Black Feathers (23 page)

In her despair, she was beautiful. The red around her eyes and at the base of her nose, the silver trails of tears on her wind-rough cheeks, the small gasp at the back of her throat with every breath.

So lovely.

Soon, now. So soon.

But not yet.

There was no need to rush, no call to hurry.

He could linger, savour that torment and pain, let the meat marinate in its own seasoning a little longer.

She would be so tender when it was time.

Cassie walked until the streets were mostly empty. The stores had closed hours before, the last few customers hurrying away, blinking into the light snow that rimed their hats and collars. She walked slowly past the crowded restaurants, the small clusters of smokers out front laughing grey clouds into the night.

When it was just the bars and nightclubs open, music echoing down the narrow streets, she slipped into the doorway of the bookstore where the police had woken her the week before.

Had it only been a week? Less? She had no idea; it felt like a lifetime since that day. The day she had met Skylark. The first day she had visited the camp.

A lifetime ago. All gone now.

She settled herself uncomfortably into the corner, slipping her arms through the straps of her backpack as it sat on her lap, securing it to her.

It was still cold, well below freezing, but she was out of the wind and the snow, hidden in the shadows.

She wondered what it would be like when the cold took her. She hoped it would be like falling into a dreamless sleep, never having to wake up.

Dreamless.

She bowed her head against the rough fabric of her backpack. When she closed her eyes, tears leaked from them; she no longer even knew that she was crying.

“Cassandra?”

The voice came to her as if out of a dream, distant and detached, but warm in its familiarity.

“Cassandra.”

Metaphors.

Always metaphors.

I hate them for their vagueness. Their imprecision.

Trying to describe the Darkness is impossible. It slips from your analysis like quicksilver.

But none of the metaphors are right either.

Is the Darkness transmitted or absorbed?

Is it like a fog, draping over everything, infusing with every breath, or is it like a cancer, spreading under the skin of the world?

Does it move from person to person like a virus or like electricity?

In many ways, the old metaphors are better. Sometimes the Darkness does feel like a demon, living inside me, looking through my eyes, taking leathery wing to another host. Sometimes I do feel like a monster, strewing carnage in my wake.

But …

Wouldn’t the nature of the Darkness, its true nature, mean that we are all monsters? That the world is populated with demons, all around us?

That sounds right.

The Darkness IS all of us, everywhere, always.

But you can’t really understand it until you have fully embraced it.

When you have tasted blood, you have no further need of metaphor.

When you have fed on the Light, you understand the Darkness.

“You’re going to be late,” her mother said as she bustled into the kitchen. She was already dressed for work, her hair back, a little bit of makeup on her face.

“We’re fine,” Cassandra said, leaning against the counter as she ate a banana. She had just put her cereal bowl into the sink. Heather was still at the table, slowly lifting a spoonful to her mouth as she stared at the back of the cereal box.

“Not if you don’t get ready,” her mother said, setting her handbag on one of the kitchen chairs. “Heather, please.”

“I’m done, Mom,” she said, tilting her bowl sideways to show only a faint residue of milk.

“All right, brush your teeth and I’ll do your hair. Come on,” she urged when Heather was a bit too slow at standing up.

Heather started toward the stairs, but stopped when their mother cleared her throat.

Mom nodded toward the table, where Heather had left her cereal bowl and the box, and lifted her eyebrows.

Heather sighed heavily and set the bowl in the sink, tucked the box back into the cupboard.

Cassie smirked. Heather scowled.

“Come on, you two,” their mother urged again, fumbling with an earring.

Heather hustled out of the kitchen, turned toward the stairs.

“Whoa, slow down,” came a voice from the other room. “Where’s the fire?”

Cassandra’s right hand, holding the limp banana peel, fell to her side as her father came around the corner, shaking his head, smiling.

“You’ve got her on the run this morning,” he said to their mother, leaning toward her to kiss her cheek. Good morning.” His voice was a warm near-whisper.

“We’re all going to be late,” she said, giving up on her earring and turning to kiss him on the mouth.

“No, you’re not,” he said, grinning broadly. He looked at the clock above the sink. “You’ve got plenty of time.”

His smile widened when he met Cassandra’s eye. “Good morning, Miss Cassie. How’d you sleep?”

Her words seemed to die in her throat, crushed by the surging of her heart. Her daddy.

“Good,” she managed in a gulp. “Good.”

Truth was, she couldn’t be entirely sure. She had dreamed something, she was sure of it, but the memory of it was just out of reach.

“Good,” he affirmed. “And what about that algebra? Did it stick?”

It took her a moment to remember, then everything slipped into focus: the two of them at the kitchen table, working over math problems while Heather and Mom had watched TV in the family room; his patient, supportive voice as she worked through function after function; the warm sound of the television and laughter in the distance; the way he had tousled her
hair and kissed her on the forehead when they were done. “You should sleep on that,” he had said. “Let your subconscious work on it. In the morning, it’ll all be there.”

“I think so,” she said. “I guess I’ll find out later.” Algebra quiz, fourth period.

“I bet you dreamed of functions.”

He smiled, and Heather appeared in the doorway, clutching a hairbrush.

No, she hadn’t dreamed of functions. What had she dreamed of?

It was right there, like something she should remember, but the harder she tried, the farther away it seemed to be. All she had were strange fragments: a city, a group of people sitting in a circle, a girl looking at her.

And cold. She remembered the cold.

“Are you all right?”

She turned, and her mother was leaning toward her, eyes wide, head tilted slightly to one side.

“I’m okay,” she said, not really sure. “Just tired, I think.” She let her eyes wander around the room, looking for something to change the subject.

The clock, over the sink.

“We should get going, Heather,” she said, turning. “Are you—”

Her sister was already at the back door, jacket zipped, shoes on. “Ready,” she said.

Cassandra smiled and then, without thinking about it, half-turned to kiss her mother on the cheek.

Her mother seemed to jump.

“I love you, Mom,” she said, turning away and starting for the door. “Come on, kid. Let’s not miss the bus again, all right?”

She turned back to the room as she slipped her shoes on. Her mother was touching her cheek where Cassandra had kissed her, looking at her with a hint of a question in her eyes. Her father was standing at the table, smiling.

His back was to the door to the basement.

“You girls have a good day,” he said as Cassie lifted her backpack to her shoulder.

“Love you, Daddy,” Heather said as she opened the back door.

“Love you, Heather,” he said.

Then he turned to Cassie.

The words stuck in her throat.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said quietly.

The expression on his face stopped her in the doorway.

She waited, one hand wrapped around the doorknob, fingers tight.

In the end, all he said was, “Love you too.”

She closed the door firmly, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong, that there was something bad, just waiting, just out of sight.

The girl was stepping toward the curb before the minivan had come to a complete stop.

He smiled to himself as he reached over and turned down the music. This was getting easier. Almost too easy. They were coming to him, offering themselves up to him without his even having to try.

The hunger roiled inside him as he rolled down the passenger-side window.

“It’s cold out there tonight,” he said, loading his voice with warmth.

The girl shivered. “A bit, yeah.” She was chewing gum, her deep-red lips wide and wet looking.

He smiled at her. She was a little older than he liked; he could see it around her eyes, around her mouth. Twenty, maybe? Twenty-one?

“Why don’t you get in?” he asked, popping the lock with the button on his door. “You can warm up a bit.”

“What did you have in mind?”

The question threw him for a moment. They weren’t usually so forward. Usually those sorts of questions didn’t come until they were already inside, the seat belts snug around them, the door locked behind them.

He smiled. “Why? Are you a cop?”

She rolled her eyes and snapped her gum. “Do I look like a cop to you?”

“No,” he said. “I just thought …”

“There’s some heavy shit going on these days,” she said, turning her head to try to look into the back of the van. “A girl needs to know what she’s getting into.”

The hunger burned inside him like acid rising in his throat.

“Why don’t you hop in and we can talk about it in private?”

She looked at him more closely. “Why? Are you a cop?”

He shook his head. “No, no,” he said, trying not to let his anger show in his voice. “I just thought—”

She took a full step back from the door, shaking her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.

What? What was happening? This bitch, this whore, who the fuck did she think she was?

He wanted to shout at her, to force her into the van, but
she was already turning away, tottering up the block on her towering heels, toward a small crowd of girls.

“Fuck,” he muttered, putting the van into drive.

His heart was racing as he pulled away, watching her in the rear-view mirror as she watched him driving away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He had been so close. She wasn’t perfect, but she would have been good enough. Better, once he got done with her. Once she was clean and silent and cool.

He took several deep, calming breaths and turned the music back up.

It was better this way. She wasn’t the one, that much was clear. The one was still out there; it was just a matter of finding her.

Flicking on his turn signal, he turned toward downtown.

He would wait. He would get a cup of coffee and wait. It was still early.

He would find her.

Heather was curiously quiet as they walked along the lane. The leaves in the trees lining the gravel path were in full green, and the air was heavy, warm and rich with the smell of new growth, gilded with birdsong.

Heather had been swinging her bag and smiling as they left the house, but as soon as they had turned the corner to the lane, the bag had slowed and fallen motionless to her side.

It took Cassie—who usually tuned out her younger sister’s endless chattering—a few moments to realize that something was wrong.

“What’s up, bub?”

Heather didn’t answer at first. She was staring at the ground as she walked, her face knit tight.

“Bub?”

She hesitated. “Just tired, I guess.” Not lifting her eyes from the ground. “I had some … strange dreams. Last night.”

The tightness of her expression, the set of her mouth, stopped Cassandra in her tracks.

Heather took another couple of steps before she realized that Cassie was no longer with her. She turned.

“Nightmares?” asked Cassie.

Her sister fumbled to answer. “I guess. They seemed so real.”

For a moment, Cassie was back inside her own dream, sitting next to a brick wall, looking through a cloud of her own breath at people sitting around a circle.

“Do you remember them?”

Heather opened her mouth, then closed it, shook her head.

Cassie took two steps toward her, crouched down slightly to bring her gaze level with her sister’s. “Heather, you can tell me. I know what it’s like.”

Her sister flushed. When she spoke, her voice was almost a sob. “I don’t know,” she said, an edge of desperation to the words. “I can’t—”

Both of them jumped and turned to the sharp bark of a horn in the distance.

“The bus,” Heather cried, starting down the lane.

“Heather,” Cassie called after her.

“We’re gonna miss the bus,” Heather called, without looking back.

“Heather!” Cassie had to run to catch up to her.

As they rounded the bend, the bus was idling at the side of the road, its door open, steam rising from its tailpipe.

She caught up with Heather as she slowed to a walk just before reaching the bus. Cassie swept her hand across her sister’s arm, and Heather turned to face her.

“What is it?” Cassie asked. “What are you dreaming?”

Heather shook her head, then glanced at the bus. Mrs. Cormack was watching them expectantly from the driver’s seat.

“There’s someone there,” Heather said finally. “I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake, and it’s like there’s someone in my room.” She twisted, brushing Cassie’s hand off her arm, and leapt up the steps inside the bus. “There’s someone calling my name.”

Cassie stared at the open doorway, frozen in place by her sister’s words. She couldn’t move …

Mrs. Cormack honked the bus horn, and a flock of crows lifted from the bristled field across the road, blackening the sky.