It was as if he’d filled his mouth with the purest rainwater.
He swallowed the broth, then offered the ladle to Angel.
“Wh-What did it taste like?” she whispered, making no move to take the wooden dipper from him.
A sly grin came over Seth’s face. “Why should I tell you?” he said. “You promised to try it if I did, didn’t you?”
For a fraction of a second Angel was tempted to renege on her promise, but she put the impulse aside almost the moment it came over her. Reaching out, she took the ladle from him, took a deep breath in unconscious imitation of him, then held the dipper to her lips, tipped it back, and drained it into her mouth.
Water!
It was nothing but water!
It felt faintly warm in her mouth, but that was all.
She swallowed, and the water went down her throat.
Now the warmness she’d felt spread through her, but there was nothing unpleasant about the sensation.
“It’s warm,” she breathed.
Seth looked at her blankly. “What do you mean, it’s warm? It’s just water.”
Angel nodded. “I know. But it feels warm — I can feel it spreading out into my arms and legs! Don’t you feel it?”
Seth slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving Angel. Was she getting sick? But if she was, she didn’t look sick. In fact, she looked better than she had since they’d opened her locker and found Houdini. Then it dawned on him: Grief! That’s what the recipe was called! That’s what it was for! “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice now edged with excitement.
“Fine!” Angel said. “I told you—”
Seth didn’t let her finish. “I mean, how do you feel about Houdini?”
Angel looked at Seth in utter incomprehension for a few seconds. How did she feel about Houdini? She felt terrible about—
And then, in the midst of the thought, she realized it wasn’t true.
She didn’t feel terrible about him at all.
The hard knot of grief that had almost choked her only an hour or so ago was completely gone! She missed him, but thinking about him didn’t hurt anymore, and when she visualized him in her mind, the only image she got was of him bounding out of her closet the day they’d moved into the house at Black Creek Crossing. When she tried to conjure up a memory of his body the way it had been when she found it in her locker this afternoon, she couldn’t. She could remember finding him, but couldn’t visualize what he had looked like. It was as if her memory had been wiped clean of that terrible image.
“I’m all right,” she breathed. “I miss him, but it’s okay. It—” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she finally said.
“Wow,” Seth whispered. “It worked. It really worked!”
Angel gazed at him. “But it was only water,” she whispered.
“Water, and your blood, and earth from his grave, and your tears,” Seth reminded her. “That’s why nothing happened to me at all — it wasn’t about me! It was about you, and it worked!”
As his words sank in, Angel’s eyes went to the book that was still open on the counter. Was it possible?
Could it be possible?
“Let’s go home,” she whispered as she gazed at the worn volume. “Let’s just put it back in the chimney and go home, okay?”
A few minutes later they stepped out into the fading daylight of the late afternoon. The last vestiges of the storm were gone, and the sky above was dark blue. As they started to climb the berm, Angel paused and looked at the rock beneath which lay the remains of the only pet she’d ever had.
“I wish you were still alive,” she whispered. “If you were, I wouldn’t ever let a bad thing happen to you again.” She turned away and began clambering up the heap of rubble that hid the facade of the cabin from the clearing in the forest.
Had she stayed, she might have seen the ground beneath the stone marking Houdini’s grave sink lower into the ground…
Marty Sullivan pulled the first bottle out of the second six-pack, twisted the cap off, and tossed it in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed the plastic container by a foot, bounced off the wall, fell to the floor, and wound up lying upside down in front of the sink. Marty stared at it dolefully for a moment, then left it where it was and headed back to the living room and the comfort of his favorite chair. Half an hour ago the storm that closed down the worksite had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. If he hadn’t known it was impossible, he’d have sworn the rain had been pouring down out of coal-black clouds one second, and the sky was clear the next.
More likely he’d just dozed off for a few minutes.
Now, as he glanced blearily out the front window trying to figure out how a storm that bad could have vanished that fast, a movement caught his eye, but it wasn’t until he moved closer to the window and pulled the sheer curtain aside that he saw what it was.
Angel.
Angel, and that little putz he’d caught her with the other day.
The putz he’d told her to stay away from.
And they weren’t coming from the direction of the village either.
What the hell was going on?
He started toward the front door, his anger growing with every step. But just before he pulled it open, he had a better idea. Better to just wait until they came in. Settling himself into his chair, he raised the beer bottle to his lips and drained half of it in a single long gulp.
A minute or two later he heard the front door open, and then Angel came in. “Where the hell’ve you been?” he growled, his eyes fixed malevolently on her.
Hearing her father’s voice, Angel knew he’d been drinking, and when she saw the half-dozen empty beer bottles that were scattered around the chair he was sprawled in — and the full bottle in his hand — she knew she’d better be careful about what she said.
But before she could speak at all, her father’s bloodshot eyes fixed on her and he said, “You were with that kid.”
Her eyes flicked toward the window. Her father’s back was to it, but if he’d been getting another beer when she and Seth had come out of the woods…
Better not try to deny it.
“W-We were out hiking,” she stammered.
Her father’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ever since school let out?”
Angel nodded, and instantly wished she hadn’t. But it was already too late — her skin began to crawl as she felt her father’s eyes moving over her. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, shifting his weight in the chair. “If you’d been out in that downpour, you’d be soaked.”
“I–I am wet,” she said. “I better go up and change.” Before he could say anything else, she hurried out of the room and up the stairs.
Liar, Marty thought. That’s what she is — a lying little slut. He drained the rest of his beer, lurched to his feet, and headed back to the kitchen. The next beer cap wound up only a couple of feet from the last one, only this time in front of the refrigerator instead of the sink. Pouring half the newest bottle down his throat as quickly as he’d drained the last one, Marty headed for the stairs.
Wet, huh? She hadn’t looked wet to him, and if she’d really been where she said she was, she’d be a lot more than just wet. She’d have come in dripping, with her hair plastered down, and that ugly sweatshirt she was always wearing would’ve been clinging to her body.
So she hadn’t been out hiking.
She’d been out doing something else.
And he knew damned well what it was.
He started up the stairs, but his foot caught on the first step. Swearing loudly as he lost his balance and lurched forward, he threw out his hands to catch himself. The half-full bottle of beer struck the wall, clattered onto the stairs, rolled down a couple of steps, then came to rest on its side, the last of its contents draining onto the step below. Cursing again, Marty picked up the bottle, drained the last few drops from it, and tossed it down to the floor below. He started to take another step, swaying as the beer he’d been pouring down his throat for the last two hours tightened its grip on his brain. This time, though, his hand closed on the banister and he caught himself before he sprawled out on the stairs. Muttering darkly, he continued on up the stairs, but when he came to the point where his head was level with the upstairs landing, he suddenly stopped.