Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (5 page)

I sigh; so much of this is guesswork. So far there’s only the one book I found last year—
Fixing the Fractured Future
—about the supernatural plane itself, and it’s not very specific. The supernatural plane seems to be the taboo of taboos. The kind of thing no Oracle dared to write down. Or maybe those books were burned in the witch hunts and zealotry of the Dark Ages. I know Sierra
knows
more, but even though she’ll answer my question, she won’t offer up information unbidden. She won’t
teach
me; it’s simply too much for her to rationalize with her prickly conscience. I have to figure out exactly what to ask on my own.

Whatever.
The peaceful scene I’m standing in isn’t actually going to help me discover anything, so I return to the mirrored floor and stare at an array of possible futures, willing the scenes back to when both victims are very much alive. I watch a hundred nearly-identical couples get into bed and though there are some differences—sometimes the man goes to bed first, sometimes the woman, sometimes a bit earlier and sometimes a bit later—within an hour or so the result is the same. They’re asleep.

I feel a ripple through the dome that indicates that soon I will
not
be asleep anymore, and I wish I could speed up my scenarios in the dome the way I can when I revisit visions. That, and I wish I understood how time works here at all. It baffles me that Sierra can keep track of real-world time when the hours here feel so slipstream to me. The only thing I’ve managed to figure out is the ripple that precedes me waking. A two-minute warning of sorts, and not very useful at all.

There’s movement to my right—a
blurry figure enters the scene. But it’s not obscured, or shadowed, or moving fast. It’s just … blurred. Like that witness protection thing they do on TV, where they fuzz the person’s face. Except the entire figure is like that. I can’t even tell how tall the person is, much less get a decent look at their facial features.

The figure has entered many of the other scenes now, and in some has already begun his work. But in every single one,
the murderer is a blur. Impossible to make out. Even when I step into one of the scenes and walk right up close, the fuzziness doesn’t go away.

I don’t understand.

The ripple makes my dome shudder again as I reach an arm out, wondering if I can
touch
the blurred figure. My eyes open, sunshine streams through my window, and my work is done for the night.

Chapter Five

By Monday morning I feel like I’ve spent the whole weekend beating my head against a
brick wall. The double murder still seems to be in the future, but I have no way of knowing exactly
when
it will happen. I was afraid something might still be broken in my dome, but I couldn’t find anything to fix. I worried that something supernatural—like a Sorceress—might be blocking my ability to identify the killer, sort of like how Smith always hid his face. But the chapter on Sorceresses that Sierra bookmarked for me didn’t mention any powers like that.

W
hen I finally worked up the nerve to ask her about blurry figures in visions, I was afraid she’d ask
me
if I was trying to change the future. But instead she just said that some futures are less certain than others, and some people have no idea what they’re going to do until they do it. Which raised a lot more questions in my mind, but not the kind I could expect Sierra to answer without firing back some pointed questions of her own.

So waking up Monday was frustrating anyway, but even worse when I splashed my face with cold water and remembered Sophie. Not that I’d forgotten her
—hard as it is to suspect the girl of a double homicide, the timing of her appearance reminds me too much of Smith for comfort—but I honestly hadn’t given any thought at all to our inevitable next meeting.

Today.

After waving goodbye to my mom, I plunge out into the bitter Oklahoma morning, the sun shining weakly just over the horizon, glinting off a thin sheet of ice crystalized over every surface. It’s supposed to be spring in less than a month, but this winter seems determined to dig its icy fingers in and hold on forever. As a community I think we’re doing okay, moving forward from what was arguably the biggest tragedy this town has ever experienced. But there’s something renewing about spring, and warmth, and sunshine; if only Mother Nature would cooperate.

As I walk across the school parking lot I
’m still trying to figure out how to face Sophie. At minimum, I need a game plan for mostly avoiding the Sorceress who has suddenly moved into my small town. Art is obviously going to be the worst because it’s our one class together. Even if I manage today, I can’t arrive late and leave early
every
day. At some point we’re going to come face to face.

But hopefully later rather than sooner.
Even though Sophie seems nice enough, I’m not ready to talk with her, and not just because she might be a part-time assassin. I feel like I need to know more about Sorceresses in general before I can handle one right in front of me, and Sierra’s book hasn’t been proven overly helpful. A fact I doubt was an accident.

“It’s
just not something we concern ourselves with,” Sierra told me when I asked her for more information straight out. “My job is to pass on the knowledge of the Oracles, and be a reference
to the Sisters
. Not to young undecideds, and not about Sorceresses.”

So all I really know for sure is that Sorceresses can jump back time but have a finite amount of supernatural energy to do so.

It’s not a lot to go on.

In the halls a
fter second hour I catch sight of Sophie emerging from a classroom and turning in my direction, so I dive out of sight around a corner and slam into something warm and solid.

“Sorry,” I mutter, but that’s all I can get out before
I’m silenced by Linden’s gaze, and six separate emotions pull me in eight directions at once. I feel my knees buckle.

“Charlotte.” His hands are on my shoulders, holding me up.

Holding me o
ut
, away from him.

I may be reading too much into that
. But how could he not be repulsed by me? I remind him of an awful time in his life. Of the girl he was falling for; the girl who died. Of being manipulated by a murderer in ways he can scarcely begin to understand.

Never mind
the secrets that he
doesn’t
know.

I close my eyes,
willing my nose to stop burning, and the tears to stop threatening at the thought of the secrets that will always keep Linden and me apart. After wanting him for so long. After having him, ever so briefly—even if under false pretenses.

It didn’t
feel
fake, when I had him in my arms.

I open my eyes and focus on his shoulder
, when all I really want is to drink in the sight of his face. But if I start, I won’t be able to stop.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble, still refusing to look at him. Until this moment I’ve been able to return his soft smiles—forced myself to, really, to keep him from worrying—but they were always from across room, or down the hall. Standing so close to him, feeling the heat of his body and the faint stirring of his breath, smelling the mint of his favorite gum. I just
can’t
. I clench my fists to keep my hands from rising. To do what? To touch his face? To brush my own lips, remembering the feel of his kiss?

M
aybe just cover my eyes, to hide.

“Charlotte?”

My name in his soft, deep voice is like a knife through my heart. But I can’t ignore him; I have to do it. Raising my chin and meeting his eyes is like bench-pressing a mountain. I cringe at the thought of what I must look like to him, but now that I’m staring, I can’t look away. He’s as beautiful as he ever was, with his perfect blond hair and slim-not-skinny frame, always so perfectly accentuated by his designer clothes.

Of course, I guess that’s basically the point of designer clothes. But still.

His eyelashes are thick, but just the tips are blond, like his hair. I love to see the light shining off those blond tips that fringe his pale blue eyes.

“Are you
sure you’re all right?” he asks after I’ve stared at him, wordlessly, for long enough to really make it awkward.

“I’m okay,” I say, though my teeth try to clamp down on the lie. I’m awful.
Even more miserable than usual. “You?”

“I’m …” H
e pauses, as though considering, then lifts one corner of his mouth and says, “I’m good. Better than I thought I would be at this point, actually.”

I nod spasmodically. “Good.” And as though that weren’t an idiotic enough thing to say, I keep nodding. “Good, that’s really … good.”

“What have you been up to?” he asks, releasing my shoulders at last and running his fingers through his hair.

I swallow hard and put us both out of our misery. “Linden, it’s okay. You don’t have to keep watching out for me. I’m
fine
.”

“I haven’t been—well, I mean
I kind of have—but it’s not because—”

“I really am doing
good, Linden. Thanks for checking up on me.” I carry on through the shakiness in my voice. “You don’t need to anymore.” My face, my eyes, my voice, I know they’re all screaming that it’s not true, but I have to say the words.

“I
know
.” And now he sounds frustrated and I’m not sure why. Didn’t I just let him off the hook? Other kids are streaming past us now and when his eyes dart around at them, I wonder if he’s embarrassed to be seen talking to me.

Probably.

“I have to get to class,” I say, ducking my head again.

“Charlotte, I—”
His hand on my arm. It burns and chills all at the same time and I want to lean in and jerk away, so instead I simply freeze.

“
It’s okay, Linden.
I’m
okay.” I force a smile and, even though he doesn’t look appeased, I spin and head toward art class before the burning in my chest can turn into tears.

I thought it would be easier. I guess because I’ve always known I did the best thing possible
for him
by cutting off our relationship. After all, it wasn’t a real relationship. Not actually. Not for him, anyway. After the truth came out, Linden needed space and time and I gave that to him. It wasn’t a true break up; it was more like returning things to normal.

Unfortunately, my heart knows what it’s missing now. It knows what it’s like to hold on
to Linden while we speed along on his snowmobile. What it’s like to kiss him with my leg burning against his hip. To have his weight press down on me as his fingertips grip at the bare skin along my ribs. I can’t ever un-remember that.

In a lot of ways it was better when I was hopelessly in love with him and knew nothing would ever happen.
Now? Everything is awkward and strange because of all the things that
did
happen.

But they weren’t real.

It wasn’t him.

And it shouldn’t have been
me
.

Of all the things Jason Smith did to me,
this might be the worst. Not only because of Linden himself, but because as an Oracle, I can never have a real relationship anyway. I used to just know and accept that.

Smith
gave me a taste of love, then took it away. Forever.

In the art room
I melt onto my stool and pull out the project I was working on last Friday. It’s always like this, after any kind of contact with Linden. It drains me of my energy and self-discipline, and it’s all I can do to hold myself together for the rest of the day.

And that was
the most we’ve spoken since things … ended. My chest hurts so badly I’m finding it hard to breathe. I thought I was making progress, but in two minutes of stilted conversation everything I thought I’d accomplished has been completely swept away.

Chapter Six

“Listen.”

The word hits my ears about the same time as two elbows come down on either side of my paper and when I jerk my head up her face is literally three inches from my nose. I almost fall backward off my stool.

I had
chilled considerably while I listened to Mr. Fredrickson’s lecture, but all of the calming is undone in one word.

Sophie
doesn’t seem to notice and her hand flutters expressively as she continues talking, the buzz of chatter around us drowning out her words to anyone farther away than me. “I know after the other day you probably think I’m some kind of supernat roadie who’s, like, I don’t know, hanging on to you because you’re all special and powerful and all of that, but actually, I think
you’re
the one who’s lonely and, I have to be honest, a little pathetic.”

I just stare at her in silent horror because I can’t even begin to imagine how the hell I’m supposed to answer that explosion of words.

“No really,” Sophie says, glancing up at Mr. Fredrickson, who is pacing up and down the aisles. “I’ve been watching you all morning. You float through this school like you don’t actually touch the ground.” She holds both hands out in front of her. “Not in a lofty, stuck-up way; actually, I don’t think you’re like that at all and I’m pleasantly surprised, you being a … well, you know. It’s just that you’re so
apart
from everyone else. Like you’re in your own personal parallel dimension. You could be invisible and no one would notice. People aren’t naturally like that.”

I disagree
.

“They
make
themselves like that.”

Okay, maybe I can’t disagree as much now
. “What do you want from me?” I ask, and I’m not sure how Sophie catches my words when I can barely hear them myself.

“I want to stop feeling bad for you every time I see you. I know that sounds harsh, but seriously, I hate seeing you and knowing that I could have been like you if I didn’t have other
supernat friends to keep me from feeling alone.” She tosses her dark curls over one shoulder and says in a tone so light it can’t possibly be genuine, “Call it selfish, I guess. I don’t like seeing what I could have been.”

“I was just fine before you got here,” I growl.

“Sure you were. You look like it. And any day now your friends will all get back from vacay and your boyfriend will get over his issues.”

What does
she think she knows?

As if hearing my thoughts, Sophie continues,
“I think we have seriously different definitions of the word
fine
.”

Mr. Fredrickson stands
behind Sophie and clears his throat. “Are we talking about art, girls?”

Sophie turns back toward
her seat. “Think about it, okay? No man is an island and all that.”

When the bell rings, Sophie leaves
the room before I even have time to gather my stuff. Ball’s in my court I guess.

I dig out my sack lunch and
head for the cafeteria, wondering what exactly Sophie is after. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person I’d naturally choose for a friend and I honestly don’t get the impression that she’s terribly impressed with me either. Is the simple fact that we both have secret identities and supernatural powers supposed to be foundation enough for a friendship?

Or is there something sinister at work? After all, t
he last mysterious stranger who inserted himself into my supernatural life turned out to be a serial killer, so I have a bit of a track record to consider. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—well. I’m already afraid that the blood of four innocent people is on my hands. Fool me twice, and I might as well be the one holding the knife.

On the other hand,
if Sophie
is
thinking about murdering people in their sleep, maybe allowing her into my life will put me in a position to stop her.

And if she’s not?

Am I seriously
more
afraid that Sophie might
not
be a killer? Surely not. Surely I’m not
that
crazy.

But
I stand there, still as stone, feeling the flow of the crowd as it routes around me. Sophie’s right. Even as people sidestep me, they don’t really
see
me. I don’t want her to be right about that. Because then she must be right about some of those other things she said.

So w
hat’s holding me back? I don’t think she’s going to spill my secret. And it’s way too late to try to just hide it. Even if I haven’t told her, she
knows
. What difference does it make if I confirm her suspicions? My heart feels so hollow after my encounter with Linden that all I can think is how much I don’t want to spend the rest of the day—much less the rest of my life—feeling this empty.

It takes me a few minutes to find Sophie, but I finally spot her sitting at one of the round tables
, alone. She doesn’t seem like the type to sit by herself. Honestly, she seems a lot more like the kind of girl who has effortless grace and poise and attracts friends like a magnet. I’ve never understood that kind of natural easiness; I’ve stumbled through the social obstacle course of life for as long as I can remember and my highest hopes are typically just to get through a day without a disaster—never mind social victories or making actual friends.

But Sophie would understand the things
about me that I can’t explain to anyone else.

Not even Linden.

Especially
not Linden.

I scrunch my nose up and berate myself
for dwelling on him; that line of thought is only going to make me miserable. Instead I clench my fists for a little bravery and walk toward Sophie’s table. As I draw nearer she looks up and gives me an encouraging smile a second before someone walks between us and sets a lunch tray down on the table beside her.

I freeze, confidence splintering.

She wasn’t smiling at me at all. My face flushes red and the only reason I don’t turn around and walk away is that I’m frozen to the ground in humiliation.

Sophie reaches out and squeezes the girl’s hand, but gestures toward me and tilts her head to the side
with a few words to the other girl. Clearly some kind of apology. I barely keep my mouth from dropping open when the girl nods, picks up her tray, eyes me, and walks away. Sophie pats the spot beside her and smiles.

I stand stock-still.

No one’s ever done anything like that for me. And in that moment, I realize Sophie’s right. I’m so used to being alone—being ignored—that I don’t have any idea what to do when someone actually wants me to come join them. Everything inside me is screaming that I should look over my shoulder to see the person Sophie’s really gesturing for.

I think
maybe I need this. Need to have a connection to someone my own age. Someone like me.

And even though it’s terrifying, I reach out and grab it.

Putting one foot in front of the other feels downright momentous as I draw closer to Sophie’s table, and I feel like I’ve run a marathon by the time I drop onto the bench beside her.

“There,” Sophie says wryly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“You have no idea,” I grumble, more to my lunch than Sophie.

She tilts her head back and forth. “I guess maybe it was. I should give credit where it’s due.
Good job.”

We eat in silence for the first ten minutes before I start to feel calmer. The food helps. At least now I’m not tense
and
hungry.

“So what
was
that, the other day?” Sophie asks, finally breaking the silence. She hesitates, then swirls a hand at me. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

I swallow hard and cough, and to her credit Sophie hides her eye roll fairly well.

“I—I don’t mind you asking, I just don’t know what you mean.” I hope I’m being truthful. Not the part about what she means. But I kind of
do
mind her asking. It’s the sort of thing I’ve been trained to never ask about, to never tell about, and certainly not over lunch in the school cafeteria. And I still haven’t figured out how to dispel my suspicions.

But I find myself
wanting
to; wanting
a reason to really trust her, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

“On Friday, in art.
Something happened near the end of class and this … enormous surge of energy like, exploded out of you.” The look on her face is
hungry
, and not for food.

“Oh. That. It was, um, a vision.” It feels strange to say it out loud.
To anyone. I don’t even tell Sierra about the visions I don’t fight.

“
Just a regular vision? Like, of the future?” She’s leaning on the table now in rapt attention, and I feel like I’m telling some kid a bedtime story.

“Yeah.”

Another long pause. “Are they always like that?”

“Like what?”

“That much energy. I mean, the amount that was coming out of you would have refilled like,
all
of my reserves in one shot.” She wraps the fingers of her right hand around her thin left wrist, fingertips overlapping, in a gesture I suspect is mostly unconscious.

I think about the way some visions are easy to fight and some are impossible. “That one was more … intense, I guess, than usual.”

She nods sagely. “What was it about?”

I don’t say anything and Sophie lets me sit in silence, though her e
yes are boring into me the entire time I’m considering how to respond. “I don’t know if I should tell you. Going for honesty here.”

She closes her mouth and considers that.
“Because I’m not an Oracle?”

“No. It’s just that … the future is complicated. And making the choice whether or not to act on what you see is kind of a huge responsibility.”

“I don’t see why,” Sophie says. “If it’s bad, you try to fix it. If it’s good, you let it be. I mean, is there really anything else to do?”

I think about my parents.
Of Sierra. Stopping Smith saved a lot of lives in the end, but Smith’s victims aren’t the only blood on my hands. My father was killed and my mother was paralyzed because I had a vision of Sierra’s death and acted to change that. “What if you make things worse?”

Sophie
shrugs, as though I’d asked what would happen if you wore the wrong color, or ate your dessert before dinner. “Well, at least you’d know you tried. That has to be better than sitting around doing nothing, doesn’t it?”

I can’t answer her. It’s strange to realize that even though Sophie has lived
a life of embracing her supernatural abilities,
I’m
the one who’s really had the experiences.

I’m the one who understands the consequences.