Black Feathers (38 page)

And she had gotten up. Why? To go to the bathroom maybe? To get a drink of water?

No.

It came back to her with a shocking clarity, an immediacy that she knew had to be true.

But she looked down, just to be sure.

She looked down at her right hand, the hand closest to Ali. The hand that she hadn’t used to grab the doorknob.

The hand that held the knife she had bought that afternoon.

Unable to help herself, she looked from the blade to Ali, still curled on the bed, the covers rising and falling with each breath.

She pictured taking hold of her hair, tugging her head back on the pillow, felt the way the knife would slip so easily into the skin of her throat. That was why her thumb was at the base of the blade—to give it a little more stability, to give a little more focus to the pressure.

First the blade would slip into her skin, then, with the slightest resistance, a small pop she would feel in her hand, it would sever her carotid.

The blood would spray like a hot rain—

The knife fell from her hand, clattering against the patch of bare floor between the rug and the bed. Ali stirred in her sleep, groaned, nuzzled her head against the pillow.

And Cassie ran.

There are Dead Places in this world.

Even those who have no true understanding of the Darkness recognize them. There are houses, long abandoned, that seem to watch you, even as you instinctively avoid them, crossing the street to put as much distance between you and that Dark cold.

There are forests and fields where bodies have fallen, where the earth has tasted blood, where the sun itself seems to dim.

Corners and rooms that raise goosebumps on the skin.

Cold Places. Dead Places. Haunted Places.

Dark Places.

But there are also Darkening Places. Dying Places.

Places where the pall thickens like smoke from a slow fire.

Not battlefields, or cities under siege.

Not just those.

But places—neighbourhoods, houses, rooms, cities—caught up in the Dark.

And they quickly become vortexes, widening gyres, as the Darkening Places call out to the Dark, drawing us in. They wake the Darkness in those who have not yet seen the Truth of the Way. And they call out to those of us who walk now, always, in the Darkness.

And we come.

We come to tear the guts of these Darkening Places with our teeth.

We come to feed.

The sidewalks beside the courthouse were a sprawling emptiness, wind blowing scattered leaves and a few errant snowflakes with an unburdened abandon.

There was a crowd near the front doors, news vans and cameras and screaming people, but none of them came near Cassie.

There was no money in her hat, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Cassie wasn’t really trying, not anymore. She hadn’t even bothered to seed her hat with change, and she slumped against the iron railing, eyes half-shut, breath limp and grey in front of her mouth.

It had still been dark when she’d sat down; she had watched the world gradually brighten to the harsh, steel grey of a winter morning. At first she had been cold, shivering, but that feeling had passed. Now, she didn’t feel anything.

The few people who went by seemed to go out of their way to not see her. Their strides didn’t break, they didn’t slow or vary their voices. It was like she wasn’t even there.

Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she had been swallowed up by the world of grey, just another featureless lump in the gutter, something to be swept up by the street cleaners after the holidays.

Maybe that was for the best.

At least that way she couldn’t hurt anyone else.

When the police cruiser pulled up to the curb and turned off its engine, she barely registered it. Doors opening, closing, footsteps: none of it mattered. It all seemed to be happening in a different world.

It was only when a pair of heavy leather shoes came to a stop in front of her, their toes pointed directly at her, that Cassie looked up.

Farrow was looking down at her; the cop’s face broke from something that looked like anger into an expression of concern.

“Jesus, you look awful. Are you all right?”

Cassie nodded and tried to answer; her lips burned as she tried to move them.

“Yes,” she managed.

“Let’s get you up.” Farrow took a step forward, kicking Cassie’s hat out of the way, and leaned over. Cassie felt the woman’s hands under her arms, felt herself being lifted to her feet. Cassie was only able to stay on her feet by leaning against the railing.

“I’m all right,” she said, the burning in her lips dulling as she used them. She nodded, as if this might somehow strengthen her point.

“Jesus Christ,” the cop said, taking a step back. “Are you trying to freeze to death?”

When Cassie didn’t answer, Farrow cocked her head. “I need to ask you a few questions. Have you taken anything? Drunk anything?”

Cassie shook her head.

“No drugs? No booze?”

“No,” Cassie said carefully.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

“I’m all right,” Cassie said.

“Can you tell me what year it is, please?” Farrow was still using that loud, almost shouting voice.

“It’s 1997. December. Christmas Eve.”

Farrow nodded. “And do you know where you are?”

Cassie almost smiled at how ridiculous the question was, but she stopped herself. “Victoria,” she said. “At the courthouse.” Not that she could really be sure anymore.

The answers seemed to satisfy Farrow. “What are you doing out here?” she asked, a tone of genuine concern in her voice. “I thought Chris told me that you had found a place.”

“Chris?”

“Constable Harrison.”

“Oh. Right.”

She craned her neck around Farrow. All she saw was a man-shaped shadow in the driver’s seat of the cruiser.

“He’s not there,” Farrow said.

“What?” She’d never seen Farrow without Harrison.

Farrow shook her head. “Here,” she said, stepping toward the cruiser. “Let’s get you something to drink,” she said, as she opened the passenger door and reached in.

“No, I—” Cassie took two steps toward the car, tried to see inside. He had to be there.

“It’s got so much cream and sugar in it, it probably doesn’t even count as coffee anymore.” Farrow pushed the door of the cruiser shut with one hand, holding a metal Thermos in the other.

“Here.” She unscrewed the cup from the top of the Thermos and handed it to Cassie. “It’ll warm you up.” She poured the cup half-full.

Cassie looked between Farrow and the police car.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Where’s Constable Harrison?”

Farrow sighed heavily. “Drink first.”

Cassie raised the cup to her lips, took a gentle sip. Sweet, hot; just what she needed.

Farrow nodded. “Good girl,” she said. “Now listen.” She took a half-step forward, leaned toward her. “Chris got himself in a little trouble last night.”

A kaleidoscope of images filled her head. “What happened?”

Farrow shook her head. “He was questioning a suspect.” She paused, blinked quickly a few times. “And there was a breach of protocol.”

Cassie rocked back. “What? Is he—”

“I haven’t seen him. I don’t think anyone’s seen him.” Farrow took a deep breath, shook her head. “He’s on administrative leave. Indefinitely.”

“What happened?” It was like her whole body woke up at once, like an electrical current was running through her.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she said. “But Chris asked me to.” She glanced back at the car, and toward the courthouse itself.

“It was Cliff Wolcott.”

Cassie’s stomach plummeted.

“Chris went down to holding to talk to him, and when he left, he revealed that he had taken his side arm in with him.”

Cassie had to force herself to breathe. “Did he—”

“He surrendered his weapon and his badge to the officer on duty, and requested emergency leave. It looks like some sort of breakdown.”

“Did you know? Did he say anything?”

“I had no idea.” Her voice was almost disappointed. “But
you saw him,” she said. “He wasn’t sleeping. He was just—” She motioned with her hand beside her head.

“But why—”

“That’s why I’m here,” Farrow said, cutting her off.

Cassie brought the cup to her lips and was surprised to discover that it was almost empty.

Farrow started speaking as she poured her more. Steam billowed from the mouth of the Thermos. “Chris left me a note. He asked me to find you.” She screwed the lid back on the Thermos. “He wanted me to tell you that it isn’t safe for you.”

Cassie stopped with the cup at her lips. “I thought—I mean, Cliff Wolcott is the guy, right? He killed all those girls, right?”

“Not all of them.”

Cassie flinched. Almost dropped the cup. “What?”

Farrow shook her head slightly. “Your friend Laura?”

Cassie nodded.

“Cliff Wolcott didn’t kill her.” She held up her hand as Cassie started to speak. “I know,” she said. “But we’re sure. The MO doesn’t match. And”—she bit her lip—“there are other … pieces of evidence.”

The coffee started to slosh ominously in Cassie’s stomach.

“Chris wanted me to tell you that you need to be careful.”

Cassie tightened her grip on the cup; it was the only thing anchoring her to the sidewalk.

It all made sense now.

Of course Cliff Wolcott hadn’t killed Skylark.

She had known it all along, but she had let everything else push it out of the way.

She had killed her. Just like she had been about to kill Ali this morning.

It was all she could do to hold herself together.

“Are you okay?” Farrow leaned forward, touched her arm. “I know this is a lot to take in.”

Cassie nodded slowly, her head spinning, but not for the reason that Farrow thought.

She couldn’t believe that she had been so stupid, that she had let herself believe that everything might actually be all right. Skylark was dead and her father was dead and Ali was in danger and it was all her.

It had always been her.

But that stopped now. Today she would figure out a way to end it. It was all that she could do. No amount of running would be enough: it needed to end.

“I’m okay,” she said finally.

“I don’t mean to be intrusive, but is there somewhere you can go? Someplace safe?”

Cassie rocked at the sound of concern in the cop’s voice. “I’ll figure something out,” she said. “I’ll be all right.”

“Listen—” Farrow started, but she cut herself off. “I know that there might be issues but … Why don’t you at least think about going home? I’m sure—”

“No,” she said, taking a step away. “I can’t.” She shook her head furiously. “I can’t.”

“Cassandra,” she said, moving toward her, reaching again for her arm. “I know it’s hard. Your mom told me about the dreams and the fire, and Chris mentioned the investigation—”

“What?” She took two steps away from Farrow, ramming her back into the top of the railing so hard it took her breath away. “What are you talking about?”

Farrow bit her lips. “The investigation.” She took a deep breath. “When you told your doctor that your father was abusing
you.”

Cassie glanced both ways up and down the sidewalk, fought to keep from putting her hands over her ears. “That was a mistake,” she said quickly. “I was just dreaming.”

“Were you?” There was a challenge in Farrow’s voice, but a warmth too. It was like Dr. Livingston all over again, arguing with her about what she knew to be true. “What about when you were in the hospital, when you were twelve?”

“I didn’t—”

“You tried to kill yourself.”

“No.” The word trailed off into a high-pitched whine, and Cassie shrank into herself.

“Cassie,” Farrow said, taking a step toward her.

Cassie pulled back, turned her shoulder to the police officer.

“Cassie,” she said, and Cassie felt a hand on her shoulder. “I understand.”

Cassie sniffed.

“I believe you.”

For a moment, Cassie’s legs wouldn’t hold her and she slipped back against the railing. It was like the world had opened up under her feet, like she was tumbling into a bottomless darkness.

“What?”

“I believe you.”

Hearing the words for a second time didn’t make them make any more sense.

“I know that other people … maybe they didn’t. Maybe they … couldn’t. But, Cassie …”

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, and shook her head harder. “I can’t.”

“Cassie, I—”

Cassie pulled away from the woman, spinning away, spinning
free, falling into the darkness.

The coffee arced out of the cup in a brown parabola as it fell to the ground.

He knew that waiting would bear fruit.

He watched from across the street as she talked to the police officer, as she scurried crying down the block.

The police officer had started after her, but stopped after only a few steps, shaking her head and turning back to the car, picking up the cup from the Thermos.

He waited until she had gotten back into the car, until she drove off, before he slipped out of the shadows to follow the girl downtown.

He wasn’t worried about losing her. There were only so many places she would go.

She went to the most obvious.

When he found her again, she was sitting on the edge of the dry fountain in Centennial Square, on the opposite side from where that woman’s body had been found.

That woman. How quickly the names disappeared.

But this one … this one would be remembered. Watching her in the square was a sharp reminder of what had drawn him to her from the start.

The flame still burned within her, but it had changed from orange-gold to blue. She was running on desperation now, fear, anger, sadness.

Despair.

In the absence of fuel, the fire burned itself, blazing hot,
but short-lived.

He would need to take her soon; the way she was burning, she wouldn’t last long.

While it still burned, though, she would be the rarest of delicacies.

The burning called to him, fed the darkness within him.

Tonight. It would be tonight.

But then something happened that he had not foreseen: a woman entered the square, tall and slim, scarf pulled up to her face, knit cap pulled down tight on her head.

She went directly to the girl at the fountain, and when she touched her shoulder, the girl’s blue flame flared, almost exploded, then turned the blinding white of burning magnesium. Tendrils of white trailed up the girl’s arm and into the woman’s hand.

He stepped back as the white flame seared down the woman’s arm and met the flame burning at the heart of her, turning the steady red glow to a vibrant, pulsing orange.