Sleep of Death

  I didn’t save the Welshes after all.

  I should have called the cops again tonight.

  Of course, if I had, they might not have believed me. Would they have bothered to send an officer out two nights in a row? Especially after I hung up on them last night? I don’t think they would have. Or maybe I just want to believe that. Or maybe I was just too tired.

  Forget it; I can’t change anything now. Sophie’s too sick to even consider it. Not even a mere hour. Just no. All I can do is get Daphne out of there before the killer finds her, or she freezes to death, or the burglar alarm can summon the cops; before a bad situation can turn worse.

  I turn onto the gravel road and kill my headlights before pulling into what I’m starting to think of as my parking spot, just beyond the aspen windbreak. I dig out my phone and my fingers are cold but steady as I call Daphne back.

  “I’m here,” I whisper, walking straight through the tree line, jogging toward the shed. I throw open the door and there’s Daphne, looking exactly the same as she did last time. Tears of anger and fear gather in my eyes to see her tiny trembling form so saturated with blood.

  And that knife.

  A knife in one fist, just like last time. And something new—a phone clenched in the other. I hate that she has the knife because it means she went in and saw her parents completely butchered and took the murder weapon with her. No child should ever have to see that sight. Ever.

  But the addition of the phone encourages me. Something is different. I’ve changed things at least somewhat.

  “Daphne, it’s me,” I say, reaching out my hands. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  With her weight heavy against my chest I return to the car and—just like last time—slide her into the passenger seat.

  But when I walk around and get in on my side, everything is different.

  This is where I change the story.

  I jam the car into reverse and back down the road as carefully but quickly as I can. I haven’t seen this future, but judging by the events of last time, I suspect the police will be arriving at any moment—assuming they don’t write it off as a false alarm, after my call last night. But I can’t depend on that.

  I turn the heat up to full blast and reach behind the seat to hand Daphne the emergency blanket, and that’s where all lingering sense of déjà vu comes to an end. I’ve left the house, no one’s coming to point a gun at me, to take Daphne away, to pin me to the ground and tighten ice-cold handcuffs around my wrists. I’m not going to completely lose control of my powers and force the cops to dance like marionettes on Oracular strings. I almost want to laugh when I realize that, for certain, I’ve avoided that.

  When I pull into my driveway ten minutes later, though, the fear returns. Because escaping one danger only opens up the possibility of a dozen others.

  We’re still no closer to catching the killer.

  What if he followed us to my house?

  One thing at a time.

  “Okay, Daphne,” I say, turning to her in the seat beside me. “This is my house. I’m going to carry you in as fast as I can, just in case anyone’s following us.”

  She nods soberly, and I realize she has that uncomfortable calm to her again.

  But I forge ahead. Step one, get us safe. Everything else can wait. Except … “And when we get inside, I need you to be silent. Okay? We can’t wake up my mom. Got it?”

  She nods, her eyes wide pools of something that makes me oddly uncomfortable. I turn the car off and give my rear-view a quick glance. Before I can think too hard about what might be lurking in the shadows surrounding me, I shove my door open and grab Daphne and pull her over the center console and across my chest. She’s a more awkward bundle now, wrapped in the emergency blanket, but I just squeeze as tight as my arms will let me and use my hip to slam the car door closed.

  Then I run to my front porch, chased by the irrational fear that I’m going to hear the sound of a gunshot or feel the steely bite of a knife between my shoulders before I get there.

  I close the front door and shove the lock into place before turning to brace my back against it, unable to stand on my own without support. I feel my heartbeat drumming through my entire body. I can’t quite get enough air in my lungs … I gasp and squeeze Daphne hard against me, my anchor to reality. I couldn’t say how long it takes me to recover, but Daphne doesn’t move a muscle. She holds utterly still, with her little body curled against my chest and her head resting on my shoulder.

  Once I gather my strength I stand and push away from the door. By some miracle we haven’t woken up my mom, but now I’ve got to go to Sierra. Eventually we’ll have to let my mom know what I’ve done too, but not until I’ve come up with a convincing lie. A lie that both Sierra and I can agree to swear is the truth.

  I carry the still-silent Daphne down the hallway, refusing to look back and see if we’re dripping blood on the carpet, because if I have to worry about one more thing at this moment, I might just explode.

  Sierra’s door, which has felt so friendly these last few months, suddenly looks more like a fortress gate. But my biggest mistake during the whole Jason Smith debacle was not telling Sierra. And there’s no doubt that I’m in over my head now.

  I need help. Her help.

  After shifting Daphne to one arm, I raise my fist and knock softly, grateful that Sierra’s room is next to mine, and not Mom’s, where the sound of the knock might carry.

  But there’s no response. Because, of course, she’s asleep. I knock a little louder and wait again. Daphne’s starting to squirm and I’m not sure how long I can bear her weight, so when there’s still no answer I reach for the nickel doorknob.

  The door swings open just enough to frame Sierra’s sleep-imprinted face. “Char?” she asks, and her eyes widen.

  Probably because of all the blood.

  Or maybe the child?

  Regardless, all signs point to deep trouble. I see her eyes slide down the hallway to my mom’s bedroom door, ajar a few inches as always. “Get in here,” she whispers, opening her door all the way.

  I step inside and Sierra closes the door behind us, but she doesn’t have to turn a light on, because there’s already one shining from beside her desk. Sierra still sleeps with the light on to help her fight her visions. It’s a little funny how after sixteen years of doing the same thing—and only a few months of blackness—I’d already forgotten the old habit.

  Sierra folds her arms across her chest—a confrontational pose. But it’s the look in her eyes that freezes my blood.

  She’s terrified.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Worried, disappointed, angry; those are all emotions I expected. But terror? I don’t understand.

  “Is this what you were trying to prevent?” she asks, and her voice is strained nearly to the point of breaking.

  “I failed to prevent anything,” I respond truthfully. I may not care about the rules but I want Sierra to know that, right now, she’s not helping me break them. “This isn’t me changing any future I’ve seen. This is just me trying to make the best of a very … very bad situation.” And it is a bad situation. I made Sophie sick, terrified my aunt, and all for what? The Welshes are still dead.

  But at least Daphne’s not being Tased, or killed, or freezing to death in her own back yard. No child deserves that.

  Sierra takes a loud, calming breath. Her entire posture changes and her eyes are hooded again. “First things first. We need to get this child in the bath. She’s going to catch her death, sopping wet like … like this. You start running the water, I’ll get some bags from the kitchen for her clothes.”

  “You hear that, Daph?” I whisper in the general direction of her little head, which is pressed tightly against my shoulder. “We’re going to get you warm and clean, okay?” I feel her nod and I give Sierra a look of confirmation.

  I sit Daphne on the closed toilet lid and start running water. There’s too much blood for a proper bath; as I test the water for t
emperature just the blood on my hands colors the white porcelain a sickly, rusty red. “It’s going to have to be a shower to start with,” I say to Daphne with what I hope is a calming smile. In truth, I’m almost overwhelmed by the sight of her. In my vision—and in reality—I’ve only seen the Welshes’ blood in near-darkness. Now, with bright overhead lights glaring, the blood looks too red to be real—like the vision Smith once gave me of a bloodstained bed. I shiver and refuse to dwell on that. This is now; this is real. And I have to deal with it.

  “Stand up,” I say, once the water is warm enough. “Let’s get these clothes off you.”

  My aunt reappears silently, drawing my attention with a gasp as I’m taking the blanket off Daphne’s tiny shoulders.

  The knife. Of course.

  Sierra didn’t know about that. Daphne’s standing there—all maybe four-and-a-half feet of her—clutching a big butcher knife and a bloody cell phone. I would be shocked too. I was. Sierra recovers quickly, though, and holds out a plastic bag. “Can you put those things in here, sweetheart?”

  Daphne hesitates and looks up at me for guidance.

  “Go ahead,” I say encouragingly. “This is my aunt. She loves me and she’ll take care of you.”

  “What about your mother?” Daphne asks, her voice cracking as she starts. These are the first words I’ve heard from her since finding her in that shed. Either time.

  “She’s still sleeping. It’s … it’s better if Sierra helps us first. Okay?”

  Daphne nods, so very serious, and proffers the knife and phone, though her eyes follow to where Sierra sets them in the corner of the vanity, on top of the bloody blanket.

  I have to hold my breath to keep from gagging as I pull a blood-soaked nightshirt and stretchy pants from Daphne’s body and put them in more plastic bags from Sierra. Daphne gets embarrassed and does her underwear herself, but even they are almost completely saturated.

  I try not to remember that this is blood that was in her parents’ bodies only a couple hours ago; I can’t even imagine what kind of thoughts are going through Daphne’s head.

  I hold a towel up in front of Daphne, without actually touching her, to give her some semblance of modesty. After instructing her to just stand under the spray and rinse off while I get some soap, I pull the shower curtain shut, close my eyes, and slump against the wall.

  “Now you,” Sierra says quietly.

  My eyes fly open. “What?”

  “Your shirt, your jeans. Your coat too, I think.”

  My eyes take in the bloodstains down my front, and I realize she’s right. I’ve been so focused in Daphne I hadn’t even considered myself.

  “You need to hurry and get washed off and dressed again. Go down to the Gas-N-Grub on Main and get her some new clothes.” Sierra grabs a washcloth and starts swiping at the blood all over the toilet seat. “I’m pretty sure they’re open all night. Look where they shelve the souvenirs; they should have children’s sizes.”

  “Haven’t we got some of my old clothes around here?”

  “Going to the store and back is going to take less time than finding the right box in the attic.”

  She has a point. “Then maybe you should go,” I suggest. “You’re clean.” I’m feeling panicky about leaving Daphne at all, even with Sierra. Daphne’s got to be incredibly volatile right now, and I’ve only just won her trust.

  But Sierra’s already shaking her head. “If your mother wakes up, I’d rather she caught me.”

  Oh. Good point.

  Sierra’s been protecting me for as long as I can remember—and tonight I’m not sure I deserve it. But she’s right. She thinks of problems on so many levels, so quickly. Truthfully, she reminds me of Sophie that way and if I can ever get her to stop thinking of Sophie as a nuisance—or a threat—I bet they’d really get along.

  One thing at a time.

  “You’re right,” I say, and I pull my clothes off and give them to Sierra. Wearing nothing but my bra and underwear, I stand at the sink and scrub the blood from my arms, face, and neck. “Good?” I ask, turning around in front of my aunt, unfazed by my half-nakedness. So past that right now.

  She studies me, and then nods. “Clean. Get going.”

  “Daphne?” I say, putting my face around the edge of the shower curtain so she can see me, but with my hand over my eyes for that nod toward modesty. “I’m going to go get you something to wear; is it okay if Sierra washes your hair?”

  “Okay,” she says softly.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promise, then turn to Sierra again. “I’ll be fast.” For about a million reasons, not the least of which is that I didn’t actually tell Daphne I was leaving the house, and I have a sneaking suspicion she’ll freak if she figures it out.

  “Here,” Sierra says, handing me a fifty from her purse. “This should cover it. Don’t argue; you need to use cash. Just go.”

  I run to my room and pull on the first shirt and pair of jeans I see, shoving my feet into sneakers instead of my warm, comfy, blood-spattered boots. Man, I hope that comes out. I love those boots.

  It’s only about a mile to the Gas-N-Grub and I drive as quickly as I dare. When I get there it’s almost empty—as one would expect at four in the morning—but even so, I keep my head down as I wander over to the souvenir clothing section, rubbing my temples against the piercing headache that has taken up residence behind my eyes; running on a persistent sleep deficit is really taking its toll.

  There are children’s T-shirts and I grab one of those, but no pants. Luckily, I find a pair of extra-small women’s pajama bottoms that say, Sang for my Supper in Oklahoma! I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean, but I add a pair of children’s colorful knee-socks to the pile and take everything to the front counter. All together, I spend less than five minutes in the deserted gas station.

  My eyes are cottony but have the strangely wide-open feeling of a caffeine high as I approach the sole traffic signal between me and my house. When my arms go numb and blackness invades in a swiftly shrinking circle across my vision I experience an irrational urge to let go of the steering wheel and slap my forehead. I’m so stupid! I was so distracted I didn’t notice the warning signs of the vision that’s even now overwhelming me.

  The last thing I see before the vision takes me is a familiar-looking snow bank, illuminated by the flashing yellow traffic light.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’m standing in a forest. It’s dark, but not black—dawn, or maybe dusk. There’s no snow falling, but it’s cold.

  I’m still berating myself for not recognizing my own car in the vision I had at Sophie’s house. And for being so distracted when I pulled away from the Gas-N-Grub that I didn’t turn on my freaking headlights. I’m lucky my physical body is only sitting jammed against a snow bank and not smashed to pieces!

  The vision distracts me from my self-flagellation by tugging me forward and, though I’m still shaking my head at my own stupidity, I walk the direction I’m being pulled and try to give this vision my full attention.

  Because I sure as hell can’t do anything about my possibly-injured body at the moment.

  A gurgling, sucking sound catches my attention first and I head toward it, almost falling on my butt when a small figure, blurred by the shadows, rushes past me. A small person? A large animal? But the vision is pulling me toward the sound, so all I can do is curse my inability to choose, and let the invisible rope pull me onward, out of the trees and into a tiny clearing.

  The sucking sound is coming from someone flailing on the ground, unable to breathe through the butcher knife lodged in her throat. The beating of her heart is visible in the rhythmic pulsing of blood from a severed artery; her blood starkly crimson on the snow.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  She’s wearing faded cargoes and a gray Doctor Who T-shirt, a jean jacket instead of a coat.

  “No,” I say, clutching at the outline of the Tardis emblazoned on my own chest.

  The li
ght is dim, but bright enough for me to recognize myself as I gag and choke, face freckled with spattered blood. My dying self sports two more stab wounds—my arm and shoulder on the right side—and every bone in my body gives up.

  I fall to my knees, so breathless with horror that I can’t even scream as I watch myself spasm and collapse into deadly stillness, face purple and contorted. My eyes meet my own dying eyes, and for an instant I swear the me on the ground can see me.

  And then she’s dead.

  I’m dead.

  My own death. We all see it. Sierra saw hers, all those years ago, and did nothing to prevent it. And then, when I prevented it for her, my father died instead, and my mother never walked again.

  I expected to have more warning.

  What can I do?

  I remember the figure that almost knocked me over.

  It was small.

  Tiny, really.

  Unless …

  Unless it wasn’t an adult.

  My stomach clenches and turns and I barely make it to the side of the clearing before retching so violently I have to wonder if my physical body is puking all over the steering wheel of my mother’s car at this same moment.

  Have I been blind? Stupid? Some of both?

  What would any logical person think if they arrived at a crime scene and found someone clutching the bloody murder weapon? Twice, because of my supernatural advantages. Twice!

  And I dismissed it, because I’d already been wrong about Sophie and there was no way a ten-year-old girl could conceivably kill two sleeping adults after bursting out of a locked bedroom door. They would have heard her. They would have stopped her.

  And she told me she was happy.

  But when I looked at all the possible futures in my dome, the only situation that consistently ended with both parents dead was when the murderer came in and took out the father first. Mrs. Welsh wasn’t very big. Petite and slight—a former cheerleader. It’s not entirely unreasonable that Daphne could overpower a sleepy Mrs. Welsh, but only if her much-larger father was already dead. And if they drank heavily, or took sleeping pills, or just plain had a really exhausting day … then what?