The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant (14 page)

“Not tonight, Anne. Please give it a rest. Just once.”

The hillside makes a
C
around the inlet, with
Forever Tallulah
anchored at the far right of the opening. We follow a path already etched in the snow until we arrive just at the edge. The island makes a short, rocky cliff here. The yacht is hooked to a huge tree by a 100- foot steel rope that must be a foot thick.

“Speaking of our self-destructive powers.” Ben’s eyes are fiery with mischief. “Wanna try your trapeze skills out?”

“Walk the rope? Funny.”

“What’s the harm?” He picks up a small stone and hurls it at the yacht; it falls just short. He tries again. “We can’t actually die. If you fall, you’ll just end up standing right here again.”

Vivified, we can’t live beyond the limits of the island.

“
When
I fall.” I throw a rock, and it makes a
tink
on the side of the boat.

“What happened to the fearless girl that broke into my house?”

“That was Molly. I was terrified.”

He smirks. “I wish you saw what I see in you. Fine, if you won’t do it, I will.”

My arm stops him. “Challenge accepted, Zin.”

I step toward the rope and tug the loop holding it to the tree. A part of what Ben’s saying is, I have to admit, interesting. We’re unbreakable. When have I let myself enjoy my immortality? Everyone else has an excuse for being on their best behavior: they care about winning the Big V. Ben and I don’t. So I hold the tree for balance as I position myself on the taut rope. It’s got a little give, but I’m hardly heavy enough to drag a whole yacht back to shore. Ben whistles through his teeth—“
I was kidding, Anne!
”—as I awkwardly turn, face the massive open ocean under the darkening night sky, and pretend I’m on the balance beam in some elementary school
gymnastics class. Except this beam is rounded. And it’s wet with frosty mist from the Atlantic, over which it droops precariously. So, yeah, I’m doomed. But not to death.

I put my arms out for balance. And take a step. The rope squeals. There’s still earth under the rope, though. A dozen small steps separate me from the really freaky part over the water. Those small steps go quickly, and soon the rocky ledge disappears from under me.

“Anne, hun, sweetness, come on. Let’s go back and wait at Watso’s.”

“What if,” I begin to distract myself from the icy ocean, over which I’m suspended, “Mr. Watso is just gone?”

“Careful with that—it’s swinging a lot—come on—Anne, get down from there.”

I take a tiny step. Thirty or so feet down, the white-edged black waves pound thin blocks of ice into a short, jagged, bluish-white ice floor at the base of the cliff. I squint to make out something attached to or stuck in—it’s hard to tell which—the ice. It’s a blurry object of some kind, and it’s about ten feet away from the rocks of the cliff.

I wobble, catch my balance, and place one foot in front of the other.

“What if he moved, Ben? What if his tent’s empty?”

“Moved where? Come back right now. Enough.”

“Off the island.”

Ben growls as the rope swings. I drop to my knees, crossing my ankles over the rope, and I swear he goes into cardiac arrest.

“Why would he move, Anne?”

“Why would he stay?”

“He’s the Abenaki shaman.”

“Why wouldn’t a shaman follow his people? Especially now that the whole village is demoed.”

“The island is spiritually his. The underworld is leasing it from him. He needs to invite them here every day. You know all this. Now get back here, or you’re going to vanish, and it’s not gonna feel great—trust me.”

I inch out on my hands and knees. “But he could just—”

All at once, the world goes gray. I hear nothing, see nothing, feel weightless. A woman’s voice whispers to me, and a flash of violet eyes disappears in a blink. I open my eyes to find I’m standing next
to Ben again, on the hillside, facing the yacht I was crawling toward only moments ago. He shakes his head at me. Watching the movement is dizzying.

“Just had to push it,” he says and helps me get my bearings. “You’re gonna feel groggy for a minute or two. This is why you should stay on the island.”

“You’re the one who dared me to go.”

“Well, now I’m daring you to come with me to Mr. Watso’s. We’ll wait there for them.”

I glance back at the rope.

He notices and shakes his head.

“I saw something in the ice.”

“What did you see?”

“I need another look.”

He tries to stop me. But I make my way back onto the rope, balancing again. My head’s still spinning from being “reborn.” I crouch for stability. This time, Ben’s right behind me.

“Anne, you’re hardly the most coordinated person I’ve ever met.”

I laugh, but softly, and brace myself against the rope. Inch out. And peer down. The lapping waters are dark below the ice floor, making the gray ice glow white. I can just make out the shape of the object embedded in there.

“If you’re trying to give me a heart attack, it’s working.”

“Yes, Ben, that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along. Kill you.”

I lower myself until I’m flat against the rope, and I squint. “It’s a box,” I tell him. “Small. Square. Maybe metallic. There’s something written on it. A short word. Or some kind of jagged line.”

“It’s probably just debris from an old ship or plane wreck. Mystery solved.”

I glance back at him. “Oooh, do you think it might be?”

“Aren’t you wondering where my dad and Watso are?”

I have to get closer to the box. But I can’t risk getting too far away and vanishing again. Moving fast, I grip the rope. In one fluid movement, I swing down. I’m dangling a good twenty-something feet above sea level before Ben even knows what’s happened.

“Did you fall?” he cries, rushing to the edge. I hear him scramble to help me—until he realizes I didn’t slip. “Are you nuts?”

“I need—” I gasp “—to see.”

“Then let’s go get binoculars. Come on.”

He reaches to grab my hand, but I don’t want to go get binoculars. So I dangle by one hand. Ben swears. I tell myself it’ll only hurt for a second. And, counting down from three, I take a deep breath. And let go of the rope.

I free-fall.

I crash into the ice, landing hardest on my right knee.

A fault line cuts through the ice, shooting over the box. The box is just far enough from land that I’d vanish before I got out to see what it is or what’s in it. It’s maybe eight or nine feet away. I shuffle closer to it, or try to. But I’ve definitely done a number on my knee. A darkening, growing splotch of red shines through my tights.

“Oh, God, is that blood?” Ben shouts down.

I’ll heal
, I think as a cold wave washes the icy, breaking floor. I smile up at him—faking the smile, of course, through the intense pain of what may be a dislocated kneecap—and look out at the box. So close, but so far away. It’s at the end of a ten-foot-long bar that’s bolted to the rock face, just five or so inches below the water line, under the ice.

“It’s bolted,” I shout.

“Bolted? To the island?”

“Why would someone bolt a box this far off the island?”

“Maybe it’s something morbid,” Ben suggests, trying to scare me. “Like the vial of an ancient monster. Maybe they’re keeping it there in case they want to vivify it one day, like, to punish students that go snooping around.”

Now I can see that what appeared to be a sharp, jagged line drawn across it was really two letters:
M
and
W
.

“Well, what does it look like?” Ben calls.

“It looks like there are initials on it.”

“Whose?”

That’s the question.

eight

UNDERWORLD RISING

“ANNE?” BEN SHOUTS DOWN.

“The initials are
MW
,” I tell him.

“What do they stand for?”

“What’s Mr. Watso’s first name?”

“Jim, I think.”

I stare at the box, and I wonder if Ben was onto something when he was joking about a monster’s blood being stored in the box. It could be that someone’s storing vials in it, but I don’t think they’re the vials of a monster. Nor do I think it’s an accident that Mr. Watso set up his ice-fishing tent so close to this box when he could have set it up anywhere around the island. Nor do I think Mr. Watso is still on Wormwood Island because he’s spiritually obligated to be. I think he’s here because of this box, because of its contents, because of the initials
MW
.

I glance at Dr. Zin’s yacht. It’s refrigerated to keep the vials on it cool; the ocean water is just as frigid, perfect for keeping vials cold in this box. His yacht is just far enough from the island to prevent the vials from touching this enchanted (or cursed) land and their owners instantly vivifying; this box is just far enough away, too.

“I’m coming down!” Ben shouts.

I look at him. “The initials are for Molly Watso.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Mr. Watso is keeping her blood stored near the island. Kept in the freezing water. It’s as good as refrigeration.”

“You think he’s got her vials in there?”

I nod.

“Christ, you don’t think Mr. Watso has brought her blood onto the island already. You don’t think she’s—do you think he’s vivified her already?”

That’s what I need to find out. I slam my fists into the fault line cutting through the ice, hoping it will give and I’ll be able to pop into the water, open the box, and, before I vanish, see if there are containers of blood in it.

In my mind’s eye, I glimpse the girl I saw outside the Cania gates weeks ago, back when I was arguing with Garnet. Could that have been a vivified Molly? Could she have been here all this time?

The only conceivable reason Mr. Watso would stay here—when his granddaughter’s been murdered and the rest of the Abenaki have left—is if he’d vivified Molly. This is the only place she can live, so this is the only place he would live. But he’d have to keep her vivification secret from everyone at the school because if Mephisto or Dia found out, they’d demand she follow the rules all vivified people must follow here: she’d have to enroll at Cania, compete for the Big V, and surrender something of extreme value as her tuition. This island would be her tuition.

“If Mr. Watso brought her vial to land, she’d vivify immediately,” Ben calls down.

“I know!”

“If she’s vivified already, Anne, they might have discovered her.”

“I know!”

“That could be why Mr. Watso and my dad aren’t at his fishing tent. What if they found her today?”

“You think Dia found her?”

“Or Mephisto. If they found her, Mr. Watso could be signing Wormwood Island over as her tuition right this second. That would turn Molly into a Cania student and this place into a gateway to and from Hell.”

I bring both my fists down on the line. Nothing.

The ice is too thick. No matter how much weight I put into it— which is admittedly not a lot because a sharp shot of pain zips through me when my knee touches the ground—it doesn’t give.

“I think there’s still hope,” I shout at Ben. “Dia might not care about getting Wormwood, and Mr. Watso might be above all of this. He might have her blood, but maybe he hasn’t brought any of it close enough to the island to vivify her. Maybe he and Dr. Zin are just off doing something else. Maybe that’s why they’re late. It doesn’t have to be the worst-case scenario.”

Ben’s face looks panicked suddenly, so I glance away. I don’t want us to overreact when we’re really just running on assumptions right now. Mr. Watso might be above playing with fire. I mean, so what if he kept vials of her blood? That doesn’t mean he’d use them!

“Anne,” Ben shouts, “get up here. Fast.”

“No. I’ve gotta see if her vials are in there.”

“Anne, please. Hurry!”

“Ben—”

“I’m not joking. Find a way to get up here! There’s something coming!”

I ignore him. He’s freaking out for nothing.

Folding my hands together, I raise them high above my head and, with all my strength, and with Ben shouting something I can’t hear, I bring them down again. Hard. So hard something in my hand snaps. But it’s not my force that cracks the ice—it’s Ben’s.

He’s jumped down. He lands near the box. The ice snaps under his weight and the force of his landing. It shatters into blocky fragments under him, under both of us, and it exposes a deep, dark, and angry pool of icy cold water into which Ben begins sliding, tumbling down. I grasp at his arm. My hands wrap around it, but his momentum is unstoppable. He’s halfway in the water at once. And I’m a short, gasping breath behind him.

The ocean tugs us in.

I go under fast, just after Ben. And bob up. And under again, flailing.

Frozen blocks bang against my head and arms. They push me under what’s left of the ice floor, which is still attached in places to the island, where it’s thickest.

For the longest moment, I can’t see anything. Just dark blurs. And light blurs.

I can’t see Ben.

A glint near my toes catches my eye.

It’s deep in the murk.

It’s not one glint but many.

They’re rising up. They’re swimming toward me.