The blood turned into a door that glowed with ugly green light at the seams. Anya dropped the stone from her eye as it swung open.
The boy disappeared, and the light turned into the warm golden lamplight of home. As Anya walked through the door, she could feel the faintest brush of her half-brother, stepping past her into the land of Death.
Then she was standing in her father’s house, alive and alone, and Death didn’t feel cheated because she’d traded a life for her own. She lifted the stone to her eye just long enough to peep through at the boy standing in her place in Death’s green light, his face terrified, before putting it into her pocket.
She went to the kitchen and ate spoonfuls of honey, ripped up fistfuls of meat, and let wine run down her chin.
Then she climbed the stairs to her father’s bedroom, where he lay sleeping next to his wife. She felt the bone knife twitching where it lay against her breast.
She didn’t cut his throat. She cut his wife’s. And she lay the stone in the dead woman’s hand, where her father would be sure to find it. And lift it to his eye, to see the dead world that awaited him, and the son who would call to him, always, but whom he could never retrieve.
17
As Finch spoke, I stared into the woods. His voice was soft and soporific, relaying distant horrors.
The light began like a trick. He spoke about the sisters walking through their blood door, and I blinked, blinked again, but I couldn’t blink it away: a thin line of white, like the trail of a sparkler pinned between tree trunks. When Finch finished the story, I put a hand to the glass.
“Do you see that?”
He leaned over, peering past me to where the ghost light wavered. “Is that another jogger?” he murmured.
As I made room for him, my elbow hit the power window button. The glass whirred down a few inches, letting in a scent like smoke and metal.
Like fire and blood.
A heady flash of déjà vu froze me in my seat. Chicago. Ella’s scream. White light.
“Finch, drive. Drive, drive, drive!”
He slammed the car into gear and squealed onto the road. “What happened? What is it?”
Chicago. Ella’s scream. White light and a smell like death. A girl’s narrow fingers curling around the edge of a door.
“Nothing! I don’t know. Just … just drive. Okay?”
He stopped asking. A few miles down the road he followed signs for a rest stop. After we parked I followed him out of the car, leaning against the pump as he bought gas, then trailing after him into the greasy warmth of a McDonald’s.
“No more story time,” he said lightly. “It’s not doing either of us any good.”
“Stop talking.” I said it without heat, around a bite of cheeseburger. My mind was miles away, in the chill of a Chicago winter. The memories were coming faster now.
I’d been heel-toeing along the back of the couch like a tightrope walker. Until I fell, my chin catching the corner of our cheap glass coffee table on the way down.
There was blood. Lots of it. So much I thought I must be remembering wrong.
Then the memories fell apart into snapshots. Ella pressing a towel to my chin, using another to mop up the blood. The sudden light, the awful smell.
And the screaming. The shock of vicious cold as Ella carried me out the back door, shoeless and dripping blood in a dotted line.
We’d left everything behind. I’d needed stitches, but we didn’t stop at a hospital until we reached Madison.
What had we been running from?
Back at the car, I got into the driver’s seat before Finch could.
He looked in at me through the passenger window. “Are you okay to drive?”
I gave him a look, and he put his hands up. “Fine with me, I’ll sleep. Google Maps says three more hours to Birch. Drive straight through and find a motel?”
“Sounds good. Let’s look for something that’s not too close to the woods.”
The driving steadied me, gave me something to focus on, but I was still spooked. Our headlights ate up and spat out the dark as I strained to see past them, like whatever it was we were chasing might be just beyond my sight.
Around eleven, we were still an hour away. Finch was curled into an impossible ball on the passenger seat, eyes closed. Finally I saw something: the distant embers of road flares.
“Hey. Wake up.”
“I am awake,” he said, muffled, then lifted his head like a turtle and blinked at the road. “Is that an accident?”
“I don’t know.”
As we got closer, the bleached shape of a policeman swam into view, a flare in each hand. I pulled up next to him and stopped.
He ducked his head down and peered into Finch’s window. He was wearing aviators nearly identical to mine. Combined with his mustache, they looked like a disguise. “You all need to turn around. Road’s closed for the foreseeable.”
“What happened?” I asked, peering through my windshield. I could see two cop cars and a handful of officers scattered between them. One was talking into a radio, holding it like an MC holds a microphone. Beyond them was a white SUV, half-on, half-off the road.
“Accident.” His voice was clipped, a shade below civil.
I flipped off my headlights to get a better look. The SUV’s doors were open, all four of them. There was a hump of something on the road beside it that made my throat go dry. But it was too small to be a person. A jacket, maybe.
“Car looks okay,” I said. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Sweetheart, I’m gonna need you to turn around now.”
“Sweetheart?”
The cop chewed on something, gum or the inside of his cheek. “Son, please tell your girlfriend to turn her lights back on and turn the car around, before I write her up.” His voice was mechanical, the metallic eyes of his shades pointed toward Finch.
The feeling started in my cheeks, like it always did, and flooded my skin with cold fire. “You can talk to me,” I said. “I’m right here. Or were you under the impression that a woman can’t follow a simple command?”
“Alice.” Finch put a hand on my arm, and I shook it off. It was too late to count to ten.
“Just because we’re in whatever shitstain town is under your jurisdiction, it doesn’t mean you get to act like I’m a baby. How dare you treat me like a fuckin’ housewife!”
For a minute the cop stared at me, a muscle bouncing in his cheek. When he pulled down his shades, the eyes behind them were irritable and brown. Human. “You kiss your mother with that mouth? We’re in the middle of something here, I don’t have time for your shit. Turn on your headlights and go.” He straightened and walked back a few paces, flares hanging at his sides.
I stayed put for a moment, unspent adrenaline sending a dying glitter through my limbs, until Finch leaned over and punched the headlights back on.
“Turn around,” he said. “For fuck’s sake!”
I glared at him. “What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?”
The feeling of knowing you’re being an asshole is as bad as feeling wronged, but without the satisfaction. I turned the car around hard and fast, screeching over the grass on the opposite side of the road. “What are you talking about?” I said through gritted teeth.