One morning he'd gone upstairs and into Addison's study. The doctor was there, turned away from the door, a box on his desk. As Tetch silently watched Addison had poured a cup of dead flies into the box. A moment later, they filled the air around the doctor's head.
He saw Tetch, saw accusatory eyes. "Baron!" He thundered across the floor. The boy scarcely made it out the door before a hand clapped down on the back of his head, then all was dark.
His eyes opened to a sea of garish crimson light. Head throbbing, limbs paralyzed, he tried to orient himself. Was he lying on his back? The room had no definition, no depth. It was all red. It was hot. He opened his mouth and a tiny croak escaped.
A huge, angular head with colorless eyes lurched into view. Tetch wet himself at the sight.
At the time he was certain that it was the Devil, and at that point he believed he understood what had happened and where he was. Yet he had no strength, no breath, to scream. He could only shake his head from side to side until he lost consciousness.
The next time his eyes opened, he was lying in his own bed, Addison holding his wrist and glancing at a pocket watch in his other hand. He felt thick gauze around his crown. "What happened?"
"You fell down the stairs. Don't you remember?" Addison's tone was dispassionate. "Before I had a chance to explain what you saw in my study — which you wouldn't have seen at all, had you observed the house rules — you practically threw yourself down the staircase. You were actually dead for a time before I managed to revive you."
The mind of thirteen-year-old Tetch was gripped by terror: it HAD been Hell, after all. But why would he be so condemned? Because he was disobedient? Addison stayed at his bedside for a time and lectured him about interrupting important work in forbidden rooms. Tetch resolved to stay out of the doctor's way from that day forward.
Two years later, after he'd murdered Addison, Tetch would discover that the garishly-lit "Hell" was the cellar, and the head he'd seen looming over him but a crude mask carved from wood. He suspected he hadn't been the only child put through that nightmarish routine. The only one, in fact, who probably never saw Addison's "Hell" was young Lily.
Nightfall found Lily slipping down dark corridors in her nightgown, whisper-quiet, bounding down the stairs and out the front door.
Uriel was at the gates with an axe. Keeping to the shadows, Lily stole around the corner of the house. She darted through the grass to the ivy-wrapped fence and peered into the swamp's inky blackness.
There he was, as she'd known he would be; the man in black came forward with a beautiful white horse. He stood silent as the horse bowed its head, and Lily reached through the fence to stroke its muzzle.
"Why aren't you afraid of the dead?" The man finally asked. "Baron makes them be nice," she answered. The horse had black eyes just like its owner. "He won't let them eat if they do bad things. Like one time Bailey bit me, and Baron put a rope around him and tied him to the fence and he had to stay there all week."
"You were bit…?" The man in black knelt and she held out her hand. There was a faint white scar below the thumb. "Didn't you get sick?"
"No. They aren't like the other dead people."
"How?"
Lily shrugged. The man in black studied her hand and her face. He touched her fingers with his, briefly; though his skin was icy cold, Lily felt warm in her chest and she couldn't help smiling at him.
"Do you like it here?" He asked. She nodded quickly. "Then tell me why you cut your wrists." He said. She stared at the ground.
"I'll come back later." The man climbed onto his steed. Lily wanted to ask him if she could ride the horse, just around the house a little, but she knew he'd say no. Despite that, she looked forward to his next visit.
16
Safer?
"Yeah. You'll be safer with me, at my place."
"I appreciate it Mike, really. But-"
"Cheryl, I understand why it's hard for you to trust me — or anyone for that matter. I really do. And my saying that probably isn't going to ease any tension either, but the simple fact is that if you stay alone in this apartment, you run the risk of being cornered by rotters, looters — maybe friends of your cousin."
"Lee didn't have friends. He didn't even go outside."
"But he had a dealer…"
"Yes."
"Look, I've been sleeping on the floor in my living room. You can have the bedroom, I'll help you move your things in there. And I've installed new locks on all the doors. Nabbed 'em from the hardware store. No one can get into the apartment if I don't want them to. No one will be able to get into your room if you don't want them to."
"It's not so much about trust, Mike. It's just…I don't know. Lee's dead. I've been staying with him since I lost my brother, and I don't even remember how long ago that was. My brother controlled me too — he wasn't mean though, he had the best of intentions — but still I couldn't make a move without him. Then Lee. Nothing I did was right in his eyes, even if it was his own damn idea. I just want to run my own life for a change."
"Makes sense."
"But?"
"But safety in numbers still applies. And I broke your lock when I kicked the door in."
"Nice."
"You're right though. It's your choice. I'm just putting the offer out there. Okay?"
Mike pulled a pistol out and handed it to her. "I assume you know how to use this."
"I do." Cheryl was still reluctant to take it. "The least I can do," he said. "The very least."
"I'll think about it, okay?" She smiled. Mike doubted that, but he smiled back and left.
Meanwhile, the guests staying at the Holy Covenant Community shelter had already worn out their welcome. Oates threw open every cupboard in the kitchen and swore. "When did we run out of everything??"
"There are too many of us here." Reverend Palmer said, leaning against the sink as she filled a pitcher with water. "But I'm not going to ask anyone to leave. I've got no right to decide that one life is worth more or less than another."
"Then let me do it." Wheeler stood in the doorway. "That ex-con can go first."
"Shut up, Wheeler."
"You heard him talking to the cop. He's a pervert! None of us know him anyway."
"I barely know your ass," Oates barked, "and I hate you more."
"I'm not leaving." Wheeler said firmly. "I was here 'fore the troops cut and run off. I've been out there gathering food and shit so we can stay alive. But like the Rev said there's too many damn people here now. You know more are on the way, Oates — and I'm not giving this place up just because she can't say no!"
"This is my shelter." Palmer said, her voice barely above a growl. "If you don't like the way I run it, too bad."
"You're running it into the fuckin' ground."
"Then save yourself, Wheeler."
"I ain't the one leaving!!" He stamped his feet like an obstinate child. "You leave, Palmer! Go somewhere where there are still resources to be wasted on goddamn charity! These are the fuckin' badlands, sister! Those soldiers left us high and dry!"
"Then. Save. Yourself."
Oates stepped between the two of them. Though neither had made a move toward the other, threats burned in both of their eyes. Oates had never seen Palmer like this. She was fed up with Wheeler's bullshit, and so was he. "Take a walk." He told Wheeler. The other man snorted in his direction. Oates stood his ground. Wheeler finally groaned and left the doorway.