Ash and Darkness (Translucent #3) (6 page)

In the morning, everything would go back to normal.

It had to.

A blaring noise
startled me awake in the middle of the night. I gasped and jolted up in bed, heart slamming against my sternum.

It was a horrible squabbling sound, like nails on a chalkboard, like aliens . . . like demons. And light. Flashes of blinding light. My frantic eyes darted to its source.

My cell phone.

Sitting where I’d left it on my nightstand. It was going crazy, flashing bursts of white static and nonsense strings of characters, blaring. The strange noises continued to crackle from its speakers—that horrible hissing and what sounded like voices talking really slow and really fast at the same time.

In sounded like audio feedback.

Huh? I picked up the phone, and instantly—the moment my skin touched the plastic—the sound cut off. The last squeak echoed into silence.

But the screen stayed lit.

My home screen, drenching me in blue light. To my utter disbelief, the battery indicator glowed a solid white. A full charge.

I checked the other status icons—zero bars of service, Wi-Fi and 4G network grayed out, 9:12 a.m. on the clock.

It must have gotten out of sync.

But I had my cell phone back. I had light! To prove the point, I panned it around the room, chasing the encroaching shadows back to the corners. Maybe the world was coming back online.

Out of curiosity, I checked my text messages. Nothing new had come in. I tapped on the most recent string, which opened to a yellow text bubble

Megan:
Is everything okay? Your mom looked pissed.

No other messages. When had she sent this? I glanced at the date.

October 2.

My eyebrows pinched together. The message was two weeks old. What about all her other messages? She and I had texted each other millions of times since then.

And why hadn’t I ever gotten this message? What was she talking about? My mom never got pissed.

I referred to the other texts from the string, trying to piece it together. That was the night we’d gotten invisible and crashed Tina Wilkes’s party.

It seemed like ages ago.

We’d come home, and . . . it was all coming back now . . . my mom had told Megan she couldn’t spend the night, even though she spent the night every Friday, because—why couldn’t Megan spend the night?

Because Major Rod Connor of the Air Force Security Forces had been waiting for me.

That was why.

Megan must have sent this text after she left. So why hadn’t I gotten it? And why did the string end there? Had something happened to my phone that night?

Mulling it over, I rolled my shoulders back and corrected my posture—I’d been slouching over the phone.

And then it hit me.

To sneak my phone into Tina’s party unseen, I’d wrapped it in dark matter, which I hadn’t been able to get off. The next day, the phone had vanished, Megan had called it like fifty times, and . . . and then dark matter had texted me from my phone number.

The memory rushed back with a shiver.

Dark matter had taken my phone. I’d gone without it for a few days. But the phone had come back, hadn’t it? I took my eyes off the screen and blinked into the darkness, and then, in a flash, I had the answer. An icy chill prickled down my spine.

Yes . . .
a
phone had come back.

But not this phone. This phone hadn’t received a single text since that night, because this phone had been stuck right here the whole time, sitting in this dead world for two weeks while a fake phone took its place on Earth.

That was why this phone still worked.

It was the only real thing in this place. Like me.

I couldn’t fall
back asleep. I had to eat, I had to drink. Or else I would die.

My smartphone’s screen swept over the shelves in the pantry, glinting off strands of spiderweb. Boxes of cereal, bags of pasta, cans of beans . . . I settled on the beans. 

Maybe, being encased in metal, they’d fared better than the perishable goods. The can opener bit into the can, and I poured the kidney beans into a bowl. I grabbed a spoon, wiping the dust off on my tank top.

The first spoonful slopped into my mouth. I swished it around a bit. They tasted like beans, but I couldn’t tell. I’d never liked kidney beans. I swallowed.

The beans went down . . . and stayed down. No argument so far. I took another bite. Maybe I just had to get used to eating this stuff. I kept going, but each swallow took a little more effort than the last.

My stomach began to fight it.

I paused, staring down at the dark rim of my bowl, trying not to cry. I picked out a single bean and squished it between my thumb and forefinger, noting its chalky texture.

Something wrong with it.

I propped up my cell phone to give me light and peered in close, turning it over in my fingers. There was something on the skin—a network of tiny black lines, like veins, a spiderweb pattern. No, not veins. I leaned closer. Cracks.

A network of tiny hairline cracks.

I squeezed, and the bean split open, spilling an inky black powder over my fingertips. I sucked in a startled breath. Oh God, I’d eaten these things. Morbidly determined now, I rubbed it between my fingers, and the rest of the bean skin eroded into a fine, crumbly dust.

I sniffed my hand, and a little cough escaped my lungs.

It was ash.

The beans were made of ash.

I ran to the bathroom and barfed up everything I’d eaten.

Maybe I could
get cell phone reception on the roof.

My dad’s extension ladder clanged against the gutter, shattering the unearthly silence. I clutched the aluminum rungs and climbed toward the night sky, determined to exhaust every last hope before I gave up.

At the top rung, I clambered onto the roof and stood up on shaky legs, jerking my arms to balance.

Gripping the asphalt tiles for support, I crawled up to the highest point on the ridgeline, where a 360-degree view of the blacked out city took shape before me. My pulse hiked at the sight.

A panorama of black palm trees, gabled roofs, and shadowy streets sprawled in every direction. A city of darkness. Not one single light. I took it all in, the air like ice in my lungs. My gaze rose to the starry sky.

No blinking airplanes.

There was no one out there.

But I had to try.

I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and raised it over my head, holding my breath as I watched the service bars, praying for at least one. I just needed one.

I got zero.

My lungs deflated. I tried the call anyway—9-1-1—and pressed the phone to my cheek. Maybe I was right on the edge of a network. Plus I’d heard stories of emergency calls going through even without a signal. Apparently, they got special treatment.

It didn’t ring. When I pulled the screen away, the screen displayed the error,
Mobile network not available
.

Well, I’d kind of been expecting that.

But what if I got even higher? Like,
really
high? I looked to the north, and my gaze rose to the shadowy peaks of the coastal mountain range, looming ominously over the city. At night, their outline was barely visible.

The Santa Ynez Mountains.

No way. I’d die from exhaustion trying to reach the top.

I needed food and water.

Beaten yet again, I sat down on the roof’s ridge and reluctantly powered down my smartphone. Better to conserve batteries. I might need the device later.

Later?
What
later?

If I didn’t find drinkable water soon—like, within twenty-four hours soon—I would die. Simple as that. I was running on empty. With its full charge, the phone would outlast me.

I turned it over it my hands, thinking back to how it had gotten here. How
I
had gotten here. The phone proved that dark matter was the culprit. Somehow, it had swallowed me and dumped me here in this underworld made of ash.

The voice in my head had been curiously absent lately.

Finally got what it wanted, I supposed—
me.

I sighed and lay on my back, shifting to get comfortable on the coarse asphalt tiles. The roof ridge dug into my spine. Low on the horizon, a spiral-shaped smear of stars caught my eye. Too faint to really make out, like one of those fuzzy patches of the Milky Way.

I looked for familiar constellations.

I only knew the Big Dipper, though, and I didn’t see it. I let my eyes close.

My smartphone.

As I ran my fingers over the case, a disquieting thought nagged at the back of my mind. My phone had been sitting here gathering dust, and I had been none the wiser, because dark matter had replaced it with a fake phone—a fake phone that looked like my phone and acted like my phone and connected to the network like my phone but wasn’t my phone.

And it wasn’t the first time that had happened.

Dark matter had replaced Ashley with a fake, too.

Chapter 7

My eyelids sprang
open. Food and water . . . I knew where to find them!

I scrambled off the roof and teetered down the ladder, sending it crashing down behind me as I ran toward my bike. I’d been so stupid not to realize earlier.

The Lacroixs’ house, the food wrappers in Ashley’s bedroom—that bedroom had been
lived in
. All the clues fit.

Ashley must had gotten stuck here too.

And she’d brought supplies.

I hauled the bike into the street and took off toward the Mesa, riding by starlight. The wind rose to a fierce whistle in my ears. I pedaled harder, salivating at the prospect of juice boxes and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

I flew through one abandoned intersection after another and plunged straight down the throat of a back alleyway, riding blindly. Too excited to feel scared.

If Ashley had gotten stuck here, then obviously she had figured out how to escape, and I could too . . . unless, of course, she was
still
here. The thought set my heart racing. If she was still here, then she could still be alive . . . the
real
one. One possibility after another tumbled through my brain, each more exhilarating than the last.

Ahead of me, that spiral smear of stars bobbed above the trees like a will-o’-the-wisp, tugging at my gaze. For some reason, my perception of it kept changing, like my brain couldn’t quite process that particular patch of stars . . . almost like the sky there was distorted. It vanished behind a row of house, and my attention went back to riding.

The bike careened onto Ashley’s front lawn, and I leapt off and ran to the front door, already raising my fist to knock. But the dark, lifeless windows made me hesitate. Too dark.

Maybe I should wait until morning.

As I stood there, uncertain, the chilly night clung to my bare shoulders and seeped deeper into my lungs with each anxious breath. My stomach throbbed painfully.

I had to eat.

It couldn’t wait until morning. I had to eat now.

I knocked quietly, and waited. No one stirred inside the house. No one home. Like earlier.

I pushed the door open a crack, swallowed hard, and croaked, “Ashley?”

No reply.

Under my palm, the door squeaked open a little more, the crack widened. A rogue shiver shook its way out of me, trailing goosebumps.
Just a house, Leona.
Deep breaths. I stepped into the foyer, plunging into crypt-like blackness. My throat tightened in panic, as if I’d jumped into cold water. Instinctively, my hand shot up to probe the space in front of me.

The blinds snuffed out all starlight, leaving darkness so thick it clouded my eyes, poured down my lungs, suffocated me. Scarcely breathing, I slid out my cell phone and panned a trembling cone of light in front of me.

To the right, a living room opened up like a huge cavern. Just a hint of the outlines of walls. Ahead, stairs climbed to the upper story, ascending into a murky realm beyond the reach of my light. The beam swept to the left.

Two beady eyes stared back at me.

A gasp rose in my throat before the phone illuminated the rest of a china cabinet, crystal tumblers and porcelain tea cups glinting in the greenish glow.

Just a house.

“Hell . . . hello?” My scratchy voice skittered out into the darkness.

The eerie silence stretched on.

No one home.

I tiptoed up the stairs, jerking the phone left and right. Shadows peeled back from the risers and shrank against the wall. At last the hallway came into view at the top, plunging even deeper into the gloom. A floorboard depressed under my foot, and an ill-tempered groan echoed through the quiet house.

I froze.

The night whispered in my ear, prickling the back of my neck. I shouldn’t have come here. Whatever lurked in this house, I didn’t want it to hear me, I didn’t want it to know I was here.

I didn’t want to know it was here.

A talon of fear slid down my back. I had murdered Ashley Lacroix. Twice. I had hidden her body. This was her house.

I wasn’t welcome here.

As I strained to make out her bedroom door through the shadows, another twinge of fright took hold. That invisible thing that had come after me . . . it had assumed Ashley’s shape. Maybe I hadn’t really killed it. Maybe it was lurking here in this very house, in
her
house, watching me, hunting me . . . standing right in front of me even now.

I raked my hands through the air in panic. Nothing.

I backed against the wall and gaped out at the blackness, my pulse like thunder. Racing breaths tore in and out of my lungs. I should have put on dark matter before I came here. This was crazy, this was suicide.

No, that crap was done. No more invisibility, no more Ashley. I was alone. The house was empty.

Come on, just grab the food and go.

Gripping the smartphone, I advanced up the hallway, bracing myself to be cut down any moment by an invisible knife.

The attack never came.

My fingers closed around her doorknob, which twisted under my sweaty palm. The door screeched open into her bedroom. Before I could hesitate, I lunged inside and jerked the phone around madly.

There, crouching by the door ready to pounce—no, just the mouse cage. My wrist twitched frantically, pivoting the beam to eke out each hiding spot. Lying in the shadows under the bed.

Just shoeboxes.

Standing like a statue inside the closet.

Just a big ski jacket.

The room was empty . . . and just as I’d left it yesterday. A mess of candy wrappers and junk food. Whoever, whatever had lived here had long since departed. I did one more pass through. Finally satisfied, I propped my cell phone on her bureau. Its ghostly glow cast my shadow about the room, startling me before I forced myself to relax.

Stop it. You’re jumping at your own shadow.

Down to business. On hands and knees, I dug through the junk, shaking the empty juice cartons. A splash in one. I pounced on it and clamped my mouth around the straw, sucking in a mouthful of sugary liquid. My taste buds shivered with pure joy. Grape.

I yanked out the straw and tilted the box above my head, squeezing the last splash into my mouth. Then I swallowed.

The moment of truth.

A warm glow pooled in my stomach.

Real . . . it was real! I tore open the cardboard juice box and licked the insides clean. I went for the next one. Another splash of syrup. Each juice box contained a mouthful, and there were tons of them!

I followed the line of spent cartons to a pile along the wall, and almost fainted with joy.

There were at least a dozen juice boxes. All unopened, their straws still folded neatly in plastic pouches glued to the side.

I sucked down four of them before the sugar rush hit me, making me hyper and euphoric. A result of high blood sugar, meaning the glucose had hit my bloodstream. More proof this was all real.

Food next.

My fingers closed on a Pringles tube, empty. I tilted it back and dumped the crumbs into my mouth. Sour Cream & Onion.
So good
.

Peanut butter. I’d seen peanut butter around here. Mouth watering, I plowed through the mess, knocking aside candy wrappers until I seized the jar. In my hand, its weight was immensely satisfying. Still half full.

That had to be like a billion calories.

Using a torn-open juice box as a spoon, I sat cross-legged against the bed and dug out a heaping glob, which I shoveled into my mouth.

And I was officially in heaven.

Once I’d gorged
myself on peanut butter, chip crumbs, and grape juice, I could finally focus on other things. Like searching the house for answers and taking inventory. Someone had been here. Either Ashley, or someone else.

Clearly, they’d long since departed.

Using the cell phone light, I consolidated all the crumbs into a single bag and nudged the rest of the trash into the corner. Among the pile, I discovered a full King Size package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Dessert.

Licking the chocolate off my fingers, I began opening the bureau drawers with my elbow. Socks, underwear, jeans—to my disappointment, nothing but clothes.

What was I even looking for?

Something to explain all this. Clues. A way to get out of here. A message she might have left behind.

A diary
.

Something like a diary. Where would she keep a diary? On a whim, I felt along the back corners of the drawers and slid my palms under the clothes. Just to check.

I hid stuff at the back of my underwear drawer.

Sure enough, the edge of a piece of paper brushed my fingertip—a crinkled photograph, wedged in the crack between the bottom and back panel. I pulled it out and held it under the cell phone.

Younger versions of Ashley and Emory Lacroix grinned up at me, arms slung awkwardly around each other’s shoulders. Pinholes riddled the top of the picture. A photo she used to cherish.

Seeing it sent a strange twinge through my heart.

A scratching noise pricked my ears from behind me. I whipped around and swung the flashlight beam into the corners. The noise cut off.

Nothing there.

Probably just a squashed chip bag unraveling.

I returned the forgotten photo to the back of the drawer and continued my search. The closet yielded more clothes, and a plastic bin full of old toys.

Well, if I ever got bored . . .

At the nightstand, I sifted through the knickknacks, finding nothing of interest. Just jewelry and a few framed photographs, which I avoided.

One last place to check. I got down on my knees and peered under the bed.

A row of shoeboxes.

I pulled out the first. Art supplies. Ink quills, watercolor palettes, acrylic paints. A brush caked with hardened red paint. Onto the next one.

Candles, matches, a cigarette lighter. All junk.

But the third one contained something
very
valuable. Bags of trail mix, cans of food, bottled water—I uncapped one and took a swig—
real
water
.
Heart racing, I piled the goods next to the juice boxes. I’d stumbled on her survival stash.

Where had she gotten this stuff?

I checked the last two shoeboxes. More of the same. Water, food, candles.

But no diary.

I straightened up and peered around the room.

My cell phone screen dimmed, plunging the room into a gloomy dusk. A quick tap brought the light back to full, but the battery indicator had already fallen a quarter. I needed to conserve.

My gaze rose to where the window should have been. All boarded up. Planks crisscrossed each other haphazardly, the rusty nails bent in half and pounded clumsily into splintering wood. Hammered right into the walls.

She’d done it herself.

Maybe I could let in some moonlight.

Letting my cell phone go dark, I hooked my fingers under the planks and gave a firm tug. The boards squeaked, but held. I pulled harder, braced my palm against the wall for leverage. The tendons strained in my forearms, feeling like they were about to snap—

With a wrenching squeal, the plank pulled loose and tumbled to the rug, along with bits of plaster.

A silky strand of starlight shone in.

I pried the rest of the planks loose one by one and leaned them against the wall, widening the cone of light. Facing east, Ashley’s window had a bird’s-eye view of downtown Santa Barbara, the harbor, Stearns Wharf.

All dark, all still.

Why had she boarded up the window? The views were incredible from up here on the Mesa.

My palms pressed against the glass as I took it all in. The harbor was dark, a graveyard of sailboats floating on glass. The hillside of the Riviera, normally lit up with mansions like so many glowing embers, now loomed over the city like a burnt out cinder—

A pinprick of light winked in my periphery, swimming among a sea of dark homes.

My breath misted the glass, fogging up the view before I could focus in on it. Heart slamming, I smeared away the condensation. But when I tried to find the light again, it was gone. My hopes fell.

The hillside was dark.

I must have seen the reflection of a star off a distant window. Yeah, that had to be it. There was nothing else out there.

Nothing but ash and darkness.

I sighed and turned away from the window. Maybe Ashley had boarded it up for that very reason. So she wouldn’t be reminded of what was out there, so she wouldn’t get her hopes up at every tiny flicker of light or movement.

Behind me, a patch of starlight fell on the box of candles, gleaming off the wax.

Speaking of light . . .

It was worth a shot. I stooped over the box and lifted out one of the candles. Then I dug around for the matches—

A scratching noise drifted out from under the bed.

I froze, my heart leaping up my throat.

Uh
 . . .
what was that?
I gulped down a swallow.

I grabbed my cell phone, fumbled for the power button. Finally the screen flashed on. I swung the beam toward the bed and swept it along the eight-inch gap above the carpet, unable to breathe as I backed against the opposite wall.

The scratching began to scurry toward the baseboard. There was something moving under the bed, something alive. Her corpse . . . her rotting corpse would scuttle out like a giant spider and latch onto me, eat me alive.

I knelt and shone the light under the bed, my pulse rising into a crescendo.

A tiny ball of fur quivered along the back wall.

Reflected in the light, its two beady eyes stared back at me, whiskers twitching as it nibbled on a crumb.

Ashley’s pet mouse.

Living off her leftovers.

I exhaled my relief and slid to the floor. As long as the mouse left me alone, I would leave him alone. I returned to the candle and the matches, still buzzing from the encounter.

The matchbox rattled. Several left. I picked out a match, and with shaky hands, pressed the tip to the striking surface. Then I struck it.

Blinding light flared on the match tip, hissing and crackling as it settled into a wobbly yellow flame. I held my breath, didn’t dare move a muscle. The flame dimmed to a tiny blue globe . . . but miraculously, it stayed lit.

I could make fire!

They were real matches.

The candle wick lit easily—a real candle, too—and a warm glow filled Ashley’s bedroom. I lit another candle, and another, propping them up on the bureau, the nightstand, the shelves.

Soon, a cozy orange glow shimmered on the walls, forcing away the last of the shadows . . . and illuminating something in the room I hadn’t noticed before.

Tiny red specks splattered the rug. I leaned closer, picked at one of them. Hard, almost like . . . like drops of paint.

I stood and studied the splatters, which formed some kind of drip pattern. Hmm. I scanned her room, looking for an easel or something she might have painted on. A folding stepstool—also crusted with red paint—leaned against the dresser. I stared at it.