- Used Books
- Staff Picks
- Gifts & Gift Cards
- Sell Books
- Stores & Events
- Let's Talk Books
Special Offers see all
More at Powell's
Recently Viewed clear list
Ships in 1 to 3 days
This title in other editions
Girl of Nightmaresby Kendare Blake
I think I killed a girl who looked like this once.
Yeah. Her name was Emily Danagger. Shed been murdered in her early teens, by a contractor working on her parents house. Her body was stuffed into the attic wall and plastered over.
I blink and mutter a vague answer to whatever question the girl next to me just asked. Emilys cheekbones were higher. And the nose is different. But the shape of the face is so similar, its like Im staring at the girl I tracked into the upstairs guest room. It took the better part of an hour, hacking with the athame at wall after wall as she seeped out of it, quietly trying to get behind me.
“I love monster movies,” says the girl beside me whose name I cant remember. “Jigsaw and Jason are definitely my favorites. What about you?”
“I dont much care for monster movies,” I reply, and dont mention that neither Jigsaw nor Jason is technically a monster. “I like explosions, special effects.”
Cait Hecht. Thats this girls name. Shes another junior at Winston Churchill. She has hazel eyes, sort of too big for her face, but pretty. I dont know what color Emily Danaggers eyes were. By the time I met her, all the blood had leaked out of them. I remember her face, pale but not sightless, materializing through faded flower-print wallpaper. Now it seems dumb, but at the time it was the most intense game of dead-girl whack-a-mole ever. I was covered in sweat. It was a long time ago, when I was younger and more easily rattled. It would still be years before Id go up against ghosts of any real strength—ghosts like Anna Korlov, the girl who could have torn out my spine anytime she liked, but wound up saving me instead.
Im sitting in the corner booth of a coffee shop off Bay Street. Carmels across from me with two of her friends, Jo and Chad, who I think have been a couple since seventh grade. Gross. Beside me, Cait Hecht is supposed to be my date. We just saw a movie; I dont remember what it was about but I think there were giant dogs in it. Shes talking to me with oversized gestures, cocked eyebrows, and teeth made perfect by a childhood full of retainers, trying to keep my attention. But all I can think is how much she looks like Emily Danagger, except far less interesting.
“So,” she says awkwardly, “hows your coffee?”
“Its good,” I reply. I try to smile. None of this is her fault. Carmels the one who talked me into this farce, and Im the one who went along with it to shut her up. I feel like an ass for wasting Caits time. I feel like a bigger ass for secretly comparing her to a dead girl I killed four years ago.
The conversation stalls. I take a long drink of my coffee, which really is good. Full of sugar and whipped cream and hazelnut. Under the table, Carmel kicks me and I almost spill it down my chin. When I look up shes talking to Jo and Chad, but she meant to do it. Im not being a proper date. Theres a tic starting underneath her left eye.
I briefly contemplate making polite conversation. But I dont want to encourage this, or lead Cait on. Its a mystery why she wanted to go out with me anyway. After what happened to Mike, Will, and Chase last year—Mike getting murdered by Anna, and Will and Chase eaten by the ghost that killed my father—Im the pariah of Winston Churchill. I was never linked to their murders, but everyone suspects. They know that those guys hated me, and that they ended up dead.
There are actual theories about what might have happened, big, swirling rumors that circulate and grow before finally reaching epically ridiculous proportions and dying off. It was drugs, people whisper. No, no, it was an underground sex ring. Cas was supplying them with amphetamines so they could perform better. Hes like a druggie pimp.
People pass me in the halls and avoid my eyes. They whisper in my wake. Sometimes I second-guess my decision to finish high school in Thunder Bay. I cant stand that these idiots have all these theories, most of them outlandish to the extreme, yet none of them have thought to mention the ghost story that they all knew. No one has ever talked about Anna Dressed in Blood. That, at least, would be a rumor worth listening to.
Some days, I open my mouth to tell my mom to get ready, to find us another house in another city where I could be hunting any number of the murderous dead. Wed have packed up months ago had it not been for Thomas and Carmel. Despite all efforts to the contrary, Ive come to rely on Thomas Sabin and Carmel Jones. Its weird to think that the girl across the table, giving me secret dagger eyes, started out as just a mark. Just a way to know the town. Its weird to think that I once saw Thomas, my best friend, as an annoying, psychic tagalong.
Carmel nudges me again and I glance at the clock. Barely five minutes have passed since the last time I looked. I think it might be broken. When Caits fingers slide against my wrist, I pull away and take a drink of my coffee. I dont miss the embarrassed and uncomfortable shift of her body when I do it.
All of a sudden, Carmel says loudly, “I dont think Cas has even researched colleges yet. Have you, Cas?” She kicks me harder this time. What is she talking about? Im still a junior. Why would I be thinking about college? Of course, Carmel has probably had her future planned out since preschool.
“Im thinking about St. Lawrence,” Cait says when I just sit there. “My dad says St. Clair might be better. But I dont know what he means by better.”
“Mm,” I say. Carmels looking at me like Im some kind of idiot. I almost laugh. She means well, but I have absolutely zero to say to these people. I wish Thomas were here. When the phone in my pocket starts buzzing, I jump up from the table too fast. Theyll start talking about me the minute Im out the door, wondering what my problem is, and Carmel will tell them Im just nervous. Whatever.
Its Thomas calling.
“Hey,” I say. “Are you mind reading again, or is this just good timing?”
“That bad, huh?”
“No worse than I thought it would be. Whats up?”
I can almost feel him shrug through the phone. “Nothing. Just thought you might want an escape route. I got the car out of the shop this afternoon. It could probably take us down to Grand Marais now.”
Its on the tip of my tongue to say, “What do you mean, probably?” when the door of the coffee shop opens and Carmel glides out.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
She stops in front of me with her arms crossed over her chest. Thomass tiny voice is chirping, wanting to know whats going on, whether he should swing by my house and pick me up, or not. Before Carmel can say anything, I put the phone back to my ear and tell him yes.
* * *
Carmel makes our excuses for us. In her Audi, she manages to keep up the silent treatment for all of forty seconds as she drives through the Thunder Bay streets. As we go, theres that odd coincidence of the streetlights turning on just ahead of us, like an enchanted escort. The roads are wet, still crunchy with lingering ice patches at the shoulders. Summer vacation starts in two weeks, but the town doesnt seem to know it. Late May and temps still dip below freezing at night. The only indication that winter is ending are the storms: screaming, wind-driven things that go out over the lake and swing back in again, rinsing away the wreck of winter sludge. I wasnt ready for so many months of cold. It clamps around the city like a fist.
“Why did you even bother to come?” Carmel asks. “If you were just going to act like that? You made Cait feel really bad.”
“We made Cait feel really bad. I never wanted to do this in the first place. You were the one who got her hopes up.”
“Shes liked you since chemistry last semester,” Carmel says, scowling.
“Then you should have told her what an ass I am. Made me sound like a moronic jerk.”
“Better to let her see it for herself. You barely said five words to anyone.” Shes got this disappointed squint on her face thats hovering close to disgust. Then her expression softens and she pushes her blond hair off of her shoulder. “I just thought it would be nice if you got out and met some new people.”
“I meet plenty of new people.”
“I mean living people.”
I stare straight ahead. Maybe she meant that as a jibe about Anna, and maybe she didnt. But it pisses me off. Carmel wants me to forget. To forget that Anna saved all of our lives, that she sacrificed herself and dragged the Obeahman down to Hell. Carmel, Thomas, and I have been trying to figure out what happened to her after that night, without much luck. I guess Carmel thinks its time to stop looking and let her go. But I wont. Whether Im supposed to or not doesnt matter.
“You didnt have to leave, you know,” I say. “I couldve had Thomas pick me up there. Or I could have walked.”
Carmel chews her pretty lip, used to getting her way. Weve been friends for most of the year now, and she still gets this puzzled puppy face when I dont just do what she says. Its strangely endearing.
“Its cold out. And it was boring anyway.” Shes unruffled in her camel peacoat and red mittens. The red scarf at her neck is carefully knotted, despite the fact that we left in a hurry. “I was just doing Cait a favor. I got her the date. It isnt our fault if she couldnt dazzle you with her charm.”
“She has good teeth,” I offer. Carmel grins.
“Maybe it was a bad idea. You shouldnt force it, right?” she says, and I pretend not to notice the hopeful glance she gives me, like I should keep this conversation going. Theres nowhere for it to go.
When we get to my house, Thomass beat-up Tempo is parked in the driveway. I can see his silhouette inside, talking to my moms. Carmel pulls in right behind it. I expected to be dropped at the curb.
“Well take my car. Im going with you,” she says, and gets out. I dont object. Despite my best intentions, Carmel and Thomas have joined the ranks. After what happened with Anna, and the Obeahman, cutting them out wasnt really an option.
Inside the house, Thomas looks like one big wrinkle plopped down on the sofa. He stands up when he sees Carmel, and his eyes do their usual googly routine before he adjusts his glasses and goes back to normal. My mom is sitting in the chair, looking comfortable and motherly in a wrap sweater. I dont know where people get these ideas that witches all wear a metric ton of eyeliner and bounce around in velvet capes. She smiles at us and tactfully asks how the movie was, rather than how the date went.
I shrug. “I didnt really get it,” I say.
She sighs. “So, Thomas tells me that youre going to Grand Marais.”
“Seems like as good a night as any,” I say. I look at Thomas. “Carmels coming too. So we can take her car.”
“Good,” he replies. “If we take mine well probably wind up on the side of the road before we even cross the border.”
Theres a brief moment of awkwardness as we wait for my mom to leave. Shes not a civilian by any means, but I try not to bother her with details. After my near death this past fall, her auburn hair has become peppered with white.
Finally she stands and presses three small but very smelly velvet bags into my hand. I know what they are without looking. Fresh, herbal blends of her classic protection spell, one for each of us. She touches my forehead with a fingertip.
“Keep them safe,” she whispers. “And you too.” She turns back to Thomas. “And now I should get to work on more candles for your grandfathers shop.”
“The prosperity ones have been going faster than we can get them on shelves.” He grins.
“And theyre so simple. Lemon and basil. A lodestone core. Ill stop in with another batch by Tuesday.” She goes up the stairs, to the room shes taken over for spell work. Its full of block wax and oils and dusty bottles of herbs. I hear that other mothers have entire rooms designated for sewing. That must be weird.
“Ill help you pack the candles when I get back,” I say as she vanishes up the stairs. I wish shed get another cat. Theres a cat-shaped hole where Tybalt used to be, floating in her footsteps. But I suppose its only been six months since he died. Maybe thats still too soon.
“So, are we ready?” Thomas asks. Under his arm theres a canvas messenger bag. Every scrap of info we get on a particular ghost, a particular job, he stuffs inside that bag. I hate to think how quickly hed be tied to a stake and burned if anyone ever got hold of it. Without looking into the mess, he reaches in and does his creepy psychic thing, where his fingertips find whatever hes after, every time, like that girl from Poltergeist.
“Grand Marais,” Carmel murmurs as he hands the papers to her. Most of it is a letter from a professor of psychology at Rosebridge Graduate School, an old crony of my dads, who, before buckling down and shaping young minds, expanded his own by participating in trance circles led by my parents in the early 80s. In the letter, he talks about a ghost in Grand Marais, Minnesota, rumored to inhabit an abandoned barn. Six deaths have occurred on the property over the last three decades. Three of them have been deemed as under suspicious circumstances.
So what, six deaths. Stats like that dont make my usual A-list. But now that Im rooted in Thunder Bay, my options are limited to a few road trips a year and places I can get to over the weekend.
“So, it kills by making people have accidents?” Carmel says, reading over the letter. Most of the barns victims appeared to be accidental. A farmer was working on his tractor when the thing slipped off the bricks and pinned him. Four years later, the farmers wife fell chest-down on a pitchfork. “How do we know they arent really accidents? Grand Marais is a long drive for a no-show.”
Carmel always calls the ghosts “it.” Never “he” or “she” and rarely by name.
“Like we have anything better to do?” I say. In my backpack, the athame shifts. The knowledge of it there, tucked into its leather sheath, sharp as a razor without ever needing to be sharpened, makes me uneasy. It almost makes me wish I were back on that damned date.
Ever since the confrontation with the Obeahman, when I found out that the knife had been linked to him, I … I dont know. Its not that Im afraid of it. It still feels like its mine. And Gideon assures me that the link between it and the Obeahman has been severed, that the ghosts I kill now no longer go to him, feeding him and increasing his power. Now they go where they were supposed to go. If anyone would know, it would be Gideon, over in London, knee-deep in musty books. He was with my dad since the beginning. But when I needed a second opinion, Thomas and I went to the antique shop and listened to his grandfather Morfran run through a speech about how energy is contained on certain planes, and that the Obeahman and the athame dont exist on the same plane anymore. Whatever that means.
So Im not afraid of it. But sometimes I feel its power reach out and give me a shove. Its a little bit more than an inanimate thing, and sometimes I wonder what it wants.
“Still,” Carmel says, “even if it is a ghost, it only kills once every few years? What if it doesnt want to kill us?”
“Well,” Thomas starts sheepishly, “after the last time we came up empty-handed, I started working on this.” He reaches into the pocket of his Army surplus jacket and pulls out a circular piece of light-colored stone. Its flat and about one inch thick, like a large, fat coin. Theres a symbol carved into one side, something that looks like a modified Celtic knot.
“A runestone,” I say.
“Its pretty,” Carmel says, and Thomas hands it to her. It really is well done. The carving is exact, and hes polished it so it shines white.
“Its a lure.”
Carmel passes it to me. A rune to lure them out, sort of like ghostly catnip. Very clever, if it works. I turn it over in my hand. Its cool to the touch and heavy as a hens egg.
“So,” Thomas says, taking the runestone back and pocketing it. “Do you want to try it?”
I look at the two of them and nod.
“Lets get going.”
* * *
The drive to Grand Marais, Minnesota, is long, and boring in the dark. Boughs of pine trees flicker in and out of the headlights, and watching the dotted line is starting to make me motion-sick. For most of the ride down I try to sleep in the backseat, or at least feign sleep, alternately eavesdropping on and tuning out their conversation. When they whisper, I know theyre talking about Anna, but they never use her name. I hear Carmel say its hopeless, that well never find out where she went, and that even if we could, maybe we shouldnt. Thomas doesnt argue much; he never does where Carmel is concerned. That kind of talk used to make me angry. Now its just commonplace.
“Turn off,” Thomas says. “I think that might be the road.”
I crane my head over the seat as Carmel tries to navigate the Audi down something that isnt so much a road as a mud-rutted four-by-four trail. The car has all-wheel drive, but this still poses a high risk of getting stuck. They mustve had heavy rain here in the last day or so, and the tracks are covered over with puddles. Im just about to tell Carmel to forget it, and to try to back out, when something black flashes up in the headlights.
We skid to a stop. “Is that it?” Carmel asks. “It” is an enormous black barn, standing at the edge of a barren field with dead stalks of plants shooting up like stray hairs. The house that it must have belonged to, along with any other buildings, has long since been torn down. All that remains is the barn, dark and alone, waiting for us in front of a forest of silent trees.
“Matches the description,” I say.
“Description nothing,” Thomas says, rooting around in his messenger bag. “We got the sketch, remember?” He pulls it out and Carmel flips on the dome light. I wish she hadnt. Theres an instant sensation of being watched, like the light just gave away all of our secrets. Carmels hand jerks to turn it off, but I put my hand on her shoulder.
Thomas holds the sketch up to the window, comparing it to the shadowy figure of the barn. In my opinion, it isnt much use. Its rough, and done in charcoal so everything is just a different shade of black. It came in the mail along with the tip, and is the product of a psychic trance. Somebody drew out his vision while he was having it. He probably should have opened his eyes and looked down at the paper. The sketch has a definite dreamlike quality, a blurring of the edges and lots of harsh lines. It looks like it was done by a four-year-old. But as I compare them, the barn and the sketch start to look more and more similar, like it isnt really the shape that matters so much as whatever is behind the shape.
This is stupid. How many times did my father tell me that places cant be bad? I reach into my backpack and grab the athame, then get out of the car. The puddles reach up to my shoelaces, and my feet are soaked by the time I get to the Audis trunk. Both Carmels and Thomass cars have been outfitted and stocked like survival outposts, with flares and blankets and enough first-aid supplies to satisfy the most paranoid hypochondriac. Thomas is beside me, stepping gingerly through the mud. Carmel pops the trunk, and we grab three flashlights and a camping lantern. We walk together in the dark, feeling our feet go numb and listening to our socks squelch inside our shoes. Its wet and cold. Stubborn snow patches still cling to the bases of the trees and around the sides of the barn.
Im struck again by how ominous the barn looks. Worse even than Annas falling-down Victorian house. It crouches like a spider, waiting for us to get just close enough, pretending to be inanimate. But thats stupid. Its just the cold and the dark getting under my skin. Still, I wouldnt necessarily give a thumbs-down if someone decided to come out here with gasoline and a match.
“Here.” I hand Thomas and Carmel their fresh protection spells. Thomas puts his in his pants pocket. Carmel holds hers like a rosary. We turn on the lantern and flashlights just outside the door, which creaks back and forth like a come-hither finger. “Stay close,” I whisper, and they press in on either side.
“I tell myself every time that were crazy for doing this,” Carmel mutters. “Every time, I think that Ill just wait in the car.”
“Its not like you to stay on the sidelines,” Thomas whispers, and on my other side, I sense Carmels smile.
“Get a room,” I mutter, and reach forward to pull open the door.
Thomas has this annoying habit of going in hot, flashing his beam of light every which way at a million miles an hour, like hes expecting to bust a ghost mid-haunt or something. But ghosts are shy. Or if not shy, at least cautious. Never in my life have I opened a door and found myself staring directly into a dead face. I have, however, stepped inside and instantly known I was being watched. Which is what happens now.
Its a strange sensation, that feeling of intense awareness from somewhere behind you. When youre watched by the dead, the sensation is weirder, because you cant pinpoint which direction its coming from. Its just there. Annoying, but theres nothing you can do about it. Sort of like Thomass strobe-flashlight.
I walk to the center of the barn and set the camping lantern on the ground. The air smells heavy with dust and old hay, which is scattered across the dirt floor. When I turn a slow circle, my flashlight beam steady and careful, it whispers and crunches beneath my feet. Carmel and Thomas pay close attention and stay right beside me. I know that Thomas at least, witch that he is, can feel that were being watched too. His flashlight beam zips up and down the walls, seeking out the corners and the places to hide. Hes giving too much away, instead of using the light as a decoy and paying attention to the dark. The sounds of clothing are loud; Carmels hair rustling back and forth over her shoulder as she looks around is like a fricking waterfall.
I put my hands out and step away, letting the light from the camping lantern break through our huddled mass. Our eyes have adjusted, and Carmel and I turn off our flashlights. The barn is empty except for what looks like the skeleton of an old plow in the south corner, and the camping lantern colors the room a muted yellow.
“Is this the place?” Carmel asks.
“Well, its good enough to stay in for the night,” I say. “In the morning well try to walk somewhere with better reception and call a tow truck.”
Carmel nods. Shes caught on. The stranded traveler act works more often than youd think. Which is why it shows up in so many different horror movies.
“It isnt any warmer in here than it is outside,” Thomas comments. He shuts his flashlight off too, finally. Theres a rustle of commotion overhead, and he jumps a mile, does the quick-draw on his flashlight, and points the beam at the ceiling.
“Sounds like pigeons,” I say. “Good thing. If were stuck out here too long we might have to do some yard-bird rotisserie.”
“Thats … disgusting,” says Carmel.
“Its low-rent chicken. Lets check it out.” Theres a rickety, rotting ladder that leads up to a trapdoor. I assume that all well find is a hayloft and a bunch of roosting pigeons and sparrows. But I dont need to tell Thomas and Carmel to be alert. They stay right behind, in constant contact. When Carmels toe strikes the tines of a pitchfork, half-buried in the hay, she makes a face. We look at each other and she shakes her head. It cant be the same one, the same pitchfork that the farmers wife fell on. Thats what we say to ourselves, though I guess theres no real reason it cant be.
I go up into the hayloft first. A sweep of my flashlight shows a large, flat expanse of hay-covered floor, and a few tall stacks of bales along the south wall. When I cast my light up toward the slanted roof, I see what has to be close to fifty pigeons, none of whom appear to mind the disturbance.
“Come on up,” I say. Thomas climbs up next and we both help Carmel. “Watch it; this hay is loaded with bird shit.”
“Nice,” she mutters.
Once were all up, we look around, but there isnt a whole lot to see. Its just a vast, open space, lined with hay and bird turds. Theres a pulley system they mustve used to move hay suspended from the ceiling, and thick ropes are looped over the rafters.
“You know what I hate about flashlights?” Thomas asks, and I watch his beam move around the room, revealing sudden bird faces and shifting wings, then nothing but cobweb-covered boards. “They always make you think about the stuff that youre not seeing. The stuff thats still in the dark.”
“Its true,” says Carmel. “Thats the worst shot in a horror movie. When the flashlight finally finds whatever it was looking for, and you realize that youd rather not know what it looks like.”
They should both shut up. Now is not the time for them to be trying to freak themselves out. I walk off a little way, to hopefully put an end to the conversation and also to test out the quality of the floor. Thomas walks a little in the other direction, staying close to the wall. My flashlight moves over the hay bales, paying close attention to places something might hide. I dont notice anything except how gross they look speckled with brown and white. Behind me, theres a long creaking sound, and when I turn a rush of wind hits my face. Thomas found one of the hay doors and opened it up.
The feeling of being watched is gone. Were just three kids, in an abandoned barn, pretending to be stranded for the benefit of no one. Maybe this wasnt even the right place to begin with, and the feeling I got walking through the door was a fluke.
“I dont think that rune of yours is working too well,” I say. Thomas shrugs. His hand drifts absently to his pocket, where the runestone weighs on the fabric.
“It was never a sure thing. I dont work with runes very often. And Ive never carved one myself before.” He bends down and looks through the hay door, out into the night. Its gotten colder; his breath is a foggy cloud. “Maybe it doesnt matter anyway. I mean, if this is the place, how many people are really in danger? Who comes out here? The ghost of whoever it was probably got bored and went to fake accidental deaths somewhere else.”
Accidental deaths. The words scratch at the surface of my brain.
Im an idiot.
A rope falls from the rafter. I turn to yell at Thomas but the words dont come out fast enough. All I get out is his name, and Im running, sprinting toward him because the rope is falling, and the ghost attached to the end of it becomes corporeal half a second before it shoves Thomas through the hay door, headfirst to a forty-foot drop to the cold, hard ground.
I dive. Hay needles into my jacket, slowing me down, but Im not thinking of anything besides that glimpse of Thomas, and when I vault myself through the hay door I manage to catch hold of his foot. It takes every ounce of strength in my knuckles to hold on to him as he bangs into the side of the barn. In the next moment, Carmels there with me, hanging half out of the door too.
“Thomas!” she shouts. “Cas, pull him up!” With each of us holding a foot we jerk him back inside, first to the toes, then to the knees. Thomas is handling all this very well, not screaming or anything. Weve almost got him back up when Carmel screams. I dont need to look to know its the ghost. Theres an icy pressure against my back and all of a sudden the air smells like the inside of a meat locker.
I turn and hes right in my face: a young guy in faded overalls and a short-sleeved chambray shirt. Hes fat, with a gut paunch and arms like pale, overstuffed sausages. Theres something wrong with the shape of his head.
Ive got the knife out. It flashes from my back pocket, ready to go straight into his belly, when she laughs.
She laughs. That laugh that I know so well even though I heard it only a handful of times. Its coming out of this fat hillbillys gaping mouth. The athame almost falls out of my hand. Then the laugh cuts out, abruptly, and the ghost backs off and roars, something that sounds like English played backward though a bullhorn. Overhead, the fifty or so pigeons erupt off of their roosts and flap down toward us.
In the middle of feathers and musty bird smell, I shout at Carmel to keep pulling, to not let Thomas fall, but I know she wont, even though tiny beaks and claws are getting caught in her hair. As soon as we have Thomas back inside I shove them both toward the ladder.
Our feet tramp down in a panic of flapping wings. I have to remind myself to look back, to make sure the bastard isnt going to try another push.
“Where are we going?” Carmel shouts, disoriented.
“Just get out the door,” Thomas and I shout back. By the time my feet hit the bottom rung of the ladder, Carmel and Thomas are way ahead, running. I sense the ghost materialize to our right, and turn. Now that I have a closer look, I can see that whats wrong with the shape of his head is that the back of it is caved in. I can also see that hes holding the pitchfork.
Just before he throws it, I shout something at Carmel. It must be the right thing, because she whirls to see what it is and jerks her body to the left just before the tines of the pitchfork impale the wall. She finally starts screaming and the sound sharpens me; I draw my arm back and throw the athame in a snapping motion. It flies through the air and finds its home in the farmers gut. For an instant, he looks my way, at me and right through me, with eyes like tepid pools of water. I dont feel anything this time. I dont wonder where the knife is sending him. I dont wonder whether the Obeahman can still feel it. When he wavers right out of existence like a ripple of heat, Im just glad hes gone. He almost killed my friends. Fuck that guy.
The athame hits the ground with a soft thud and I run to pick it up before going to Carmel, who is still screaming.
“Carmel! Are you hurt? Did it get you?” Thomas asks. He inspects her as she whips her head back and forth in a panic. The pitchfork came just that close. So close that one of the tines stabbed through the shoulder of her coat and pinned her to the wall. I reach up and yank the pitchfork loose, and she jumps away, brushing at her coat like its dirty. Shes equal parts scared and pissed off, and when she screams, “You stupid asshole!” I cant help but feel like shes screaming at me.
Copyright © 2012 by Kendare Blake
What Our Readers Are Saying
Other books you might like
Children's » General