The Zodiac Collector Page 19

  “My feet are soaked.” Squish, squish, squish.

  “I doubt those were ever waterproof. Why didn’t you put on boots?”

  “Didn’t think I’d be sloshing through mud lakes.” His eyebrows waggle.

  “At least you’re not covered in mud.” I turn toward the woods. This part of the faire grounds is on a hill, so we don’t have to worry about puddles, but we do have to be careful about not slipping and sliding on saturated leaves and mulch. Finally, we get to the old witch’s shoppe. While the sun bathes it in rich yellows, there’s a hollow quality to it, as if I’m wearing 3D glasses. I swipe my hand, testing it for solidity. My palm smacks the siding with a whack.

  William taps the wood himself and peers at me. “What’re we doing?”

  I drop my hand. “Nothing.”

  Inside, I spy a white pillar candle perched on a windowsill toward the back of the shack. A matchbook sits next to it. I snatch both up and carry them to the center of the room. “These weren’t here before.”

  William kneels across from me. “You think we should mess with them?”

  “Maybe the twins are helping us.”

  “Maybe Z is baiting us.”

  “It’s a risk I have to take.”

  “But there’s nothing else here.”

  “Not everything can be seen with the naked eye. I’m going to ask our signs to reveal a clue.” I call the four directions and elements. “North, south, east, west. Earth, fire, wind, and water.”

  A tentative smile crosses his mouth. After everything that’s happened, I’m surprised he’s excited. Must be his Libra confidence.

  “This anchors the chant. Say it with me.”

  “Okay.”

  I extend my hands to him.

  He doesn’t hesitate to tangle our fingers together. The same chemical reaction that happened when we kissed bubbles inside me. The Zodiac power is our reagent. Physical contact is the catalyst.

  Ages tick by and nothing inspires me. I drop his hands. So much for finishing the experiment.

  He plants his hands on his knees. “Something wrong?”

  My shoulders slump. “I’m afraid to say the wrong thing.”

  He leans forward. “I believe in you. You can do this.”

  “I wish I could just tell them to bring Mary, Evan, and Shequan back.”

  “Then say that.” He shrugs.

  I think about it. “It’s too easy.”

  “Maybe you’re making it harder than it has to be. Try following the path of least resistance.”

  I take a deep breath. Okay. Right. Path of least resistance. Easy peasy.

  “I’m here, Anne. You’re not alone. Remember that.”

  I lick my lips, close my eyes, and chant:

  “Castor and Pollux,

  Hear my plea,

  Bring my sister, Mary, back to me.

  Castor and Pollux,

  Make us whole,

  Give me back my other soul.

  Castor and Pollux, let it be,

  That Shequan and Evan return to me.

  Castor and Pollux,

  Hear my plea,

  Keep Zeena far away!”

  I open my eyes. We’re surrounded by a gigantic soap bubble of swirling blue and yellow. The ripples reflect off our skin, casting fluctuating shadows.

  William grins. “This is amazing.”

  “Where’s the lightning and thunder and hail and wind?” I purse my lips at him and blow out the candle. The bubble bursts and the room goes black-hole dark.

  “Crap, Anne, what’s going on?” William’s voice sounds distant, even though he’s sitting inches away from me.

  The familiar wind I was waiting for batters the shoppe. It protests with pops and creaks. A battering ram of energy slams into my back. I collapse onto the candle. Wax splashes my cheek, sticking to my skin with its brutal heat.

  I yelp and swipe at the hot wax as my body stretches from the inside. An itchy tingle settles in my spine and gut. The invader’s icy claws slash as they go, shifting muscle and sinew to burrow into a cavity by my pelvis.

  “Anne!” William shouts. He scrambles somewhere off to my right. The doorknob rattles and light slashes into the room as the door opens. “Anne?”

  “I’m okay.” I rise up on my elbows and flop over on my back like an unsteady turtle. My intestines and liver are shoved higher than they’re supposed to be and compress my lungs. I snake my inhaler from my pocket, but my fingers shake too much. It slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. William retrieves it and holds it steady at my mouth. I hold up two fingers for two puffs. The rush of medicine seizes my lungs even more. I wheeze and cough, unable to eject the bitter tang from my airways. If the inhaler doesn’t work, I’m going to need an ambulance. “What’s…hap… penning?”

  “We should get out of here.” William half-drags, half-carries me outside. “Focus on slow breaths, Anne. Your lungs will open up. Don’t panic, that’ll make it worse.” He talks me through it better than any coach giving tips to his star player. I lay helplessly in his lap, with his sturdy arms around me, tenuously grasping to his life, his force, his tender gaze.

  I relax a bit. Fresh air flows in and I release the tears that beg for freedom. Every time my breath is stolen, I fear it’ll be my last episode, the final one that will take my life. When the albuterol doesn’t work, the terror goes from hypothetical to very real.

  William wipes my face. Bits of cooled wax stick under his fingernails.

  “Am I burned?”

  “It’s a little red, but I think you’re okay. I still see freckles.” He grins, even if it’s only to make me feel better.

  “Thanks.”

  William helps me stand. “Let’s get you home.”

  I don’t argue. We walk slowly, in silence, hand in hand.

  Together.

  Chapter Twenty

  I reassure William I can make it home on my own, but he keeps walking with me anyway. Coming up with a cover story will be hard; if Dad catches me with William, he’ll probably send me to an all-girls’ school or, worse, a convent. On impulse, I fling my arms around William and give him a hug.

  He squeezes back. “What’s this for? Not that I’m complaining.”

  “I’ll call you later, okay?” I let go and rush off.

  “Bye,” he calls.

  I skirt around the hedge marking our property line, using the greenery as camouflage. Mom’s car is in the driveway, but Dad’s truck is gone. Good. With any luck, Dad hadn’t told Mom about grounding me.

  I approach the house with SWAT-team stealth. Regardless of Mom’s knowledge (or lack thereof), the situation inside could be critical and I don’t want to trigger random open fire. My boots clomp on the porch so I shimmy out of them to deaden my footsteps. I shrug out of my jacket, pull it inside out, and tie it around my waist to hide as much mud as possible. Fewer visuals indicating my participation in mudcapades means less evidence for any potential interrogation.

  The house is silent, like a funeral home at night. You know bodies are around, but you don’t want to run into one. Shutting the front door without alerting the maternal guard is a miracle. When she’s quiet, she expects the rest of us to be too. Even a whisper will irritate her.

  I wince at every creak and pop of the stairs. It’s not a crime to leave my room, but I don’t want her to guess my whereabouts on the rare chance she is listening. Not until after I’ve changed into clean clothes.

  The dogs greet me with happy yips and wet licks and ticking puppy paws. Poor things haven’t had enough attention lately. I fight them off me to change, wary of the amount of dried dirt flaking off my jeans. Firing up a vacuum cleaner to suck up the evidence is not an option.

  “Guys, really?” I palm the kerchief with Mary tucked inside. Then I undress, ball my muddy clothes, stuff them into a spare pillowcase, and rush downstairs. Mom’s workroom door is open and she’s not inside. She’s not in the basement either, thank goodness. I load the wash and dump in extra detergent.r />
  Once the washing machine hums to life, I slip back to the porch and grab my boots. The garden hose is on the other side of the garage. After a quick rinse in cold water, my hands are frigid, but the boots are clean. I dry them off with a spare rag and take them to my room, putting them away in their designated spot.

  First time for everything, I guess.

  I feed the dogs, take them for a walk, and take a shower. Daily rituals. Routine. Should be calming. But I’m not satisfied. My stomach twists on itself. I have to organize something, anything. Now.

  The pile of school stuff on my desk could use tidying. Binders from the past school year belch loose papers, crinkled handouts, and torn folders. I carry the lot to my bed and dig in for a solid straightening-up session. When I finish, each page is filed neatly under the proper tab.

  Unsatisfied, I scan the room and spy my bottom bookshelf. More binders are squished between the Eiffel Tower bookends. Soon, a layer of sweat covers me, and a rainbow of binders replaces the random chaos.

  I stand and run my fingers through my hair. Instead of sighing with frustration at the curls, I luxuriate in the springy pop each lock gives when I let go.

  Wait. I hate my curly hair. Mary is the one who—

  “Oh. My. God.” I whirl to the mirror next to the closet, legs weakening by the millisecond. My mouth drops open. Without thinking about it—because I was in such a hurry to get out of my muddy clothes—I’ve changed into Hello Kitty sweatpants and a matching pink T-shirt. Except I never wear matchy-matchy clothes.

  Mary does.

  The subzero intruder that had been slumbering during my cleaning fest shivers awake. It uncurls and stretches, climbing along my vertebrae to the base of my neck.

  I pinch my eyes shut and open them again.

  My curly hair fits. So does the pink outfit. I smile.

  I close my eyes again and shake my head, jostling loose any funky thought. When I open my eyes and take in the curls sprouting from my scalp, I cringe.

  “What the heck?” I ask myself.

  The intruder taps my spinal cord.

  “Ohmigod.” I lean closer to the mirror. “Mary?”

  Fireworks go off in my brain. I drop to my knees and clutch my skull.

  Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Ohmigod, she’s inside me, she’s inside me, she’s inside me!

  My chant returns to me, riding a boomerang of, “oh, you’ve done it now.” Castor and Pollux, make us whole, give me back my other soul.

  They’d sent Mary’s soul into my body. It has to be.

  I dash to the kerchief and unravel it. It’s empty. The symbol is gone.

  I scream. And scream and scream.

  I scream until Mom clambers up the stairs and bursts into my room.

  “What is going on?” she screeches, wide-eyed and wild-haired.

  I point to the mirror as if it explains everything.

  “Is it a spider or something?” She clutches her hands to her chest and steps back, slumping her shoulders and perching on tiptoes like a humpbacked ballerina. She’s terrified of spiders. The hellion who mimics Medusa with her craziness is afraid of arachnids.

  “M-Mom, it’s…M-Mary.” I squeak. My hand trembles as it flicks toward my reflection. No, Mary’s reflection. No, mine. No… Oh, I can’t tell anymore.

  Mom’s face contorts. “Who’s Mary?”

  My hand falls and so does my heart, right through the floor and into the basement where it settles on the concrete and oozes blood.

  She slams back on her heels. Fear is replaced by fury. Just like that. “I asked you a question. Who. Is. Mary?”

  Panting, I frantically search my mind for a viable explanation. Thoughts ricochet around my skull, random and way too fast for me to grab hold of. The spell didn’t work. Mom is about to explode all over my room. I’m possessed by my sister. Castor and Pollux have a sick sense of humor. I wish William were here.

  Her face goes slack. “Are you feeling all right?” Her eyes narrow with suspicion.

  My throat is too tight to speak and it burns from screaming so much. I tremble as I nod.

  “Why were you yelling?” She tucks a strand of frizzy hair behind her ear.

  I open my mouth. A gurgling sound comes out. My fingers scrape my neck to release whatever’s blocking my voice box.

  “Oh, Lord, not my baby, please, not my baby,” she cries, tears already racing down her cheeks. Her whole body shakes with the prayer and she reaches out for me, like a grieving fallen angel unable to save herself. “Have you used your inhaler?”

  I shake my head. This isn’t an asthma attack.

  She rushes to my nightstand and yanks an inhaler out of the drawer. Holding the thing to my mouth, she says, “Take two puffs.”

  I cry too. Of all the weirdness that’s happened over the past few days, this is by far the strangest. Mom all maternal and caring? No way. The bitterness inside me swells while the desire to run into her arms twists itself in my guts. A sob escapes my mouth. I’d long ago given up the hope that Mom would show me some love. But Mary, she hangs onto it like a lion suffocating its kill. So are the tears hers…or mine?

  It’s too much to fight myself, her, and decide what to do. I shake my head and shift my weight back and forth from one foot to the other while clenching and unclenching my fists.

  “Come on, do it!”

  I push her hand away. “I don’t need it.”

  Her eyes widen. Then her jaw clenches. “Did you just hit me?”

  “No.”

  Mom pins me with her dragon’s eyes. Her face ripples with the constipated wince of confusion, the hard angles of anger, and the blind openness of fear. “Are you using drugs?”

  “What?” She’s got to be kidding, but her eyebrows suggest otherwise. They’re completely flat, like two cultured caterpillars resting above her intense eyes. Her lips are thin and pale. She’s in total serious mode.

  “Well? Why aren’t you answering me, Anne? Are you tweaked?”

  “No.”

  “No you’re not tweaked, or no you’re not answering me?” Her gaze scours over me, acidic and rough.

  “I’m not on drugs.” I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying, “You should be.” I fight the urge to reorganize my closet. No, it’s Mary’s urge. I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper, “Stop it. Just relax. I can handle this.”

  “Who’re you talking to? You better not be talking to me like that.” Mom’s totally over her sob fest now. Any hint of insult, whether imagined or not, whether directed toward her or not, will trigger the rage simmering beneath her thin crust of humanness.

  The urge to organize intensifies. “Mary, please,” I say under my breath. “No, Mom, I’m not talking to you.” I put up my hands in surrender, hoping to calm the beast blocking my exit.

  “Well, who else is here, Anne? No one. Which means you’re hearing voices and talking to the devil or something.” She folds her arms like she knows all. Her head tilts down, confirming the fact.

  “No, I’m not hearing voices!” I stomp my foot. “You’re the one who’s crazy, and everyone knows it. Your customers are talking about you, you know. So why don’t you just go to your workroom and pretend to create something!” I cover my mouth the instant the words gush out, but it’s too late. The dam broke, and I can’t collect the words hitting her in a flood of daggers.

  Her face reddens. In the fraction of a second that time stops, I see the next series of events, a flash-forward of the scene to come. She covers the distance between us in an instant and has her fingers tangled in my hair and digging into my scalp so deeply a neurosurgeon would have to extract them.

  Mom drags me behind her down the stairs so fast I almost slide down a few of them in my socked feet. She has the number to the hospital on speed dial, so she is able to call them and shove me in the passenger seat of her car at the same time. She’s already barking out her intentions before she even turns over the engine. It doesn’t matter that I have no shoes and she’s still wearing her robe.

>   “My daughter, she’s gone ballistic. I think she’s hearing voices. She attacked me.” Mom throws the car in reverse and squeals the tires, not bothering to check if any cars are coming. Luckily, we don’t crash into anybody. She swings the steering wheel and off we go. “My name is Elizabeth Devans, my daughter is Anne.” She recites our address and phone number. “I have her in the car now. No, I don’t need the police or the ambulance. I can handle my own kid.”

  I find my voice again, thankful of its return. “M-Mom, please, don’t—”

  She shoves a finger in my face, letting go of the steering wheel to do so. “Don’t talk to me, you’re psychotic.”

  “No, I’m not. Please don’t take me to the hospital.” I pick at my nails, unsure if it’s Mary or me. I can’t go to the psych ward. They can’t admit me for this, can they? If they believe Mom, they can. Doesn’t matter that she’s the crazy one.

  I grip the armrest on the car door as she hangs a right turn without pausing for the stop sign. I hear a particularly angry car horn and I cringe, waiting for the crunch of tangling metal, but it doesn’t happen. A green sedan takes up most of the side mirror. The driver is waving his fist at us.

  Mom extends her middle finger at him. “I got a sick kid here, okay?” she growls, pressing the gas pedal. The car surges ahead and I’m pressed into my seat from the force of it.

  I click my seatbelt in place.

  The next two miles are taken up with her complaining about detours around the local bridges. I keep waiting for her to bark at some cop like the floods are their fault, but she’s all too pleasant when one asks her to roll down her window at a blockade.

  “The bridge is closed ma’am. Oh, Mrs. Devans, hey.” Johnny Wilks smiles his charming smile and tips his hat to her. He knows Tommy and therefore he knows us. Fantastic.

  “Hello, Johnny. I’m in a hurry, my daughter needs to get to the hospital.” Mom speaks in her I’m-a-concerned-parent-looking-out-for-the-health-of-my-child voice.

  “Oh, wow, Anne, are you okay?” He ducks down to look at me through the driver’s-side window.

  I lean against the seat belt. “I’m fine, I don’t need to—”

  Mom clamps a hand over my mouth. “She’s…sick…you know,” she rolls her eyes and clicks the button for her window to go up while easing her foot off the brake.