“One, two,” Smith counts mechanically. “I went over to this guy’s car and he was already masked with the machete on the seat beside him.” He turns to me. “He was ready. We don’t know how much he planned before, but he’s definitely planning now. And he looked like he was hungry for a kill.”
“So what are we supposed to do?”
“Like I said before, we have to get him caught. Leaving behind the machete—not to mention tire marks—was a stupid move at best. Next time . . .” He pauses, then holds both hands out in a calming motion. “Now just think about this, okay? Next time I was thinking we could let the victim get attacked, but not killed. I know that sounds harsh”—he rushes on when I gasp—“but not only will that allow the killer to let off a little of the pressure building up inside him, whoever it is might get close enough to see something. To get a fingernail full of DNA, you know, that kind of thing.” He pauses. “Maybe the cops could even catch him in the act if we draw it out enough. I think it’s worth a shot.”
I hate that it makes sense. “I’ll think about it,” I finally say.
The car is silent as I drive about a mile back to where I picked Smith up. He starts to grab his door handle, then stops and turns back to me. “You did well in there. And if we had a year to do this, I think you would be enough just by yourself. But we don’t, so I think you should take this.”
He holds out the ancient velvet case and, despite everything, I suck in an excited breath when it touches my hand.
“Wear the pendant while you sleep,” Smith says. “There’s a whole plane of existence that contains all of the possible visions of every possible future. I don’t know if it’s in your head or somewhere else entirely, but Shelby used to talk about going there in her dreams when she wore the necklace. She always described it as an endless dome full of visions of the future.”
The domed room. From the book. The supernatural plane. Holy shit! It’s real. My blood races with excitement, but I try to appear calm.
“She said she could practice altering reality and everything all night and never be tired in the morning. It wasn’t somewhere I could go, so I can’t help you with it, but try it and if you’re dedicated, I know you’ll get stronger.” He clenches his jaw. “And you’re going to need to be strong to beat this guy.”
“I just wear it and go to sleep?” It sounds too easy.
“Think about going there before you go to sleep. It’ll feel a lot like a dream, but one where you’re completely in control and can move about at will.”
“Won’t I . . . change things?” I ask, nervous about doing something to make everything even worse than it already is. Not to mention getting caught by Sierra. This is so beyond rule-breaking that I have no idea what she would do.
“Not while you’re sleeping,” Smith says, pulling my attention back. “You won’t be entering a specific vision—it’ll be the supernatural plane in general. Shelby said it was like seeing every possible future all at once. And because she knew she couldn’t actually change the future in her sleep, that’s where she would practice.”
I can hardly even comprehend such a place, but then, Shelby probably couldn’t either before she went. “Okay,” I say, slipping the necklace case into my deepest pocket. “And thank you.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let your aunt see it. Promise?” Smith asks.
I chuckle bitterly. “Believe me, Smith, that is one thing you do not have to worry about.”
“Okay.” He opens the door and steps out, tucking his scarf back into the front of his coat. He starts to swing the door shut, then stops and leans down so I can see his face again. “And be careful, just like the other teens are supposed to be. I know all you Oracles supposedly find out ahead of time when your deaths are and everything, but if anything should happen to you—” He closes his eyes and shudders. “No one here knows it except me,” he says soberly, “but we’re all depending on you. You are the only person standing between that monster, and your friends. And if you die . . .”
His voice trails off, but instead of finishing his sentence after a few seconds, he stands and pushes the door closed.
“Message received,” I whisper to his back as he walks away.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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SEVENTEEN
I’m not feeling especially cheery as I walk up to Linden’s door—thanks, Smith—but at least Nicole is safe. She’ll live. The sickening display of carnage in the workshop will never happen.
And her parents will never have to find it.
I give one last little shiver at that thought and ring the doorbell. It opens scarcely two seconds later. “I saw you coming,” Linden says with a grin, “but I wasn’t quite fast enough.”
I’m staring; I’m sure of it. His smile practically radiates sunlight as he stands in the foyer, backlit by floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, loose jeans balanced on his hips and a long-sleeved black T-shirt hugging his perfect ribs. For years, I’ve watched with envy as he flirted with other girls—but this, this is something else entirely. Linden at home. Casual and at ease.
“You want to come in?” he asks, holding the door wide.
“S-sure,” I stutter, but he doesn’t even crack a smile. “I brought these for you,” I say, proffering the tray of cinnamon rolls once the door has closed the chill out of the room.
Linden’s eyes widen. “Dude, are these cinnamon rolls?”
“My mom and I make them every year.”
“Wait, wait, you made these? Like, from flour and sugar and stuff?”
I eye him strangely, and he bursts out laughing. “Sorry, that sounded weird.” He leans in closer and whispers, “My mom doesn’t make anything except French toast. And I mean, she uses store-bought bread and dips it in Egg Beaters she put some cinnamon in. It makes her feel domestic.”
I smile back and follow Linden into the kitchen—one of the rooms I didn’t get to see last night. I guess I’m not really surprised that everything is sparkling clean less than twenty-four hours later, but I do wonder how many people it took.
Linden puts the tray on the counter and stares at it for a few seconds before looking up at me with a guilty expression. “Is it really six-year-old of me to ask if I can eat one of these now? They look amazing.”
“No, please do!” I say, grinning from ear to ear. “You have to do it right though.”
He peers at me dubiously. “There’s a right way to eat a cinnamon roll?”
“Yes! Hot roll, cold frosting, eat with your fingers,” I say with a laugh. In the end, I cave and let him use a fork, even though I inform him that he is missing the best part of the experience.
He puts a big bite in his mouth and then closes his eyes and groans. “Oh, man, this is so good. I’m not just saying that because you’re here. These are amazing.” His eyes fly open and he swallows. “I’m such an ass, let me get you one.” And he’s turning to grab a plate before I can stop him.
“No, no, no,” I say, putting my hand in his way as he tries to fork me a cinnamon roll. My stomach is still clenching from the horrific experience I’ve just had. At this rate, I won’t be able to eat for the rest of the day. “I swear I’ve eaten a whole dozen in the last two days. I honestly don’t want one.” That sounds convincing, right?
“Suit yourself,” he says, taking another bite. “But I’m going to be so very rude and eat this in front of you because I literally cannot stop.”
I laugh as he continues to munch and we chat a bit about our Christmas presents. I feel the tension from the last hour start to loosen. He shrugs off his new snowmobile when my jaw drops at the thought of getting something so expensive and he smiles at just the right moment when I tell him about the tunic top my mom made for me. I’m not sure how real-life Linden manages to be even more perfect than in-my head Linden. But somehow, he does.
By the time he sets his fork down on th
e empty plate, I’ve managed to clear my chest of the fear and tension my session with Smith worked up.
“Thanks again for coming last night,” Linden says, and his voice is quiet now. “I had a really good time. A—a better time than I thought I would. Not that I didn’t think I’d have a good time with you,” he corrects, sounding almost nervous. “But I . . . I had a good time.”
He scoots the plate out of the way and leans across the bar with his elbows on the counter. His nose is literally less than six inches away from mine, and my stomach feels like worms are trying to squiggle out of it.
“Me too,” I reply, too wimpy to lean closer. What if this kind of close proximity is normal for him? What if it doesn’t mean anything?
“And I’m glad you came today,” he says. This time I’m sure it’s not my imagination that he leans forward another inch or two.
“Because I brought you cinnamon rolls?” I ask teasingly. Did I just flirt with him? Go me!
“A bonus,” he says, and this time I can feel his breath on my face. I nod. There is no speaking left inside me. My hands feel useless sitting on the counter until his fingers slide up and cover them. “When we go back to school, I hope we can hang out more.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, though it’s like every nerve in my body is connected to my hands. I hope they don’t start to sweat.
“I think it’s dumb that people avoid you because you have health issues. It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Hello, reality. My stomach twists and I wish he had said anything other than that.
“Hey, hey, don’t look like that,” Linden says, and he lifts my face with two fingers beneath my chin. “We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry? Because I’m a liar? I force myself to smile. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I pause for a few seconds and then, feeling emboldened by the touch of his hand on mine, I ask, “Do you ever feel out of control of your life?” He laughs, and I protest. “I’m serious!”
“Me too,” Linden says, still smiling. “But isn’t that what being a teenager is? I swear my parents monitor every step I take.”
“Really?” I ask, a little surprised. That’s not a problem I have. I never considered my mom to be overly trusting, but maybe she is.
“Sure. And they want to plan my life. I’m not even a senior yet and my dad already has my college picked out for me. And grad school. Wants me to be a big-shot lawyer like him.”
“Is that what you want?”
He snorts. “Work his hours? Defend the scum he defends? No way.” The laughter has disappeared from his voice and I can tell this is something he seriously resents. “I don’t know what I do want, but his life isn’t it.”
“Me too,” I say, thinking of Sierra. The plans she has for me with a secret group she won’t tell me much about. The future I’m not sure I want.
“Your mom? Really?”
“My aunt. She lives with us.”
“We should make a pact,” Linden says, and his grin is back. “That we’ll both do what we want after high school. And that we’ll help each other.” His tone is light, but he sounds mostly serious, like he’s really looking for a coconspirator.
He doesn’t know how serious that kind of a promise is for me.
Or how appealing.
My heart races as I stick out my hand. “Deal,” I say, hoping I sound flirty, not nervous.
He slides his hand into mine and grips it tightly. “That’s a promise,” he says softly.
“Promise,” I echo, and something about saying it out loud makes me feel like I could take control of my future. Grab it with two hands and do it my way.
“We should seal it, somehow,” Linden says, studying my face.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not going to make me spit on my hand, are you? Or poke my finger with a needle?”
“That wasn’t really what I had in mind,” he says, and as he leans forward, he pulls on our joined hands, bringing me closer to him. “Just to make it official,” he whispers.
Then his lips gently brush mine.
It’s not long. Or passionate. It’s just the barest hint of lips against lips.
And it’s perfect.
His mouth is warm and he tastes like sugar and cinnamon and something else entirely his own. I know it’s not Linden’s first kiss, but it is mine.
And it is everything—everything—I dreamed it could be.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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EIGHTEEN
When I get home from Linden’s house—sadly, there was no more kissing, not even when he said good-bye—I go right to my room and start studying the photos of Repairing the Fractured Future from the beginning.
As the sky outside my window darkens, I’m starting to get at least a small part of what the book is saying. Apparently the supernatural plane is a place that actually physically exists, but on a slightly altered dimension of reality. But you don’t, like, disappear from this world to go there. You project a physical version of yourself with your mind. I guess it’s like what I’ve been doing in my second sight when I revisit my visions. I think. Or, that’s what the author of the book thinks. It all sounds a little sci-fi to me. But what seems to be clear is that it’s a different place from my second sight, where I see my visions. My second sight definitely exists inside my head.
According to this, to get to the supernatural plane you “jump” into the alternate dimension with your projected physical self. Whatever the hell that means.
It’s hard to get much more decent information out of the text. Maybe because I haven’t been there. Haven’t seen it. Yet.
That night when I go to bed, I lock my bedroom door. It’s becoming a habit and not one that I like. But my life is full of secrets now. Well, it was always full of secrets, but now I’m even keeping them from Sierra.
I lie in bed with my fingers clasped over the necklace, waiting for sleep to take me.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Sleep never comes easy when you really want it to. But somewhere in the midst of my tossing and turning, the blankets begin to envelop me in a distinctly nonrealistic way. I’m not completely conscious—more the sensation of being in a dream that you somehow suspect is, in fact, a dream.
I’m floating, no, more like swimming through thick water. And I’m reaching, reaching for something I can’t see. I want to get there so badly. I’m almost there and then . . .
Sunlight pierces through my eyelids.
I wake up feeling like I didn’t actually sleep. Rest, I guess. And there’s a sense of disappointment that almost overwhelms me. I’m not sure why. I didn’t get to the supernatural plane . . . at least I don’t think I did. But maybe I was heading there?
I’m pulling a shirt over my head when my mom calls my name excitedly. Which makes me nervous. I hate that this is my life now.
It’s Nicole. She’s all over the news.
But it’s because she’s alive.
“I just had this feeling,” Nicole repeats again and again to every reporter who asks. “My parents had just left and I had this feeling I should go to my friend Sara’s house. I knew I had to leave,” she says very seriously as her hands reach up to grasp her cross necklace. The implication is lost on no one. Her bright blue eyes are wide in both the horror of what might have happened and the excitement of her fifteen minutes of fame.
There would be no excitement if she actually knew what was supposed to happen. The mental picture still chases my appetite away.
The cameras continually go back to the machete, still stuck in the shed wall as police circle it and take photo after photo. The tracks where the killer rolled over the snowdrift are also taped off, though the police have said that they don’t expect to be able to retrieve any useful evidence from them.
My mom is so excited that someone evaded the killer,
but I feel like there’s a countdown clicking in my head. Despite the fact that we headed this one off, Smith is right; we’ve got to do more. There was less than twelve hours between me having the vision and the actual event taking place. The few visions I’ve had and been able to track in my life were always days early at the very least. I remember when I was six, waiting almost two weeks for all of the signs to happen that I saw in the vision of Sierra dying.
I’d never had a vision come to pass in less than a day before this guy started murdering kids. He’s so angry. I shiver. I’ve got to get better at this changing-the-future thing. I have to stop him.
Back in my room, I pick up my phone to start studying the Oracle text again when it starts vibrating in my hand and I freak out and drop it on the floor.
Perhaps my reflexes are not quite catlike.
Linden’s name flashes on the screen, and my heartbeat jumps right back up to racing—albeit for a completely different reason this time.
I’m bored. What are you doing today?
I groan and flop back on my bed. For six years, I’ve wished that Linden would show some kind of interest in me. Why does all of this other crap have to be going on at the same time? I stare at the phone screen for a long time trying to decide the likelihood that my mom will let me out of the house at all today.
Not sure my mom will let me do anything.
*My* mom still has her security guy.;)
I raise an eyebrow and text back:
Can’t hurt my case.
Want to go snowmobiling?
It sounds like heaven. But seriously? I push the button to call Linden so we can actually talk in full sentences. “Good morning,” I say when he answers, and it feels somehow intimate to greet him like that while I’m lying in bed.
“So what do you think?” he asks. “My new machine is dying for a test run.”
“Is that safe?” I ask in half a whisper, just in case my mom is within hearing distance. I shouldn’t have to worry. I should get a vision before the killer strikes again. But I don’t know that for sure. Still, I would know if my own death were coming, right? It’s what I’ve been depending on these last few weeks.