The Zodiac Collector Page 20

  “Oh,” Johnny frowns, probably confused, but not stupid enough to ask for clarification. No one ever does. It’s like they think bad things don’t exist if they don’t see them firsthand.

  I can’t stay in the car with her. She’ll have me locked away forever. I release the belt, unlock my door, and launch myself out of the seat, stumbling as my feet hit the pavement. I’m off in a flash, running back the way we came, not really with any destination in mind. Then it hits me. William’s. I’ll go to William’s.

  The car’s engine roars. It’s followed by the churning of gravel under rubber. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Mom bringing the car around in stunt-driver fashion. Her tires spin and the car lurches toward me. I run faster, half-panicking that she’ll run me over and half-freaking out that my lungs won’t manage this pace for much longer.

  And I don’t have my inhaler.

  My feet hurt from the loose stones littering the road, left behind by the rushing floods, but I don’t stop. Pain streaks across my chest and my pulse pounds in my ears, but I push myself. I veer off the road into the nearby woods just as Mom whooshes past me. Her tires squeal.

  I don’t look back. My primary concern is not impaling my feet on the branches littering the ground.

  “Johnny, help!” Mom’s cry slices through the trees.

  Soon, I hear two sets of footsteps crashing behind me. And they get louder. Tears sluice down my face, blur my vision, and burn my nose. A stitch in my side slows me before the pain in my feet does. “No, no, no,” I cry. They’ll catch me if I stop, but I can’t go any farther. My freaking tightened asthmatic lungs throw up a roadblock the size of the Great Wall of China. My head pounds as I bash my skull against its ancient stones. Darkness swirls at the edges of my vision.

  I trip on a tree root and slam into the ground chest first. It knocks the remaining air out of my lungs and no matter how much I open my mouth, nothing goes in.

  A pair of hands slap onto my back.

  First abandoned by air, then abandoned by freedom.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I wake to whispers and screams, shuffling feet and banging…and the worst headache of my life. Opening my eyes sharpens the pain.

  The room is dark. The curtains are pulled and the door is closed most of the way, letting a sliver of artificial light smack against the painting on the wall next to me. I blink a few times and a pastel-colored still life comes into focus. Its theoretically calming colors are so boring that my brain waves flatline. I shift my gaze to the left. Another bed parallels mine, its far side pressed against the wall. The sheets are taut across the mattress.

  Dry disinfectant and starchy bleach clog my sinuses and settle in the back of my throat.

  The last thing I remember is…Mom chasing me in the woods. Me falling. Gasping for air. Passing out. I gotta be in a hospital.

  Another scream pierces my ears. It’s coming from outside my room. Someone farther along down the hallway orders, “Stop screaming or you’ll get an injection to help you calm down.”

  The cry dies down to a steady moan.

  Holy Mary. I know where I am.

  A psycho ward.

  I don’t belong here. I shift to my side. Every muscle screams from stiffness. The universal protest tosses me onto the mattress.

  My breath quickens and a squeaky wheeze shoots out with every exhale. I reach for my inhaler, then realize I’m not wearing jeans, but am dressed in a tent-ish gown. I follow the trail of non-fashion, hoping my legs are covered, but they’re not. No pajama bottoms, ugh.

  My feet are wrapped in bandages.

  I jerk my eyes away. My inhaler’s on the bedside stand. Reaching to pick it up, I wince at the stiffness of my ribcage. A hit of the inhaler relaxes me.

  The door swings open and the lights flick on. I squint at the brightness and duck my head. “Hey, ouch, light,” I stutter.

  “Anne Devans?” A woman in Mickey Mouse scrubs walks in holding a clipboard. Her name badge reads “Monika Drumme, RN.” Beneath her name reads “Kings Hospital Department of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry.”

  “Sorry to wake you. How are you feeling?” Her mouth widens into a smile—the same glitzy white smile as the picture on her ID. Her brown eyes crinkle with her grin. They match the tone of her skin.

  “Tired. Who was screaming?” My gaze darts to the door and the hallway beyond.

  “Do you know where you are, honey?” She scribbles something on her paper.

  I tuck my legs toward my chest. I know where I am. And I know why I’m here. Mom thinks I’m crazy. She’s the one who’s nutso. My insides go cold—Mary’s pain is the same as mine. We’re trapped here together. If only she could talk to me. But then I really would be hearing voices.

  I shiver.

  “Tell me all about it, dear. Let it out.” Monika sits next to me and wraps an arm around me. Her hand is warm and slicks the goosebumps off my skin as she rubs her palm over my shoulder.

  “I…I’m not crazy,” I trip over every syllable. She’s probably heard that line before at least a million times. It’s the same one Mom uses whenever she’s in the loony bin. In my case, it’s the truth.

  “No one said you were crazy.” The frankness of her voice sobers me.

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Why do you think you’re here?”

  Sly. I’ve heard my mom’s doctors do the same thing. Whenever you ask a question, they respond with another one. I figured that out during one of our numerous “family sessions” with a therapist. What a joke family therapy is when the crazy one doesn’t admit she’s crazy and spends the entire time blaming everyone else for “not understanding.”

  “Well?”

  “My mom says I was hearing voices. I wasn’t. I just…got scared, that’s all.”

  “What scared you, honey?” Monika removes her arm from my shoulder and folds her hands on her lap.

  Yeah, right, like I’m going to tell her. But I have no idea what Mom told them, other than she said I’d attacked her. I fiddle with a wrinkle in my gown. Mary hates wrinkles.

  “Anne?”

  I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. Enough of this “poor me” crap. No one will believe me anyway. If I say Mom’s the one who went loopy, they’ll tell her and then she’ll never take me home. “So, you have some medicine to give me?”

  The nurse jerks as if I’d just shocked her with crash-cart paddles or something. “Is that what you think you need?”

  “You tell me.” I scrunch back so I touch the wall. The sheets are crumpled beneath me. I fight the urge to smooth them out. Mary will just have to tolerate it. I’m in charge here, darn it.

  Monika’s mouth twists again and she clucks her tongue against her teeth. “All right, I thought we’d talk a bit first, but I see you get right down to business. Your medicine isn’t due until bedtime. You hungry? We saved a tray for you.” She stands and points down the hall.

  “What time is it?” The curtains have blocked out all light and there isn’t a clock in the room.

  “Seven in the evening.”

  I’ve been unconscious all day. That’s assuming it’s the same day.

  “If you don’t want meatloaf and green beans, there’s turkey and cheese sandwiches.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Which is the truth. I couldn’t shove anything down my throat right now, not even water.

  “All right. Well, if you change your mind, we have snacks later on.” She leaves, keeping the door open a sliver like before.

  I have to figure out how to make people think I’m sane. Dad always begs Mom to take her meds. Says that’ll get her out of the hospital sooner. She never goes along with it. Cheeks her meds instead. If she can manage it during her deranged psychotic episodes, then so can I. The difference is I’m sane and can fake better than her. They’ll see. They’ll take pity on me. I should be out of here in no time.

  I hope.

  * * *

  I yank the curtain open and huddle on my bed, sta
ring at the moon as it tracks across the ebony sky. A silent watchman, cold and indifferent to our suffering. I wonder if Castor and Pollux are looking down at me. I wonder what they think. Are they laughing at this mess? Disappointed in me? Or are they simply Zeena’s slaves? Hard to imagine such powerful warriors being slaves.

  Monika comes in around nine o’clock. Apparently I’m not getting a roommate tonight, because no one has shown up to take the empty bed. I haven’t left my room, so I have little idea who else is on the unit. Not that I care. I’m not like them anyway.

  She hands me a paper cup. Inside are two pills, both small, round, and white.

  “What are these?” I stare at them, head swirling from the quick jitter of my heart. I shouldn’t be afraid of them. I’m not crazy, so they can’t do anything to me. Right?

  “They’ll help you sleep, hon,” Monika holds out a mini cup of water to make swallowing the meds easier.

  “I don’t need these.” I hold the cup out to her.

  She frowns, placing her free hand on her hip. “The psychiatrist ordered these for you and your mother agreed.”

  “I never met the psychiatrist. How does he or she know what I need?” I retort.

  “You met him, honey, you just don’t remember.” Her eyes soften, like she pities me, but her posture does not ease.

  “While I was unconscious? That’s fair.”

  “You were awake a while ago. A little loopy, but you talked to him. Said you have another person inside you.”

  Everything goes cold. “No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “This must be scary for you. Take the medicine. You’ll feel better.”

  “Getting out of here will make me feel better. I have the SAT and…and…” A missing sister, two missing friends, and a deadly witch after me. All because I wanted to play with magick and do things my way. But I can’t say those things or they’ll never let me out of here. My hands shake and I nearly tip over the cup.

  Monika peers at me over her glasses. The corner of her mouth draws down.

  I square my jaw. My arm is starting to ache from holding it up for so long.

  The moments of silence that pass during our who-can-hold-a-paper-cup-longer-and-stare-without-blinking contest ends with me lowering my arm and tipping the cup to my mouth.

  Balancing the pills on my tongue, I suck down a swig of water and swallow. One gets stuck in my throat so I finish off the rest of the lukewarm drink.

  “That’s a girl,” Monika praises me.

  I try not to cry. The sting of suppressed tears brings a rush of heat to my face.

  “Get some rest. Your mom will visit in the morning. She’s worried about you.”

  “That’s not true. She’s the crazy one.” I flop on the bed and tug the covers over my head.

  “You’ll feel better in the morning. And don’t worry about your test. Once you’re better, they can be rescheduled. Everything will be okay.” She leaves the room, shutting off the light before closing the door behind her.

  I push back the blanket. I’m immersed in darkness, save for the pale moonlight meandering in through the window. If I twist my head just so, I can see the white disc smudged with gray. I watch it crawl across the sky until I can’t keep my eyelids open anymore.

  * * *

  I sleep through breakfast and almost through lunch. Monika’s not here. She must work second shift. My nurse today is Ingrid. She’s the opposite of Monika. Stiff, strict, and a woman of few words. Whatever. She leaves me alone after walking me to the cafeteria.

  Six tables crowd the plain space. Each table has five plastic chairs. Up to thirty kids can be here at any time. Seems like a lot, but I’m not an expert on psych wards. The patients—kids ranging from middle school to high school—line up along the wall. A gate trundles up on its tracks, revealing a counter filled with hot dish trays. Plates, napkins, and plasticware are at one end. Each kid picks up a tray while the staff dishes out breaded chicken patties, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. Bottled water and juice finish off the standardized buffet.

  I catch a whiff of the food and my stomach growls.

  At the front of the line, one kid yells, “Hurry up!” and whacks the back of another kid’s head. The whacker is dressed in blue scrubs. His greasy hair covers his face. Bandages bind both wrists. The whackee is at least a foot shorter and wider. He rubs his skull and runs out of the room wailing. The other kids erupt in cheers and jabs. “Chase him!” “Way to go, nutso!” “You should’ve bashed his face into the wall!”

  Staff let the victim go and focus on Greasy Boy. Ingrid leads the charge. “Charlie, calm down. It’s not nice to hit people.”

  Charlie backs against the wall, both hands up and fisted.

  The kids in front of me retreat, pushing me back. I slip out of the line and dart to the opposite corner, farthest away from the mess. This place is where Mom thought I needed to be?

  Someone from the end of the line wanders toward me like a zombie. A towel is draped over his head. His arms don’t move as he walks. I drag a chair from under the nearest table and position it between us. The boy halts, reaches up to the towel, and pulls it back, exposing his face.

  My jaw drops. “Shequan. What’re you doing here?”

  His eyes are glazed over and his lips are cracked. He blinks so slowly I wonder if he’ll open them again. “Who’s Shequan?”

  “You’re Shequan.” I grip the chair’s back.

  “I’m nobody.” He turns and walks away.

  I watch him sit in a chair at the next table and rest his hands on the laminated surface. He’s staring at the chaos of people yelling and staff pinning Charlie to the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. It’s like he’s empty, hollow…a non-person. His body is here, but his brain isn’t. He can’t possibly have forgotten who he is.

  That’s it. I’m not taking meds again, not if they do this.

  Unless this is Zeena’s work. When she chanted, I was certain she’d transformed Shequan into the Aries symbol. It wasn’t like his mind got sucked out and his body was left behind.

  I ease into a seat on his left. He doesn’t move or act like he notices. “When did you get here?”

  He blinks. Breathes. Blinks again. “I don’t know.”

  “I saw you at the faire a few days ago, so it can’t be long. A couple days at the most.” I dig a fingernail into the waxy plastic coating ringing the table’s edge.

  “Fair. Dare. Bare.”

  “Why don’t you remember who you are?”

  “U, R, Y, I…”

  This is going nowhere fast. “How did you get here? Where were you before this? Do you remember the witch chanting over you?”

  His fingers spread out on the table. “Red light…pain… darkness…”

  I lean closer. “You remember!”

  “Blank…nothingness…silence…alone…” He starts rocking and cuts his gaze to me. His stare shoots through me like I’m not here. “I’m no one.”

  “What’re you talking about? You were by yourself? Where?”

  “Nowhere. Nothing. No one.”

  A chill skitters down my spine. She’d sent him somewhere, but nowhere. Traveling to another dimension might explain it. The disappearances, the wiping of everyone’s memory. Not existing on the planet but on another plane makes sense.

  “I can help you, Shequan. Tell you about yourself. You and I go to the same school. Your dad is a knight at the faire. He runs the joust. You’re a squire. Remember?”

  He bolts from his chair toward me and screams, “No one!” His hands clap on either side of my head and his fingers dig into my scalp, pulling at my hair. Spittle flies from his mouth and sprays my cheek.

  “Shequan, let me go!” I pry at his hands and kick his shins.

  “No one!” He keeps yelling and squeezing my skull.

  At least three aides swarm around us. They take turns barking at him, “Let her go. Relax. Stop yelling.”

  Finally, his hands are torn from my head. Clumps of hair go wit
h it.

  Ingrid swoops me up and guides me to my room. Her nails dig into my arm. “What happened?”

  “N-nothing.” I collapse on my bed and curl into a ball.

  My body quakes with terror. Zeena’s stolen Shequan’s mind, his soul, whatever makes him him, and left an insane shell. Mary’s with me, but her body’s gone. Is it wandering out there, somewhere, a puppet without a puppet master, or is her body caught in the other dimension? And Evan. Where’s he? When—if—we find them and bring them back, they may be just as lost.

  William and I are next.

  I don’t want to be hollow.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We’re allowed one phone call a day—after dinner, so we don’t have an excuse to miss groups. As the phone rings, I swallow down the anxiety clawing its way up my chest. Please pick up, please pick up.

  “Talk.” James. William’s obnoxious older brother. He’s more interested in partying and gaming than life. Music blares in the background.

  “Get William.”

  “What?”

  I cover the mouthpiece and my mouth with my hand. “Get. William.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Anne.”

  Thunk. He dropped the receiver. Idiot. “Will!”

  The song ends and another is half-done before more muffled sounds come out of the phone. I turn my back on the dozen or so kids waiting around to use the phone after me. They’ll wait their turn. I had to. At least Charlie isn’t around—he’d clock me on the back of the head. He had his privilege revoked.

  “Hello?”

  I sigh with relief. “William.”

  “Anne?”

  It’s so good to hear his voice. Soothing. I miss him like peanut butter misses jelly. My lip trembles. “Um-hmmm.”

  “Where are you?” Hinges creak and a door slams. The music fades to a dull roar. He must be outside.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” I slump against the wall and hang onto the phone casing. It’s bolted to the wall, reinforced so it can’t be torn down. “I’m in a psych ward.”