What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) (31 page)

And then the roar of their motorcycles fades away.

I lower my knees, move my hands back to my sides and prepare to wait. Take Needle’s advice.
Remain where you are and wait out another night.

5:14 and the
flashlight gives out, its tiny battery irrevocably dead.

Can’t—wait—any—longer.
Time has to pass faster or I’ll go insane.

It feels like the lining of my lungs has molded over from the stale air I’m breathing. How much longer before I suffocate? And I’m so tense it’s like rigor mortis is twisting each muscle of my body tight like a screw.

I thrust the little pen-shaped light aside and lash out at the floorboard above me, punch it with my fist. Just once, not hard—there’s not enough space in this cramped cavity under the floor for me to punch at anything with real force but—

—it gives a little.

I rap on the board and it gives a little more.

I draw in a long, slow breath that makes me cough but a part of me relaxes for the first time since Needle appeared at the Orphanage hours ago.
You’re not trapped—be thankful for that.
Needle wasn’t playing an awful trick on me. Did not bury me alive.

Is it anywhere near to being light outside? What time does daylight break in the winter? Six, seven o’clock?

Why have I lain here for so long, endured so many hard, cold hours?

I’m a fool for not testing the boards earlier. Just knowing I could escape this little hidey-hole as Needle called it would have calmed my mind. Would have eased the tension.

But the Riders—they could be anywhere. The way they move is inexplicable, sometimes loud, sometimes silent. For all I know they could be above me right now, waiting for me to rise from this grave like a ghoul, grubby, soiled and chilled to the bone.

Unless it’s light outside.

I make my decision. Press up on the boards with both knees and the palms of my hands. No more listening. No more waiting. Better to be caught above ground—able to move, able to breathe freely in the moments before they catch me—than lie like something extinct below.

The boards give way easily, clatter aside and I’m free. I keep still and concentrate. All is quiet. Incredibly quiet. The same inky gloom above me. I try to boost myself up using the joists at either side but it takes a couple of tries to get the cramped muscles of my arms to respond.

But I manage to sit up, can finally look around. Immediately I notice a faint glow tinging the open air just beyond the window frames. Not quite daylight maybe but close.

My heart starts beating faster and I reach down for the medicine, clutch the paper bag tight and drag myself from the hole. But my head starts to spin as soon as I try to stand so I let myself slide back to the floor, onto the soft layer of tea leaves spread everywhere. Pull my legs in close to huddle. It’s very cold, my breath pushing out little clouds of steam.

Under the floor for hours.

I can’t quite believe I lasted that long down there. Did it do any good? Was I as vulnerable under the boards as I am sitting here?

My mind slows. The weariness, the lack of sleep I’ve endured for two long nights now rushes over me.

Stay here and wait, Gill. Wait until you’re absolutely sure it’s light outside. Wait until your head clears. Maybe sleep a little.

I’m alone. For the moment. And merely being free of that crack in the floor makes having to bide my time for another hour or two seem not so awful.

But what’s that in your hand, Gill? What’s in that paper bag? There isn’t time to lay back down and close your eyes. If that boy dies and you haven’t had a chance to use the medicine you’ve suffered, struggled for…

That would be the cruelest joke. To make it back to Aiden with this bag of pills and ointments and find him dead.

I push myself to my knees, then back on my feet, wobbling, unsteady. I force myself to ignore my weakness. Tell myself—

You
will
stay on your feet. You
will
start heading back to the Orphanage
.

Needle couldn’t have taken me far. We never crossed a bridge so I know I’m still on the east side of the river. I wish I had paid more attention to our route—how many blocks, how many miles—but he rode so fast, seemed to come so close to crashing.

I’m propping myself up on the tea shop’s counter. My head starts to clear the longer I’m on my feet. I roll my shoulders, stretch my neck, swing my arms, stomp my boots. I feel like I’m wearing a coat of soot and spider webbing and other things—in my hair, on my skin—I don’t even want to think about.

When I feel steady enough to take a few steps, I move to one of the windows and gasp. There’s a pearly luster in the air outside, a blue-white reflection of moonlight on snow. That faint glow I had seen. A layer of snow blankets everything, flakes still drifting softly, slowly, maybe several inches on the ground. It’s perfectly still, windless.

Not yet daylight but the snow looks like a blessing. No motorcycles in the snow. Maybe that sheen of moonlight will be too much for the Riders and their sensitive eyes.

It’s easier to stand on my own two feet now, my muscles unbending, relaxing. I feel like I have the energy to start walking, to leave.

I cross to the front door of the old house, pull it open, take a step outside and stumble on something lying just past the threshold. Even with only the snow’s reflected light, it’s easy to see what it is.

A rifle.

I pick it up. It’s so familiar, the way it fits in my hands, the way I hold it like it’s second nature. I step to the far edge of the porch where I can see better.

My rifle.
I’m sure it’s mine.

I look back over my shoulder and there’s another object by the door, dusted with snow. A box of cartridges. I pick it up—twenty rounds in the box.

I set the rifle down along with the cartridges.
It’s not right. This is such an obvious trap.
I head down the porch steps, reach the upper part of the walkway leading to the sidewalk and stop there.

I take a long look at the world around me, utterly transformed by snow. I try to remember the last time I saw snow, this much snow. There were dustings and freezing rain but I haven’t seen anything like this, so peaceful, so pure, for years. It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, just the slightest breeze stirring small branches. The snow makes the entire world look cleansed, renewed.

I almost leave the rifle, leave it on the porch behind me. Almost start walking down the untouched sidewalk without it.

There are no footprints.

Every surface is clean, unmarked.

So who left it, when and why? There must be a master plan, some hell laid out for me worse than anything I’ve been through yet. Some horror unpredictable, unforeseeable that the Riders have waiting for me.

But the rifle—it’s something. Protection. How I’ve longed for it—how many times I’ve reached for it—since they took it away.

And I’m sure I know how to use it better than anyone here except for maybe Aiden. Aiden, the one Needle called their hunter.

Maybe they want a showdown, a final reckoning. Maybe Moira wants me to kill Aisa or Aisa wants me to kill Moira. Or Needle wants me to kill them both.

Kill.

I’ve never had a real impulse to kill but there’s a part of me that would like to kill them all. All the Black Riders, every single one.

I turn back to the porch, pick up the box of cartridges and empty them into my pockets. I hoist the rifle over my shoulder and head out into the slowly drifting snow.

CJ and Terry
meet me on the steps of the Orphanage.

“Come inside. You’ve got to come see,” CJ yells.

My stomach lurches. Bad news, I’m sure—what I’ve dreaded. The worst news.

What’s happened in that back room? What’s happened to Stace?

I hold back and CJ looks surprised. He’s wearing a down jacket over a dirty sweater over who knows how many layers of shirts he’s found. It’s been so long since I’ve cut the brothers’ hair and CJ’s is like a big, puffy feather duster, dull brown and full of dust, his face, his hands caked with dirt. His brother is nearly identical.

I need time to think for a minute. Prepare myself.

I have to find out what’s happened—but I don’t want to find out what’s happened.

It hasn’t taken me long to get back this time. My leg hurts less and it was easier finding my way. I’m beginning to remember that Raintree is laid out like a grid, square blocks of equal size, streets heading north to south or east to west. When daylight came there were even some buildings I recognized, names of streets I remembered.

Through the school’s front windows I can see the other kids, including Finch, pacing back and forth, gaping at me and the snow. The snow has stopped falling but has left behind a blanket three or four inches deep. I look around and realize there aren’t any footprints outside the school. Not one of the kids has been playing, throwing snowballs, building snowmen.

The snow’s too much for them, too freakish, too scary—they won’t go outside.

Only CJ and Terry will take just a few steps beyond the school doors.

CJ grabs my hand and Terry pushes at my back. We’re on the top steps. I was close enough to grab the handle of the big metal doors when both boys ran outside. They must have been watching, waiting with the others.

They don’t seem to notice that I have the rifle back.

“You’ve got to see what’s happened. We’ve been waiting for you,” CJ says.

It’s not something else. It’s what I think it is because they’re taking me down the hall to where the administrative offices are.

“Is he—?”

“Stace is there,” Terry says. “You’ve got to see.”

They don’t sound upset. Just excited.

I hurry along with them—no point in holding back. I’ve caught the other kids’ attention—they’re staring at me instead of the snow now. And the other kids
do
seem surprised to see me carrying a rifle. One reaches out to touch it as I pass and whispers, “Like Aiden has.”

Stace greets me at the door of the back office where we’ve spent so many hours. Over her shoulder I see lit candles, their slight flames casting long, wavering shadows.

Her face is pale and waxy, her hair very red in contrast even in the dim light, no longer in pigtails but poofed out, kinky and snarled. Her skin is smudged, her teeth gray but she’s smiling.

I’m afraid to look past her. I dig deep into the pocket of my parka that holds the small paper bag Needle gave me and pull it out. “I did it,” I say in a small voice. “I got the medicine.”

She looks at the bag, confused and my mind starts racing.
But it was for nothing—it’s too late—you should have told Stace you were going with Needle so she could have come down to stay by his side—

But Stace smiles again and whispers to me, “Look, Gillian, look.” She steps aside.

At first nothing seems to have changed. But then I notice—Aiden is curled on his right side, knees drawn up, hands tucked between his knees, obviously sleeping but his breathing—

It’s easy, relaxed. Normal. He’s sleeping like I or Stace would sleep if we were curled up in our cots.

I kneel by his side and stare into his face, only inches away from him.

Stace crosses to the other side of the bed, reaches a hand down to his shoulder, shakes him gently.

My hand snaps out across the space between us, snatches her wrist. “Don’t—”

“It’s okay. He wanted me to wake him when you got back.”

Aiden’s eyes flutter open, take a few moments to focus. He looks up at me, bright green eyes blinking me into view.

“So you’re Gillian.” His voice is not much more than a sigh, faint and weary.

“You’re alive,” I say stupidly.

He smiles. “I think I am. I hope so. Around here it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“I
am
Gillian,” I say. And suddenly I’m embarrassed, embarrassed by the way I look, how filthy I am. I nervously push the rifle off my shoulder and let it clatter to the floor.

“And you’re armed.” He laughs a little and starts coughing, tight, painful little coughs.

I lay a hand on his arm. “Don’t. You’ve got to rest. I’ll stay here with you.” I nod at Stace. “
We’ll
stay here with you.” Then I realize that when I grabbed Stace’s wrist, I dropped the paper bag at Aiden’s side. I pick it up to show it to him. “I wasn’t here because I had to get…”

He squints at the bag, as confused as Stace was by it.

I dump out the contents and laugh a little. “It’s like a joke now. I went through so much to get this and now you’re…” I can only shrug. “Maybe it will still do some good. That wound on your side—”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he says and laughs a little but starts coughing again.

I brush away the long bangs of his hair, my fingers so much dirtier than his pale skin.

“Go back to sleep, Aiden,” I tell him. “Don’t try to talk. We’ll be here when you wake up. We’ll make sure you’re all right.”

He smiles and closes his eyes, scrunches up under the covers and is soon breathing low and evenly again.

Hunting the Riders

Needle comes to
me in a dream.

It’s the fingers I see first.

I’m lying under the floorboards and somehow I can see. It’s like there’s a candle burning at either side of my head. And I see one of the boards being pried loose.

Those fingers, long and tapered, sharp little nails like purple crescents, loop around the edges of the board not like the fingers of a normal human with knuckles and flesh but like colorless undersea worms coiling around a hunk of coral.

Don’t. I’m dead. I don’t want to be free.

I scream but my mouth makes no sound.

One board is tossed aside, then a second.

And he’s above me, staring straight down at where I lie in the dirt.

Yes, you’re dead
, Needle whispers, his voice flat, distant and full of static, like it’s being transmitted from a radio station halfway around the world.
But death is just the beginning.