Eerie (8 page)

Cobon tapped his chin then waved his arm at the rose in Asher's hand. “For the girl?”

“For her suffering,” Asher said simply.

“You are brave. I don't think this one killed Adalwolf.” He flung his hand toward Holly. “Not much fight in her at all.”

He looked at the rose and then again at Asher, and his face softened into sanity.

“Do be careful, brother,” he said quietly. “I will not condemn you, but the others are watching, and you remember what happened to Kiya.”

Of course he remembered. An Envoy never forgot. To his everlasting shame, Asher had destroyed Kiya.

Her demise had unfolded in short order. She had fallen in love with a human and openly displayed her affection. When the others noticed, they were appalled. Their rage came on swift wings, and Kiya had come to Asher begging for protection. But instead of protecting her, Asher handed her to the mob, and then he joined them in shredding her into scraps of energy, which dissipated into the void.

Only Cobon had tried to help her, a futile attempt at a rescue. The others shunned him after that, which likely hastened his spiral into lunacy. Insane and genius and unrelenting, Cobon would tear Hailey apart if he knew he'd killed the wrong girl.

And now Cobon was possibly Asher's only ally—the only Envoy that would tolerate his feelings for the girl—the only Envoy that might stand with him, should the others attack him as they did Kiya.

“Strange how fate weaves us apart and together again,” Cobon remarked, as if his thoughts had followed the same course as Asher's. He narrowed his eyes at the rose.

“Do enjoy your little pets, Brother. I so hope they don't bite you in the end, but perhaps you'll buy a muzzle for Pádraig or Fin or whatever the humans are calling him now.” Cobon continued muttering to himself as he faded away. “I do find your
feelings
for that girl utterly despicable . . .”

Asher returned to his thoughts, letting his mind drift into the Aether. It was becoming more and more difficult to exist there. Where three thousand years ago, he'd spent most of his time in the Aether and was pulled away to the Earth only sporadically, now it was the other way around.

How he missed his home. And how he weighed once again whether he would remain on Earth and love Hailey for the rest of her natural life . . .

Or tear her apart tomorrow and end his torment.

Chapter Eleven

The Vanishing Rose

“And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note,

the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.”

- Edgar Allan Poe, The Pit and the Pendulum

Hailey tossed and turned, worried into insomnia about her return to school after her sister's burial. At 3:13am, she flopped on her side and decided to watch as each minute flipped a digit on her bedside clock, and she kept watching until 5:30 a.m., when she decided it was finally late enough to rise. And rise she did, like a drone, inching toward the bathroom, point-focused on her next task and thinking of little else.

Brush teeth. Done.

Turn on shower. Done.

Get in shower. Done.

Wash hair. Done.

Grab towel—step out of shower. Done.

Turn off shower. Done.

Forget to wipe up a puddle so Holly can find it with a socked foot. Done.

Catch glimpse of white-haired boy in mirror...

Hailey whipped her head around, a scream stuck in her throat. There was—there really was a white-haired boy of twelve or thirteen staring at her from behind the bathroom mirror.

She stared at him wide-eyed, unable to force air, and frozen in place, hoping that if she didn't move, he wouldn't see her.

Several seconds passed, and neither of them blinked.

The mirror took on the sheen of an oil painting, covered in thick strokes of washed-out tones which bled together to form a frozen face.

Breathing as quietly as she could, Hailey leaned in for a closer look. Then she pulled her face back, and the white-haired boy mimed her every movement. He now stared back at her slack-jawed with one eyebrow raised higher than the other.

Hailey closed her mouth, and the white-haired boy closed his mouth.

She squinted at him suspiciously, and he squinted right back.

Hailey sighed; he sighed, and then she threw her towel over the mirror and held it there. With both hands engaged, she wasn't quite sure what to do next, and she couldn't move without exposing the glass.

This was crazy.

She'd just decided she'd imagined the whole thing when a pair of albino arms jutted out from the mirror, through her towel and went straight for Hailey's head, pulling and twisting her hair this way and that, and Hailey fought against them, grabbing one and using all her might to pull it away.

It shook her loose. Then it slapped her hand and went back to work on her hair. Ducking and squirming, Hailey bunched herself into the corner. Finally, the hands stopped.

Hailey stood up, rubbing her head and finding her hair was pulled into a beautiful, ornate, albeit soaking wet, French braid.

The white-haired boy saluted her from the mirror then disappeared.

Hailey blinked, dumbfounded.

No way that just happened. No way anyone would ever believe her if it actually had happened. She probably braided her hair herself and from lack of sleep simply imagined the whole affair with the mirror. That's what happened.

Except, Hailey didn't know how to braid.

Eyes wide, she very slowly got dressed and went about her day.

With her hair gorgeously organized, she caught the bus to school, sat herself in the front seat, and avoided all eye contact.

Whispers erupted all around her, and they were hard to ignore. Some girls didn't even bother whispering their gossip about Hailey and her sister.

“—I heard when they were digging her sister's grave, her uncle poured a bottle of whiskey into it,” gushed one girl in Physics class.

It was half a bottle
, Hailey corrected her in her head. Her uncles drank the rest.

The girl sitting right behind her chimed in next. “At least she finally bought a brush for her hair,” she giggled and a few others laughed with her.

Holy crap, I'm sitting right here.

Tage followed her off the bus that afternoon and fell in step with her as she moped home, walking so close, he actually brushed against her.

Hailey didn't really feel like talking.

“You've got a toothbrush in your hair,” he said.

“What?!”

Hailey felt around and sure enough pulled Holly's toothbrush out of her braid.

“That albino little punk,” she muttered. She glanced at Tage briefly then returned her attention to her feet. No wonder everyone was laughing at her . . .

“I missed seeing you in school.”

Hailey pulled the corners of her mouth back in a weak smile.

“I never realized how nice it was to hear your feet tapping under your desk.”

“I do that?” That was something Holly used to do. Hailey didn't know she did it too. It made her smile for real.

“Yeah, and it's always a pretty cool rhythm.” Tage rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh.” Hailey dropped her head again and tried to hide behind some strands of hair that had come out of her braid.

“Wait,” he said smiling. “Was that embarrassing?” He chuckled, and Hailey could feel her cheeks heat. “Actually, I'm glad you're so shy, otherwise I'd never have the courage to ask you to prom.”

Hailey froze and looked at him in terror. Was he asking her to prom? She couldn't tell.

“So, uh . . .I mean, you don't have to answer right away,” he stammered. “Just think about it for a couple days, okay?”

“I . . .I don't . . .” Hailey realized she had no idea how to turn down a date. Or accept one. This was all new.

“Just think about it.”

Hailey sighed. She didn't need a couple days to think about it. She didn't even need a couple seconds. There was no way in hell she was going to prom.

“And, uh, you can come tapping in my direction with your answer anytime.”

Hailey shook her head and tried to say, “no,” but nothing came out. She was in the Twilight Zone. And Tage was clearly out of his mind. Maybe he'd recently taken a hit to the head . . .without his helmet. That would explain his craziness.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said, and then he pecked her on the cheek and jogged away.

“Buh . . .” Hailey uttered after him.

Stunned, she stood on the sidewalk for several seconds before she turned and moped home, Holly's toothbrush in hand.

Detective Toll was at the townhouse waiting for her, and he was wearing his police-face.

Everyone stood up when Hailey stepped inside.

“Hi . . .?” she announced as she tentatively placed her backpack next to the door.

The clock in the kitchen spoke first.
Tick . . .tick . . .tick . . .

“As you were,” Hailey said, trying to lighten the mood as they all stared at her. She held up Holly's toothbrush. “Thanks for telling me I had a toothbrush stuck in my hair this morning.”

Her uncles gave each other first quizzical then accusatory looks. All five of them had eaten breakfast with her. One of them should have said something.

She really missed Holly.

“Mrs. Lash is dead,” Uncle Pix announced.

“And burning in hell,” Dale added, and Holly's toothbrush fell out of Hailey's hand. She quickly picked it up and looked at Detective Toll for an explanation.

“Mary Lash hanged herself last night.”

Hailey's hand shot up to her mouth.

“Oh my gosh,” she breathed. “Why? Why would she do that?”

“There's uh . . .there's a little more,” Toll said, and then Uncle Pix took over.

“She helped them kill Holly,” Uncle Pix told her.

“What?”

“She confessed it in a note, and she left her weapon next . . .right next to it,” Toll said.

“I just can't believe it,” Hailey said, clutching Holly's toothbrush as blood swished in her ears. Blinking the dark away, she slowed her breathing, wishing Fin was next to her.

Where was he?
she wondered, feeling the sting of abandonment. She hadn't seen or heard from him since Holly's funeral.

Sleep wouldn't come. Once the house went quiet, Hailey sneaked out her bedroom window and headed to the cemetery to visit Holly.

Shortly after she hit the street, the rain started, and the air went from chilly to downright frigid. Then the wind picked up. She realized too late she should have worn a jacket. As cold rain turned to sleet, icy needles pricked her skin, injecting their frost directly into her veins until she shivered in violent convulsions.

Still she walked, one shoulder raised to the wind, which still managed to blow ice crystals into her ear.

It felt good to hurt. She deserved it for abandoning her sister, for allowing Mrs. Lash, the bad men, and the Envoy from Hell to get her. In fact, she deserved far worse than a chill, she decided, as she trudged through the darkness, through the pouring rain-slush to Holly's grave.

Hailey's hands were numb, and she shoved them under her arms as she knelt on top of the mud that covered her big sister. Someone had left a single rose to weather the storm with her. Hailey didn't care that she was filthy. She didn't care that the wind sliced through her thin shirt. She just didn't care . . .

Very gradually, she felt tired, and she smiled, shivering as she laid herself down to sleep, hopefully forever with her sister. It was cold and colder, but then it was warm. In a little while she'd feel much warmer, and then it wouldn't be long. It was her time to go, she decided, and she rolled her face into the mud.

Death felt an awful lot like a dream, like being lifted and carried, wrapped in a warm cloak. Snuggling against its softness, Hailey moaned a great exhale and let herself go.

Holly's voice vibrated in tune with a fiddle playing in the distance. When Hailey tried to open her eyes, they slammed shut, gritty and burning something awful.

Somebody
was
playing a fiddle. Inside the townhouse.

And Hailey was in her bed, crusted with mud, wrapped in a dark wool blanket, and waking up to a muffled Rakish Paddy. The bed was filthy with flecks of dirt and clay stains on the pillow. A plug of solid Earth stoppered her right ear.

Swinging her feet onto the floor, she untied her sloshy sneakers. Her water-logged feet were grateful when she released them from their prison. As she peeled off her socks and wiggled her toes, she noticed, on her bedside table, a single red rose with a piece of parchment folded like a tent over it. She reached for the note.

Solitude stalks the lonely soul

that walks with isolation

hand in hand, Hope's greatest fool

and thoughts of death's temptation.

God's knot a weeping cesspool

that's fraught with devastation

band on band, Faith's golden rule

this Rose's hesitation.

Who else but you, so graceful

Could stand my adoration?

Who else but me, so gullible

(and God's abomination)

Would hope for love from you, my dove

Your hand — my soul's salvation.

Hailey read it several times. The last stanza pulled on her heart, but the rest seemed a bit cryptic. Poetry wasn't really her thing. It always felt like more of a riddle than anything, and this was no exception.