Fury's Fire (16 page)

Kirk cringed a little then, looking desperate. “The night you set the fire on the bay … you killed them. Asia, all of them. The Fury awoke.”

“Asia?” What little there was tying her to the earth seemed to fall away, and Gretchen felt as if she would slide off the planet. “Asia?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” She realized that Kirk was trembling. A tear spilled from his right eye. “Why are you asking these things?” He was frightened, she could see that. “Maybe I’m … maybe I’m …” He put a hand to his head.

But she didn’t have the energy to comfort him. She turned and started to run, but instead slammed into the person behind her, sending them both sprawling and books and notebooks tumbling to the floor. The students around them cleared away.

It was Will she had collided with.

Will looked at Kirk, then at Gretchen. “What’s he saying?” Will demanded. “I saw you talking. What’s he telling you?”

Kirk dashed away, and Gretchen felt herself grab Will’s shirt collar. A hoarse whisper, barely more than a gasp: “Why didn’t you tell me?” She scrambled down the hall, leaving her books where they were, and bolted through the double doors.

“Gretchen!”

She heard Will shouting her name, the echoes bouncing off tile walls, but the syllables died as the
doors sighed closed behind her. She didn’t even know where she was running to—all she knew was that she had to get away.

The air was cold, and it blew across her face as she ran down the steps. The doors thudded behind her, and she heard a shout—Will’s voice. “Gretchen!”

She ran to the parking lot, but Will’s legs were longer, and he ducked between her and the car door.

“Don’t run away from me,” he begged.

“What did he mean, Will?” She stared up at him, her whole body tense with the need to know the truth. “He said that I killed Asia.” She stared into his eyes, which seemed to have darkened to a blue that was almost gray, like the edge of a thunderhead before it breaks into rain. She was trembling with two kinds of fear—the fear that Will might at last tell her the truth, and the fear that he might not. She felt the need for honesty like a drowning person needs air. “Did I kill her?”

“Gretchen …” Will ran his hand through his hair, exposing the scar that slashed across his face. He looked away from her, as if he was trying to form the right words.

“Don’t think about it,” Gretchen said. “Yes or no, Will.”

His eyes fastened onto hers then. “No.”

“No?” Her heart leaped, then felt itself straining, as if it had hit the confines of a cage. She didn’t know whether or not to believe him.

“You … there was a fire …”

Gretchen heard these words and understood their meaning for the first time. “I set the fire.”

Will looked at her, but he didn’t answer.

“I set the fire,” she repeated. “And I killed them.”

“If you hadn’t, we would both be dead. The only way to kill a Siren is with fire.”

“Does that make it all right?”

He took her hand then, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed her palm gently, then pulled her to him. “You didn’t mean to do it.” His voice was a whisper. “You didn’t even know you had done it. You fainted right afterward.”

Gretchen felt her body relax against his. This, she knew, was the truth. Of course she had set the fire. That was the only answer. Her mind flashed on the memory she’d had—Will and Tim in the boat, under attack from seekriegers. The sail had burst into flame, and she had managed to save Will.

“I killed Asia.” Tears flowed from her eyes, wetting the front of Will’s blue plaid shirt. This was worse than when she thought Asia had simply died trying to save her. Far worse.

“There wasn’t any other way, Gretchen,” Will whispered into her hair. “You didn’t even do it on purpose … but I would have.”

“Why is this happening to me?”

She looked up at him, and he brushed the hair away from her face. “I don’t know.”

“I want it to stop.”

“Maybe it will.”

She looked away from him, a low flame of anger burning in her veins. She hated to admit it, but she was angry with him for finally telling the truth. No, she was angry that the truth was what it was. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“What would I have said?”

“I don’t know—the truth.”

“Whatever that is.”

“Don’t joke, Will.”

“I’m not.”

He held up his hands, and his face looked so helpless that she was reminded of a time long ago when she and a seven-year-old Will had caught a fish. They had been trying all afternoon, and when a small blackfish finally nibbled the end of their line and they pulled it up, she had shrieked in horror, and Will had jumped back as the fish flapped wildly, desperate to be free.

“Put it back!” Gretchen had screamed, but Will didn’t want to touch the fish, so she had finally grabbed it, unhooked the bleeding, gaping mouth from the silver hook, and tossed it back into the creek. “We almost killed it,” she had said then, filled with remorse.

And that was how she felt now—as if her wish had finally been granted, but the granting was something horrible and terrifying. She knew the truth, but all she wanted was to toss it back. And nobody could help her.

“Let’s go,” Will said finally, taking her hand again.

“Where are we going?”

Will looked surprised. “Back to school.”

“Are you serious?”

He smiled a little sadly. “What else are we supposed to do?” he asked.

This, too, was the truth, Gretchen realized. And so she slowly followed him back into the building, trying to make sense of her swimming thoughts and broken heart.

“Dudes, you are not going to believe this!” Angus said, sliding onto the orange chair beside Gretchen. He looked like he was about to say something, then got distracted by Will’s lunch. “Gimme some of that.” He broke off half of Will’s chocolate chip cookie. Will rolled his eyes.

“Man, what does your mom put in this—crack? How am I supposed to stop eating it?” He reached for the second half of the cookie.

“You could just say to yourself, ‘Gee, this isn’t my cookie, maybe I should stop eating it,’ ” Will suggested.

Angus laughed as he polished off the cookie and brushed the crumbs from his hands. He looked over at Gretchen, grinning, and she felt her body unspool a little. She was grateful for his presence. She and Will had just been sitting there in tense silence for the past five minutes. It had been wearing her out.

“So—did you want to tell us something?” Gretchen prompted.

“What?” Angus looked blank.

Will sat back in his chair. “You said that we wouldn’t believe something.”

“Oh, right!” Angus put up his hands, palms out, as if he were ready to stop traffic with his news. He turned to Gretchen. “The guy who robbed us killed himself.”

Will let out a strangled “What?” and the pizza Gretchen had just consumed threatened to make its way back up her throat. For a moment she felt as if she had flown out of her body—like she was watching herself from above, hearing the news. She had no sensation in her hands, her feet. Her body was a strange, unreal thing.

And then Angus said, “Crazy, right?” like he was discussing some wild celebrity gossip, and Gretchen fell back to earth, crashing into her body like a meteor. She went concave, her body collapsing like a roof under a heavy weight of snow.

“Jesus, Angus, you can’t just drop that on someone.” Will was watching Gretchen, concern stamped across his face.

“Sorry—I’m sorry.” Angus touched Gretchen’s arm. “Hey, I’m sorry.” He leaned down to look up into her face. “I didn’t know you’d be so upset.”

“Anyone with a heart would be upset, Angus.” Will’s voice was sharp.

Gretchen forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another. It was a while before she felt like she could speak. “What—what happened?”

Angus hesitated a moment. He looked over at Will,
who shook his head slightly. But the question had been asked. “He hanged himself,” Angus said quietly. “In his cell. He used a bedsheet.”

Gretchen digested this information. She didn’t know why, but for some reason she looked over at Kirk, who was watching her intently. There was something in his expression that made her wonder if he knew what they were talking about.

“I don’t feel well,” Gretchen said.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” Will stood and hurried to the drinks counter for a plastic cup.

“I’m sorry, Gretchen,” Angus said. The spray of freckles across his nose had faded but were still visible, and his wide face and large eyes were so childlike that she couldn’t help forgiving him. “Listen …” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then looked at her evenly. “I am now going to drop another bomb on you, so I just want you to be prepared.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to focus as her heart did a skip-thump. “Okay,” she said slowly.

Angus cleared his throat. He took a deep breath, like someone who has accepted his fate, and reached into his pocket. “That thing you asked me about.” The paper was folded into messy quarters, and he laid it on the table before her. “Weird story, actually.”

They both looked at the paper for a moment without moving.

Gretchen touched a protruding corner with a finger, then gingerly unfolded it. Angus had photocopied the article. It was crooked on the page, and for some reason that bothered her.

Gretchen scanned the article, but there wasn’t much more information. She took a second glance at the date at the top: July 21, 1995. “The day after my
birthday,” she said. It wasn’t that she was surprised, not exactly. This just confirmed what she had feared all along. “Saskia Robicheck is my mother,” Gretchen told him. “My birth mother.”

“I didn’t even know you were adopted.”

Gretchen shrugged. “Why would you?”

He sighed. “You think you’re the baby?” Angus tapped the paper. “This baby?”

“I know I am,” Gretchen said. She placed the paper carefully on the tabletop, folded it in half. She felt strange throwing it away, but she didn’t really want to keep it. So she just folded it again and tucked it into her back pocket. “I just don’t know what it means. If it means anything.”

“It’s just weird.”

“Who knows what’s weird anymore?” Gretchen pushed back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. She was silent.

“So, does this mean you have magic powers, or something?” Angus joked. “Like some Stephen King
Firestarter
deal? Like, maybe you could open a barbecue place and—”

“Please stop.”

“Okay.”

Gretchen pressed her fingers against her temples, fighting to contain the thoughts that pinged around her mind. “I don’t know what it means,” she said at last. “Thanks for looking it up, though.” She started to stand.

“Gretchen.” Angus grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop. “I’m sorry.”

And he did look so sorry that she felt awful for him. Gretchen gave his hand a squeeze. “It’s not your fault.” She was careful to make her voice gentle, despite the fear and anger that raged inside her.

“No, but … I’m still sorry. I can see you’re freaked out. But this doesn’t mean anything.”

Angus stood and leaned forward to give her a hug. He was more than a head taller than she, and her head banged awkwardly into his shoulder, her nose mashing into the ridged line of the zipper on his jacket. Still, she was grateful for the contact.

“What’s up?” Will asked. His head was cocked in bemusement at the sight of his friends hugging. He handed Gretchen a plastic cup filled with water. She felt him watching her as she took a sip. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She looked over at Angus, who touched her elbow. Will noticed the gesture and must have taken it as a sign that Angus was asking for forgiveness, because he sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Good.”

The bell rang, signaling the next class. “I’ll see you guys,” Gretchen said, scooping up her tray.

“See you,” Will called after her. Angus was silent.

For once, she supposed, Angus didn’t have anything else to say.