you.” I sit up straight, shaking the hair out of my eyes. “You came to my house the night my mother had her accident. You're the officer who told me she was dead.”

The officer's smile vanishes. He licks his chapped lips.

“I'm Detective Ramirez, and this is Officer Schultz,”
the man in the suit says. “We were hoping we could ask you a few questions.”

I catch a whiff of musky-scented cologne as he flips the folder open and slides it toward me. I wrinkle my nose and lean closer, metal chains clinking like bells against my chair.

A photograph of a teenage girl lies inside the folder. She stares up at me, only she's not really staring because she's dead. Choppy, bleached-blond hair frames her hollow cheeks and vacant eyes. Skinny blue veins spiderweb across her skin. She lies on a metal table, a white sheet pulled up to her neck.

“This girl was found in the woods surrounding Riley Howard's family lake house,” Officer Ramirez explains. “Can you tell us whether you recognize her as the girl you knew as Brooklyn Stephens?”

“This is highly inappropriate!” Nurse Simmons snaps. “Sofia is a very sick young woman.” She tries to close the folder so I won't see the photograph, but Officer Schultz blocks her hand.

“Miss Flores is a key witness in an ongoing murder investigation,” he explains. “We need her to identify the body.”

Detective Ramirez brushes a piece of lint from the front of his coat. “You're welcome to wait outside if it'll make you more comfortable,” he adds.

Nurse Simmons presses her lips into a thin line. “Very well,” she says. But she doesn't leave the room. She stands against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.

Officer Schultz turns back to me. “Sofia? Can you identify this girl?”

I study the photograph. The dead girl has Brooklyn's hair and Brooklyn's face. Brooklyn's black liner is smudged around her eyes. I've seen her lips twist into Brooklyn's half-crazed smile.

“I don't know,” I mumble.

Officer Schultz and Detective Ramirez share a look. Officer Schultz leans forward.

“Don't get too close,” Nurse Simmons warns, but Officer Schultz doesn't seem to hear her. He slides his elbows onto the coffee table.

“Sofia,” he asks. “Help us out here. Is this the monster who murdered your friends?”

I feel my lips curve into a smile.
Monster
. I guess you could call the thing that killed Riley a monster. I prefer to call it
Diablo
, like my grandmother does. I glance down at the photograph. Brooklyn lies on the metal table, but she's hollow—a shell. There's no monster inside of her anymore. It's moved on, leaving her dead body behind.

I murmur something below my breath and Officer Schultz frowns, leaning closer. The wooden coffee table groans beneath his weight. “What was that, Sofia?”

“Officer,
please
,” Nurse Simmons says, taking a quick step away from the wall. “Don't get too—”

I lunge forward, catching the fleshiest part of Officer Schultz's earlobe between my teeth. He screams and jerks away from me but I clamp down—tight. The salty bite of blood hits my tongue. A bit of warm flesh comes loose in my mouth.

Nurse Simmons digs a needle out of her pocket. It flashes under the fluorescent lights. She jabs it into my neck, and something cool and tranquil spreads through my body.

I pull away from the police officer and spit his skin onto the coffee table. It slides across the wood, leaving a trail of blood behind it. A hot, hungry feeling stirs inside of me. It's even stronger than the drugs coursing through my veins.

“That isn't the monster,” I say, grinning. I feel Officer Schultz's blood on my lips. “You've got the wrong girl.”

The demon isn't inside Brooklyn anymore. It's inside me.

A
s always, I have a mountain of people to thank for bringing this book to life. First of all, a huge thank you to editor extraordinaire Hayley Wagreich, for reading this book a million times and helping me find the story at the center of all the gore. Hopefully, those yoga bells won't sound so creepy anymore! I couldn't have done this without the rest of my Alloy family there to support me—particularly Josh Bank and Sara Shandler, who never cease to be absolutely brilliant. Thank you to Heather David, for all your help on the social media front (particularly those amazing Twitter banners) and Annie Stone for that first brainstorming
session. Thanks, also, to Theodora Guliadis for letting me take over the PLL Twitter for a day. I can't believe this is my job sometimes.

The team at Razorbill is the best in the business and I am so lucky to have them behind me. I couldn't have written this book without Jessica Almon's brilliant, insightful notes, or the nonstop support I received from Casey McIntyre and Ben Schrank. Sometimes I just sit and stare at this book's perfect cover, and I have Kristin Smith to thank for the eye-stopping design. Felicia Frazier, Rachel Lodi, Venessa Carson, Alexis Watts, and the rest of Razorbill's sales, marketing, and publicity team all worked so hard to help people discover my books. You guys are wonderful! In addition to the people named here, there are so many others working behind the scenes to make this book happen. I am grateful to all of you. I couldn't have done it without your support.

And finally, thanks to my fabulous, supportive family and friends. I'm consistently blown away by all of you. I couldn't have asked for better people in my life.

And, of course, thank you to Ron, who hasn't read this book yet but will, even though it'll give him nightmares.

Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!