My hands are rising in front of me even as I try to push them down. I’m silent, despite the screams in my mind, and she doesn’t even open her eyes until I’ve grabbed her head with both hands. She’s too shocked to resist when I slam her skull against the handicap shower bar with all my might. Blood pours from her temple, but she fights me now.
I have too much of an advantage; I’m whole and on solid ground. My arms shove her beneath the surface and hold her there as she thrashes. I scream, I beg for this to end, but I can’t even close my eyes as her body stills, gives one final twitch, and then relaxes.
“You can’t make me do this!” I yell to Smith, and finally the words escape my mouth, rattling my teeth.
“I can make you do anything,” Smith says not in a victorious voice, but simply stating a fact: like the sky is blue, and grass is green.
“No!” I grit my teeth and reach into the water that’s turning red from my mother’s blood. I have to rescue her!
Before I can touch her, the strings pull me away and suddenly I’m dangling from them, swinging violently back and forth. I look up as the tiled bathroom wall rushes toward me and I brace myself for the hard impact.
There is none. Smith swings me into another scene where together, we torture someone I don’t recognize. Then time is passing quickly and scenarios flash by in more of a montage than individual snapshots. Soon it becomes clear that I’m rising in power and wealth. And influence. Everywhere people pander to me. I order; they obey. I see myself clutching the necklace as I change the future to my favor, gain influence, and rid myself of enemies.
But now, in the background, so nondescript that everyone’s eyes pass over him, I see Smith. Within arm’s length all the time as we kill, as we curry favor, as we trample those weaker, smaller, until I’m sitting behind a huge desk in an ornate office somewhere, signing documents.
The text is blurred—of course he wouldn’t reveal his true intentions to me now. But I know whatever I’m signing can’t be good. It must mean destruction, agony, death. Smith is standing by my elbow, silently, but now he steps forward, addresses me directly. “This is our future, Charlotte.”
“It’s not my future,” I say through gritted teeth as my hand scrawls my signature across another paper. I don’t fight it. I can’t beat him physically. There has to be another way.
“These,” I say, gesturing to the strings on my arms, “they aren’t real. Everyone would see them. That,” I say caustically, pointing at the giant Smith-face above our heads, “is obviously not real. Every vision in my dome has the possibility of actually happening. This is some twisted version of my plane, and I can tell the difference.”
His lips tighten and I know I’ve said something right.
“These are your desires,” I continue, rambling in what I hope is the right direction. “And . . . your memories,” I add, remembering the scene of my dad’s accident. Non-accident. Then I understand. “You don’t have any actual Oracle power here. You can’t affect the future in your dome. Only I can do that.”
I expect another angry look, but he smiles. “You think you’re so smart. So invincible. I control you now. I’ve been wrapping tiny strings around you for weeks now—ever since you let me into your second sight. Every hour you spent using the necklace to come here strengthened my hold on you. Did you really think you were just practicing?”
Shame burns through me—that’s exactly what I thought.
He circles me like a vulture as I hang, unable to move. “You say these strings aren’t real, but they may as well be. We’re bound so tightly, you can’t resist me.” A low chuckle escapes his throat. “And you have no one to blame but yourself. The very first time you let me into your mind, you made the door. And every time you use the necklace with my spell in it, the door gets bigger. My world gets bigger. And it’s pulling your world in without any help from me at all. It’s too late to stop me—you had your chance the first night you reached the door. But what did you do? You went and had a date with Lover Boy instead. And now the balance has tipped.”
“No.” But the word is quiet, a no of surrender. I hang limp from my strings and want to cry. What have I done?
But . . . I brought Smith here. And his world is so much smaller than mine. How can he have the power? It doesn’t make any sense.
I brought him here with the necklace. He talks about the stone like it only helps him, but it’s helped me too. It gave me the power to pull him onto my supernatural plane.
Against his will.
I still have the upper hand. Or, at least, I do with the focus stone. I feel it pulsing against my chest and know I must be right.
It’s my only shot. I move my hand slowly, hoping he won’t notice. It’s hanging just inside my coat—between my shirt and my coat. I need to touch it, grab it.
“Why me?” I ask, keeping the resignation in my voice. Anything to keep his attention away from my hand.
He chuckles and the sound frightens me so much I almost forget about reaching for the necklace. “Because, Miss Charlotte, you are my perfect revenge. You will be everything Shelby wasn’t.” He draws in a deep breath like he’s smelling a delicious scent and I don’t understand again. “Those tiny visions you couldn’t fight—I fed off of them for many years. But just barely. Now I feast like a king.”
“What happened to her? What happened to Shelby?” I fling the words at him desperately. He cares about Shelby—I know he does. And the more emotional he is, the better.
His face snaps somber and I feel a little thrill of victory. “I couldn’t break her,” he says, his voice quiet. “I couldn’t make myself go all the way. I won’t have that problem with you.”
Straining against the twine tied on my arms, my fingers wrap around the stone and a surge of power runs through me. I picture the strings breaking and with a leap of faith, I throw myself forward, imagining myself strong and powerful. Stronger than him.
For a moment, the strings strain against me and I think I’m going to fail. Then, almost as one, they snap and I’m free.
Smith’s eyes are wide as I tackle him. He puts out his hands to break his fall against a rounded wall, but when my weight crashes into him, we sink through it to somewhere else.
Voices shout around me and one of them sounds like Smith’s, but I can feel him struggling beneath me and the sound is coming from somewhere to my right. Smith stills when a female shouts something I don’t quite understand. I look up to see a younger Smith—his hair dark with no sign of gray—his arm outstretched toward a tall, slim girl maybe a little older than me with strawberry-blond hair that falls down her back in shining waves. I can’t see her face, but I can tell there’s . . . there’s something wrong with her.
And then I realize her limbs are bent funny and she’s walking toward Smith like she’s trying not to. It’s a sensation I understand all too well.
Young Smith’s expression is weird too—like he’s fighting himself. When she gets close enough, a scowl curls across his face and he draws his hand back and slaps her so hard that her head snaps to the side.
And I see her face.
Sierra.
Shelby. Sierra is Shelby.
You don’t know how bad the visions can get, she told me when this whole thing began. Not even you.
I stand there immobilized by shock as a younger version of my aunt sobs, her shoulders shaking. Then in a show of strength she doesn’t look capable of, she somehow wrenches free of his control and jumps on top of him. For a few seconds, fists and fingernails fly, but Smith throws her off and then he’s above her. His hands clenched around her neck. I scream as her body begins to twitch, her face purpling.
But just as I’m sure she’s about to die, Smith’s hands fall away. His body collapses and writhes, and a small trickle of blood trails from his ear as Sierra gags and coughs.
The scene fades and I’m shoved violently off of Smith and barely manage to keep my fingers clenched around the necklace. Smith stands and looks down at me and I hold
out my fist with the silver chain trailing from it in front of me like a talisman.
“You think that’s going to save you?” Smith says, and the fury in his eyes takes my breath away. I was not supposed to see that scene. I wasn’t supposed to know his secret.
Her secret.
“I’m more powerful than you,” I say, willing it to be true despite my trembling voice.
He grins and reaches out for my legs. I try to kick away but his hands are so strong and he pulls me across the floor to him. His nose is inches from mine and I’m frozen in fear as he says, “You think you’re in control? Even your powers are not your own anymore.” Then he reaches out two fingers, braces them against my forehead, and shoves me.
I fly across the room, through a wall, and expect to land in another scene—another grotesque dream of Smith’s—but there’s only blackness. And I’m falling. A scream tears itself from me and I pinwheel my arms trying to find something to grab on to.
But I just fall.
Fall.
Fall.
Until I hit the ground with a bone-splintering crunch.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
TWENTY-NINE
Lights flash across my eyes as I blink them open slowly.
“She’s alive!”
“Miss, miss, can you tell me your name?” A flashlight is shining in my eyes and a rubber-gloved finger lifts one eyelid and then the other before I can finally focus on the bright light.
What happened?
He pushed me out. Smith pushed me out of my own supernatural plane.
Or is it his now? That thought makes icy terror pump through my veins.
“I’m fine,” I say, pushing the hands away. I can’t stay here. I have to go to Sierra.
But what will I say?
“Miss, what is your name?”
“Charlotte,” I say, pressing my body up to sitting. “Charlotte Westing.”
“Please lie still,” the guy with the flashlight says, trying to push me back down.
“I’m not hurt.”
“You may not feel hurt now, but when the shock wears off you could be seriously injured,” he insists, pushing harder.
“Do you think shoving me down is going to help?” I ask loudly, flinging his hands away from me. “I’m not hurt.”
Then another voice. “Miss—”
“Charlotte,” the EMT offers oh so helpfully to the cop that just walked up.
“Charlotte,” the cop amends, “you’ve just survived an attack—I think you should stay put.”
I open my mouth to tell them I wasn’t attacked, but realize the humongous can of worms that would open and close my mouth again. No memory, that’s what I’m going to have to say.
And I do. Over and over again. To every cop who comes within earshot. I don’t know how I got here, I don’t remember leaving my house, the last thing I do remember is lying in my own bed. I hear the press start to gather and I turn my face away, hoping beyond hope that the backs of all the cops have been able to block me from the cameras.
Smith isn’t nearly so lucky. I’m not sure if he beat me out of the supernatural plane or not, but he’s sitting in the snow, handcuffed, with two officers pointing their guns at him.
Seeing Smith here in the physical world jolts me like a blow from an enormous hammer, shaking me from head to toe. He peers up and meets my eyes and I freeze. I feel like he should be looking at me with hatred, betrayal, anger at the very least. But he looks complacent. Almost like he’s won. I have to turn my face away. Even being looked at by him feels like a thrust from a knife.
The knife!
Where is it? I don’t have it. I don’t think I have it. But where did I put it?
If they find the knife—my life is essentially over.
I try to look around the scene while the EMTs take my temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and do everything but pull out the little mallet to tap my knee. But I don’t see it anywhere. I shiver on the tailgate of the ambulance and since the EMT seems to be done, I shrug back into my coat. Michelle’s coat.
And feel an unfamiliar weight. I carefully pat an inner pocket to be sure.
There it is. Hidden. The things my unconscious self does. I can’t suppress a shudder and it catches the EMTs attention.
“You okay?”
“I just want to go home,” I mutter. “I’m fine, right?” He hesitates before admitting that he can’t find anything wrong with me. I toss the pastel-blue blanket aside and walk over to a cop before the EMT can stop me.
“Officer,” I ask, tapping the shoulder of a man I think I recognize as an actual Coldwater cop. “Can you please take me home before the cameras find me? I need to tell my mom I’m okay.”
And tell Sierra that I know.
“Yeah, we should do that,” the officer says kindly, and I hope and pray I’ve found the right person to get me the hell out of here.
The cop checks with some of the other officers and they look at me askance until I bring out the words that always work on television. “I’m a minor,” I say, trying to sound confident, “so I can’t say anything else until I’m with my mom.”
The younger officer doesn’t try to disguise rolling his eyes and I can tell several of the other cops are thinking something along the lines of “smart-ass kid,” but they know I’m right.
“I’ll take her,” a cop who looks close to retirement offers. “My cruiser’s parked near the back.” He gestures to another officer who joins him and they flank me on each side. I don’t escape totally unscathed—the media are taking pictures of everything that even moves—but I think my face may have stayed blocked by the two cops and the windows of the cruiser are tinted pretty dark. I keep my head pointed down at my chest anyway.
Once we’ve pulled away from the crowd, I lean my head against the headrest and try to figure out what in the world I’m going to tell my mother.
I don’t have long to find out. It’s all of a four-minute drive from the park to my doorstep. “You can just drop me off,” I attempt, but as I suspected, they don’t buy that for even a second.
My mother’s face is white when she opens the door to see me standing between two cops. The moment I see that terror in her eyes is the closest I get to regretting everything I’ve done.
Until I see Sierra too, her bathrobe hastily tied, hanging back with her arms crossed over her chest.
Anger and empathy fight to rise up inside me. I don’t know what to feel.
But the most important fact at the moment is that Smith is behind bars—or will be shortly. I caught the Coldwater Killer. My mother’s very temporary fears are a small price to pay for that. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say before either cop can get a word out.
“More than fine,” the older officer says, his tone downright jovial. “Your daughter survived an attack by the Coldwater Killer and has been central in his being caught and arrested!” I can practically see him jamming his thumbs through his suspenders, he’s so excited.
“Thank you, Lord,” my mother says with her hand over her heart, even though it’s clear she doesn’t really understand.
“We’ll leave you alone tonight, but you’ll be seeing lots of us in the next few days. We’ll need to get an official statement and I’m sure the Feds will want to talk to your daughter,” he says.
“Thank you,” my mom repeats, mostly automatically.
I slip past my mom’s chair and into the house. After the door closes, my mother turns around. “Well,” she says, and even in that single syllable, her voice is trembling.
I don’t know what to say. Do I go with the same story I told the cops? I guess I’d better. I’m going to have to tell that story a lot.
“Whose coat are you wearing?”
Well, shit. “I don’t know.” It comes as easily as all the lies about my “condition” have. I guess I’ve gotten good at lying after so m
any years. Not really something I’m proud of.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” my mom asks, clearly not buying it. I chance a glance at Sierra and she is staring at me calmly, her eyes glittering in alertness.
“All I know is that I went to my room to go to bed; I went to sleep, and when I woke up I was at a park surrounded by cops. That’s all I know,” I say, some of my self-loathing slipping out and making me sound angry.
My mom sighs and rubs her face with her hands. “I didn’t even realize you were gone.” I can hear the guilt in her voice and I want so badly to let her know that this isn’t her fault in any way, shape, or form.
But I can’t. Because the truth would hurt even more.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
All three of us are still and silent for a moment before my mom bursts into tears and wheels herself forward to throw her arms around me. I crouch down beside her chair. Guilt fills me, overflows, and soon I’m crying too. From remorse, yes, but also relief, betrayal, the adrenaline wearing off—a bit of everything.
I glance up and my wet eyes meet my aunt’s.
She didn’t buy my story. She gives me a look that tells me she’ll be seeing me soon, and turns and walks away.
“It’s late,” Mom says, pulling back with a sniff and reddened eyes. “We can talk about things tomorrow—I’m just glad you’re okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Go to bed.”
I nod, but can’t muster up any words. Mom sees me all the way to my room and even goes so far as to watch me walk in so she can close the door behind me. I suspect she sits outside my door for a while, just listening. But that gives me a few more minutes to prepare for Sierra.
Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, I hear a very soft knock and the door swings open far enough to allow Sierra to slip through. It closes and we stare at each other.
“Who does the green coat belong to, Charlotte? And don’t tell me you don’t remember because we both know that’s a lie.” Sierra’s never been one to bother with subtlety.