Wink Poppy Midnight (11 page)

I
WALKED OUT
my front door at eleven, boldly, with a swagger, my parents were gone anyway, off to rub elbows in Chicago with other doctors at some boring convention, I could just picture them in a long carpeted room, expensive furnishings and chandeliers, looking smug and overly educated and really fucking proud of themselves.

I ran away once, after Grandpa died. I went to his cabin up on Three Death Jack Mountain and stayed there for two days, not giving a thought to my parents or anyone else. It was beautiful and quiet, so quiet. The cabin was kind of run-down by then, but I did what I could to fix it up and I was having the time of my life, catching fish and not talking to anyone, when Mom and Dad finally found me. They were panicked and angry, they just couldn't understand why I'd run off, why I'd want to live in some rat-hole cabin instead of our nice house in town, they gave me everything I wanted, hadn't they given me everything I'd ever wanted?

They burned Anton Harvey's cabin to the ground. They said it was falling apart and dangerous, but I knew. I knew why they really did it.

I took the cobblestone street to the cemetery, then down the path, into the woods. I wasn't scared of this part, I'd done it enough times. Owls hooting and things rustling around in dead leaves and the wind tickling my neck like the night was letting out its breath. But my sense of direction was far above average, and besides, what in the forest could possibly be scarier than me?

The Roman Luck house.

That was scarier, true, true, I hated that place, oh, how I hated it, but it was just one night, one quick night, close your eyes and think of England.

I
HEARD THE
Wolf before I saw her. She strolled into the clearing, kicking up dead leaves, chin up, back straight, vain as the Raven Queen.

I hid in the trees. I wasn't afraid of the dark. I was only afraid of the Roman Luck house. I didn't want to leave Midnight in there alone, even if he was the Hero.

I think he believed me, about the unforgivables.

P
OPPY STOOD IN
the Roman Luck doorway, up on her tiptoes, trying to look over my shoulder.

“Wink isn't here yet,” I said. “We still have ten or fifteen minutes.”

She put her hands on the waist of her black skirt, right where it met her tight black T-shirt. I stepped back to let her enter, but she didn't move from the doorway.

“Are you still afraid of this place, Poppy?”

She was quiet. Poppy, without a comeback.

“Why did you choose it for the prank, then? Why here, if it scares you as much as Wink?”

Poppy shook herself, so quick I almost missed it. She cocked her head, eyes hooded, nose in air. “I chose this place because it's isolated. I'm not
afraid
. This is just a stupid, dirty old house that smells like death. I don't believe in ghosts and even if I did, I wouldn't care if I saw one and I wouldn't be afraid.”

She tossed her blond hair and took a step. Then another. She was in.

She laughed.

Poppy held out her arms in the Roman Luck hallway, wide.
She twirled around in a circle, the floor creaking beneath her. “Come and haunt me, ghosts. I'm right here. Come
on
. Show me you're real. Show me what you can do.”

She paused. Smiled at me. “See? Nothing.”

She looked so young, right there with her arms spread out between the two wood-paneled walls. She looked so brave and full of life amid the groaning floorboards and the dust and decay that I felt, just for a brief second, like she could make it all vanish, just with a wave of her hand, a blink of her eye, a flash of light. Poppy would twirl her arm above her head and the house would lift itself up and shake off its dirt and squeeze itself back together and be like new again. And then Roman Luck would come strolling back through the door, stroking a long beard because he'd tasted some Dutch ale and fallen asleep on the mountain for twenty years, and that's all it was, that's all that had happened, mystery solved.

We both heard the noise, and jumped. Clawing, scratching, scrape, scrape, scrape.

Poppy dropped her arms.

It was just the branches rubbing up against the windows, but Poppy didn't know that.

I nodded down the hall. “Come on, let's go to the music room. Lead the way.”

She didn't say anything, no snappy retort. She just went.

Creak-creak
went the floorboards.

Poppy stopped in the doorway. I gave her my flashlight, and she switched it on. She walked to the center of the room, and then spun around, the light going with her. It made a long, pale arc. Poppy shivered. Hard. Her limbs shook.

This wasn't the Poppy I knew. It wasn't even the Poppy from the hallway, arms in the air, daring the supernatural to come and get her.

She wasn't being mean. She wasn't hurting someone. She wasn't ordering anyone around. She wasn't getting naked and climbing on top of me.

She was just scared. She was genuinely scared.

I wanted to take her hand and lead her back outside. I wanted to walk her home, and tuck her into bed, and make her feel safe.

But I couldn't.

I was the hero.

“You should put your hands on the keys,” I said. “It's tradition. The first time you go in the Roman Luck house, you put your hands on the keys.”

Poppy walked to the piano. She set down the flashlight, put her fingers on the chipped ivory, and pressed,
plunk, plunk, plunk.
She rested them there for one breath, two. Then snatched her arms away, turned back to me, and smiled a cocky half smile.

“There, I did it.”

“You know,” I said, lazy and cool, like Alabama, “I think you should call out to the ghosts again, here in the music room. Dare them to haunt you. See what happens.”

“You first,” she said, but the words didn't come out bossy and vain. They came out as a whisper.

Poppy hugged her arms across her chest and didn't look me in the eye.

“Well, you should at least go upstairs and lie down on the bed. That's the way it's done. Piano keys. Bed.” I reached out my hand. She hesitated. I wiggled my fingers. “I'll go with you.”

Out into the hall, up the stairs, first door on the right. The master bedroom. Seven black suits in the wardrobe. Two wooden nightstands. White radiator. A dusty tie on a dusty walnut dresser. And the bed, sheets still tucked in, covers still pulled up, even after all of us kids had been on it through the years. The striped black-and-gold quilt was spitting out stuffing from where the rats had gotten into it, but you could still tell it was silk. Still see the
Made in Paris, France,
tag when you flipped over the bottom right corner.

“Lie down on it.” I'd never ordered Poppy to do anything before. Not once. Not ever. But she obeyed.

Her body slid across the silk, stretched out, hands and feet to the corners, blond hair spreading out beneath her head, like a girl about to be sacrificed, like the girl in one of Wink's hayloft
stories, like Norah in
Sea and Burn,
stripped and chained to the rock, blond hair blowing in the wind, feet bare in the cold, waiting for dawn, waiting for the scaly beast to come out of the cave, and burn her alive. . .

Wink was having an effect on me.

I never used to think like this.

And I wasn't sure if I liked it or not.

I went over to Poppy.

I kissed the soft, translucent skin on the inside of her wrists.

My lips followed the blue veins as they ran toward her elbows.

Poppy sucked in her breath . . . held it . . .

And then burst out of my arms. She ran toward the door, and stood there, shivering, shoulders shaking and her chin trembling.

Her body slid down the doorframe until she was crouching, her bare knees popping out of her black skirt, her hands on her cheeks.

A knock on the door.

We both jerked.

She looked up at me.

“Go to the music room and hide,” I whispered. “At least until I'm done tying her up. All right?”

Poppy nodded and left, though she didn't look happy about it.

It had been her idea to do this, to come here at night, to a place of ghosts and unforgivables. And so I wasn't going to feel bad for her.

I
wasn't.

I waited ten seconds and then went down the stairs and opened the front door. Wink, pale face shining in the dark. She gave me a look, and I gave her a look. She nodded. I nodded back.

“Wink,” I said, loudly, so Poppy could hear.

I led her into the music room, my arm around her little waist, my lips by her ear, playing the part.

Past the sagging wallpaper, past the green sofa.

Up to the grand piano.

I leaned Wink against it, and the Rachmaninoff pages fluttered. The piano made a deep, guttural sound, like pedals shifting and wires stretching. But it didn't budge.

I kissed her. I kissed her to keep up the ruse. I kissed her so Poppy would see. I wanted her to see. I slid my hands up Wink's back to the base of her neck. She leaned her head into my palms.

I took my time.

“Here we go,” I whispered in Wink's ear. And felt her head nod against my cheek.

“Wink, I want you to close your eyes,” I said, out loud. “And keep them closed. I have a present for you.”

“Okay,” she said, softly, softly.

I pulled my arms away, and Wink stayed where she was, head back, tips of her red hair touching the top of the piano.

I glanced toward the corner by the bay window, quick. I couldn't see Poppy, not even a faint outline. But I knew she was there.

I thought about the scurrying sounds I'd heard earlier, and hoped the rats were crawling over her feet and licking her ankles.

And then I felt bad for thinking that.

I kneeled down and got the rope out of the backpack.

I looped it around Wink's wrists, quick, and snapped it tight.

Her eyes flew open.

“What are you doing, Midnight?” And her voice was perfect. Small and apprehensive and starting to get scared. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“I'm tying you to the grand piano,” I answered, nice and easy. “I'm going to leave you here by yourself, all night long.” I looped the other end of the rope around the piano leg and pulled. Wink's arms flew out and she fell to her knees.

She started to cry, quiet, then louder.

“Why, Midnight, why? Why?
Why?
”

The Bells never cried. That was the thing about them. If Poppy had ever paid any attention, she would have guessed. She would have known.

But, instead, she laughed. She laughed, and then came running out of the corner. She laughed and pointed and practically danced with glee. She was supposed to stay hidden, but she just couldn't help herself.

And I'd counted on this.

“Feral Bell, tied to a piano, spending the night with the ghosts. Serves you right. Do you think the spirits will like your unicorn underwear? Do you? I can't wait to tell the Yellows about this. They are going to
die
.” Laugh, laugh, laugh.

I gave it a second. Wink's performance was flawless. I wanted to keep watching. I couldn't help but keep watching.

Wink shrunk back, away from Poppy, pulling at the rope and scuttling along the floor like she'd been kicked. She curled herself into a ball, her knees under her chin, arms above her head, tangled red hair. Her green eyes glowed in the flashlight's beam, and they were
wild
. Wild, wild. Her lips drew tight, sucked in between her teeth.

“You'll regret it, you'll regret it.” Her voice was high and clear, and I could barely recognize Wink in it at all. “They'll come for you. They'll find you. They'll slice you open and lap up all your blood, lap lap it up like a cat with milk . . .”

Poppy wasn't laughing anymore.

Wink coughed and coughed, and her whole body shook, legs and head and hands.

Then she went still again.

“The unforgivables are so hungry, so hungry . . .” Her eyes darted to the corner of the room, then shot back, and something in them was . . . wrong . . . so wrong . . .

Goose bumps up my spine, into my scalp.

“They . . . they want to open your head, pop it open, pop pop Poppy, dig out all its little secrets, wriggling, wriggling like maggots, dig them out and crush them, squish, squish, pop . . .”

Wink's voice got softer and softer.

“They told me things about you, Poppy. Come closer . . . come closer and I'll tell you what they said. You want to know, you need to know . . .”

Poppy went to Wink. She went right to her, step, step, step, creak, creak, creak. She leaned down . . .

And Wink shot forward.

She grabbed Poppy's arm, squeezing until her knuckles went white.

“Take her other arm,” she said, calm, calm.

I took it. I wrapped my fingers around the elbow I'd been kissing earlier, upstairs. I did it even though it made me feel sick. Weak and sick, deep inside.

Wink was stronger than she looked. She bent Poppy's arm behind her and shoved it up hard against her spine. I wound the rope around one wrist, then the other, quick, before Poppy could fight back. I pulled . . .

But it was Wink who pushed Poppy to her knees. Wink who tied the knots, three deep and so hard Poppy's hands were smashed up against the piano leg.

Poppy looked up at me. One long, comprehending look.

And then she screamed.

I'd counted on this too.

“There's no one to hear you,” I said. “You can holler your heart out and no one will hear you.”

And I kind of felt like crying, after I said that. Just a little bit.

Poppy stopped screaming and started sobbing instead. It was messy and loud, full of tears and chokes and sobs.

“How can you? How can you leave me here?” Her big gray eyes were staring and pleading, lashes wet and shadow-black.
“You know how afraid I am.
Midnight,
please
.
”

I looked from Poppy, to Wink, to Poppy, to Wink.

I couldn't do this.

Wink would say I wasn't the hero.

And Poppy would say I was a coward. If I let her free she would call me a coward for it later. I knew she would.

But . . .

I reached in my pocket and got out my jackknife. I flipped it open and grabbed the rope—

Wink stepped in front of me, both hands up, like I held a gun.

“She's not Poppy. She's The Thing in the Deep. And you just struck her with your sword. She's the monster and you're the hero. This part of the story is over, Midnight. It's time to go.”

She reached her small freckled fingers out to me.

And I took them.

We stood there facing the monster, side by side and hand in hand.

“I love you,” Poppy whispered. She choked, sucked back a sob, and then said it again. “I love you, Midnight.”

Tears slipped off the tiny crook in her nose, down her perfect chin, down her slender neck. Strands of blond hair stuck to her cheeks. She looked helpless, her arms in the air, her face wet, her eyes wide and scared. She looked young. Young as Bee Lee. Younger.