Текст книги "Anna Dressed in Blood"

Автор книги: Kendare Blake

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CHAPTER FIVE

From what I can gather, Sir Winston Churchill Collegiate & Vocational is just about like any high school I was ever at in the United States. I spent all of first period working out my schedule with the school counselor, Ms. Ben, a kindly, birdlike young woman who is destined to wear baggy turtlenecks and own too many cats.

Now, in the hallway, every set of eyes is on me. I’m new and different, but that’s not the only thing. Everyone’s eyes are on everybody, because it’s the first day of classes and people are dying to know what their classmates have turned into over the summer. There must be at least fifty makeovers and brand-new looks being tried out somewhere in the building. The pasty bookworm has bleached her hair white and is wearing a dog collar. The skinny kid from the track team has spent all of July and August lifting weights and buying tight-fitting t-shirts.

Still, people’s eyes tend to linger on me longer, because even though I’m new, I don’t move like it. I’m barely looking at the numbers of the rooms passing by. I’ll find my classes eventually, right? No reason to panic. Besides, I’m an old hand at this. I’ve been to twelve high schools in the past three years. And I’m looking for something.

I need to be plugged into the social pipeline. I need to get people talking to me, so I can ask them questions that I need answers to. So when I transfer in, I always look for the queen bee.

Every school has one. The girl who knows everything and everybody. I could go and try to insta-bond with the lead jock, I suppose, but I’ve never been good at that. My dad and I never watched sports or played catch. I can wrestle the dead all day long, but touch football might knock me unconscious. Girls, on the other hand, have always come easy. I don’t know why that is, exactly. Maybe it’s the outsider vibe and a well-placed brooding look. Maybe it’s something I think I see sometimes in the mirror, something that reminds me of my father. Or maybe I’m just damn easy on the eyes. So I scour the halls until I finally see her, smiling and surrounded by people.

There’s no mistaking her: the queen of the school is always pretty, but this one is downright beautiful. She’s got something like three feet of layered blond hair and lips the color of ripe peaches. As soon as she sees me, she dips her chin. A smile comes easily to her face. This is the girl who gets everything she wants at Winston Churchill. She’s the teacher’s pet, the homecoming queen, and party central. Everything I want to know, she could tell me. Which is what I hope she’ll do.

When I walk by, I pointedly ignore her. A few seconds later she leaves her group of friends and jumps in beside me.

“Hey. Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I just moved to town.”

She smiles again. She’s got perfect teeth and warm chocolate eyes. She is immediately disarming. “Then you’ll need some help getting acquainted. I’m Carmel Jones.”

“Theseus Cassio Lowood. What kind of a parent names their kid Carmel?”

She laughs. “What kind of a parent names their kid Theseus Cassio?”

“Hippies,” I reply.

“Exactly.”

We laugh together, and mine isn’t completely false. Carmel Jones owns this school. I can tell by the way she carries herself, like she’s never had to kneel down in her life. I can tell because of the way the crowd is flitting away like birds from a prowling cat. Just the same, she doesn’t seem haughty or entitled like many of these girls do. I show her my schedule and she notes that we have the same fourth period biology class and—even better—the same lunch hour. When she leaves me at the door of my second period, she turns back and winks at me over her shoulder.

Queen bees are just a part of the job. Sometimes that’s hard to remember.

*   *   *

At lunch, Carmel flags me down, but I don’t go over right away. I’m not here to date anyone, and I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. Still, she’s pretty hot, and I have to remind myself that all that popularity and ease has probably made her unbelievably boring. She’s too much of the daylight for me. Truth be told, so is everyone. What do you expect? I move around a lot, and spend too many late nights killing stuff. Who’s going to put up with that?

I scan the rest of the lunchroom, making a note of all the different groups and wondering which one would be most likely to lead me to Anna. The goth kids would know the story best, but they’re also the hardest to ditch. If they got the idea that I was serious about killing their ghost, I’d probably wind up doing it with a gang of black-eyeliner-wearing, crucifix-carrying, Buffy the Vampire Slayer wannabes twittering around behind me.

“Theseus!”

Shit, I forgot to tell Carmel to call me Cas. The last thing I need is for the “Theseus” thing to get around and stick. I make my way to her table, seeing eyes growing wider as I do. Ten or so other girls probably just developed instantaneous crushes on me, because they see that Carmel likes me. Or so the sociologist in my brain says.

“Hey, Carmel.”

“Hey. How are you finding SWC?”

I make a mental note never to refer to it as “SWC.”

“Not bad, thanks to your tour this morning. And by the way, most people just call me Cas.”

“Caz?”

“Yeah. But softer on the s. What do you get for lunch around here?”

“Usually we do the Pizza Hut pizza bar over there.” She gestures vaguely with her head, and I turn and glance vaguely in that direction. “So, Cas, why did you move to Thunder Bay?”

“Scenery,” I say, and smile. “Honestly, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” she says. The thought occurs to me again that Carmel Jones knows exactly how to get what she wants. But she’s also given me the opportunity to be completely frank. My mouth actually moves to form the words, Anna, I’m here for Anna, when the damn Trojan Army rolls up behind us in an assembly line of Winston Churchill Wrestling team t-shirts.

“Carmel,” one of them says. Without looking I know that he either is, or was until very recently, Carmel’s boyfriend. The way that he says her name sticks to his cheeks. From the way that Carmel reacts, with a lifting of her chin and an arch of her eyebrow, I figure that he’s more of the ex type.

“You coming out tonight?” he asks, completely ignoring me. I watch him with amusement. There’s a blue light special on territorial jocks in aisle four.

“What’s tonight?” I ask.

“The annual Edge of the World party.” Carmel rolls her eyes skyward. “Something we’ve been doing forever, on the night of the first day of school.”

Well, forever, or at least since The Rules of Attraction was released.

“Sounds cool,” I say. The Neanderthal behind me can no longer be ignored, so I put my hand out and introduce myself.

Only the dickiest of dicks would refuse to shake my hand. And I have just met the dickiest of dicks. He nods his head at me and says, “What’s up.” He doesn’t introduce himself back, but Carmel does.

“This is Mike Andover.” She gestures to the others. “And Chase Putnam, and Simon Parry, and Will Rosenberg.”

They all nod at me like total assholes except for Will Rosenberg, who shakes my hand. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem like a complete douche. He wears his letter jacket loose and with his shoulders hunched like he’s sort of ashamed of it. Or at least ashamed of its present company.

“So, are you coming, or what?”

“I don’t know,” Carmel replies. She sounds annoyed. “I’ll have to see.”

“We’ll be at the falls around ten,” he says. “Let me know if you need a ride.” When he leaves, Carmel sighs.

“What are they talking about? The falls?” I ask, feigning interest.

“The party is at Kakabeka Falls. Every year it moves around, to keep the cops off. Last year it was at Trowbridge Falls, but everybody freaked out when—” She pauses.

“When what?”

“Nothing. Just a bunch of ghost stories.”

Could I be this lucky? Usually I’m a week in before there’s a convenient segue into haunting talk. It’s not exactly the easiest thing to bring up.

“I love ghost stories. In fact, I’m dying for a good ghost story.” I move to sit down across from her and lean forward on my elbows. “And I do need someone to show me around the Thunder Bay nightlife.”

She looks directly into my eyes. “We can take my car. Where do you live?”

*   *   *

Someone is following me. The sensation is so acute that I can actually feel my eyes try to slip through my skull and part the hair on the back of my head. I’m too proud to turn around—I’ve been through too much scary shit to be put off by any human attacker. There’s also the slight chance that I’m just being paranoid. But I don’t think so. There’s something back there, and it’s something that’s still breathing, which makes me uneasy. The dead have simple motives: hate, pain, and confusion. They kill you because it’s the only thing they have left to do. The living have needs, and whoever is following me wants something of me or mine. That makes me nervous.

Stubbornly, I stare ahead, taking extra long pauses and being sure to wait for the walk signals at every intersection. In my head I’m thinking that I’m an idiot for putting off buying a new car, and wondering where I could hang out for a few hours to regroup and avoid being followed home. I stop and strip my leather backpack from my shoulder and dig around inside until my hand is clutching the sheath that holds my athame. This is pissing me off.

I’m passing by a cemetery, some sad, Presbyterian thing that isn’t well-kept, the grave markers adorned with lifeless flowers and ribbons torn by the wind and stained dark with mud. Near me, one of the headstones lies on the ground, fallen down dead just like the person buried underneath it. For all its sadness, it’s also quiet, and unchanging, and it calms me a little. There’s a woman standing in the center, an old widow, staring down at her husband’s grave marker. Her wool coat hangs stiff on her shoulders and there’s a thin handkerchief tied beneath her chin. I’m so caught up in whoever was following me that it takes me a minute to realize that she’s wearing a wool coat in August.

There’s a hitch in my throat. She turns her head at the noise and I can see, even from here, that she doesn’t have any eyes. Just a set of gray stones where her eyes used to be, and yet we stare at each other, unblinking. The wrinkles in her cheeks are so deep they could have been drawn in black marker. She must have a story. Some disturbing tale of woe that gave her stones for eyes and brings her back to stare at what I now suspect is her own body. But right now I’m being followed. I don’t have time for this.

I flip open my backpack and pull my knife out by the handle, showing just a flash of the blade. The old woman draws her lips back and opens her teeth in a silent hiss. Then she backs away, sinking slowly into the ground as she does, and the effect is something like watching someone wave from an escalator. I feel no fear, just a bleak embarrassment that it took me so long to notice she was dead. She might have tried to give me a scare had she gotten close enough, but she’s not the kind of ghost that kills. If I had been anyone else, I might not have even noticed her. But I’m tuned in to these things.

“Me too.”

I jump at the voice, right at my shoulder. There’s a kid standing beside me, been standing there for god knows how long. He’s got ragged black hair and black-rimmed glasses, a skinny, lanky body hidden under clothes that don’t fit right. I feel like I recognize him from school. He nods toward the cemetery.

“Some scary old lady, huh?” he says. “Don’t worry. She’s harmless, here three days a week at least. And I can only read minds when people are thinking about something really hard.” He smiles out of one half of his mouth. “But I get the feeling that you’re always thinking really hard.”

I hear a thump from somewhere nearby and realize that I’ve let go of my athame. The thump that I heard was the sound of it hitting the bottom of my backpack. I know he’s the one who was following me, and it’s a relief to have been right. At the same time, I find the prospect of his being telepathic disorienting.

I’ve known telepaths before. Some of my dad’s friends were telepathic to varying degrees. Dad said it was useful. I think it’s mostly creepy. The first time I met his friend Jackson, who I’m now quite fond of, I lined the inside of my baseball cap with tinfoil. What? I was five. I thought it would work. But I don’t happen to have a baseball cap or any foil handy right now, so I try to think softly … whatever the hell that means.

“Who are you?” I ask. “Why are you following me?”

And then I know. He’s the one who tipped off Daisy. Some telepathic kid who wanted in on some action. How else would he know to follow me? How else would he know who I am? He was waiting. Waiting for me to hit school, like some freaky snake in the grass.

“Wanna get something to eat? I’m starving. I haven’t been following you very long. My car’s right up the street.” He turns around and walks off, the frayed ends of his jeans scraping along the sidewalk in a little shuffle. He walks like a dog that’s been kicked, head low and hands stuffed into his pockets. I don’t know where he picked up his dusty green jacket, but I suspect it was from the Army surplus store I passed a few blocks back.

“I’ll explain everything when we get there,” he says over his shoulder. “Come on.”

I don’t know why I follow, but I do.

*   *   *

He drives a Ford Tempo. It’s about six different shades of gray and sounds like a very angry kid pretending to drive a motorboat in the bathtub. The place that he takes me to is a little joint called The Sushi Bowl, which looks like absolute crap from the outside, but inside it’s not too bad. The waitress asks if we’d rather be seated traditional or regular. I glance around and see some low tables with mats and pillows around them.

“Regular,” I say quickly, before Army Surplus Psycho can pipe up. I’ve never eaten anything perched on my knees before, and just now I’d rather not look as awkward as I feel. After I tell the kid that I’ve never eaten sushi, he orders for us, which does nothing to help me shake the feeling of disorientation. It’s like I’m trapped in one of those omniscient dreams where you just watch yourself do stupid shit, yelling at yourself about how stupid it is, and your dream-self just keeps doing what it’s doing anyway.

The kid across the table is smiling like an idiot. “Saw you with Carmel Jones today,” he says. “You don’t waste any time.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Just to help.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“You already had it.” He hunkers lower as the food arrives, two plates of circular mystery, one deep fried and the other covered in small orange dots. “Try some,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Philadelphia roll.”

I eye the plate skeptically. “What’s that orange stuff?”

“Cod roe.”

“What the hell is cod roe?”

“Cod eggs.”

“No thanks.” I’m so glad there’s a McDonald’s across the street. Fish eggs. Who the hell is this kid?

“I’m Thomas Sabin.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Sorry.” He grins. “It’s just that you’re so easy sometimes. I know it’s rude. And seriously, I can’t do it all the time.” He stuffs an entire circle of fish egg–encrusted raw fish into his mouth. I try not to inhale while he chews. “But I have helped you already. The Trojan Army, remember? When those guys came up behind you today. Who do you think sent that to you? I gave you the heads-up. You’re welcome.”

The Trojan Army. That’s what I thought when Mike and Co. walked up behind me at lunch. But now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I’d thought that. The only view I’d had of them had been out of the corner of my eye. The Trojan Army. The kid had put the thought in my head so smoothly, like a note dropped onto the floor in a conspicuous place.

Now he’s going on about how it isn’t easy to send things like that, how it had given him a bit of a nosebleed to do it. He sounds like he thinks he’s my own little guardian angel or something.

“What should I be thanking you for? Being witty? You put your personal judgment into my head. Now I have to go around wondering if I thought those guys were douche bags because I really thought so, or just because you thought so first.”

“Trust me, you’d agree. And you really shouldn’t be talking to Carmel Jones. At least, not yet. She just broke up with Mike the Meathead Andover last week. And he’s been known to hit people with his car just for ogling her while she’s in the passenger seat.”

I don’t like this kid. He’s presumptuous. And yet, he’s earnest and well-meaning, which softens me a little. If he’s listening to what I’m thinking, I’m going to slash his tires.

“I don’t need your help,” I say. I wish I didn’t have to watch him eat anymore. But the fried stuff doesn’t look too bad, and it kind of smells okay.

“I think you do. You’ve noticed I’m a little bit strange. You moved here what, seventeen days ago?”

I nod numbly. It was seventeen days ago exactly that we pulled into Thunder Bay.

“I thought so. For the past seventeen days, I’ve had the worst psychic headache of my life. The kind that actually throbs and makes a home behind my left eye. Makes everything smell like salt. It’s only now that we’re talking that it’s going away.” He wipes his mouth, gets serious all of a sudden. “It’s hard to believe, but you’ve got to. I only get these headaches when something bad is going to happen. And it’s never been this bad before.”

I lean back and sigh. “Just what do you think you’re going to help me with? Who do you think I am?” Sure, I think I know the answers to these questions already, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check. And besides, I feel at a complete disadvantage, totally off my game. I’d feel better if I could stop this infernal interior monologue. Maybe I should just vocalize everything. Or constantly think in images: kitten playing with ball of yarn, hot-dog vendor on street corner, hot-dog vendor holding kitten.

Thomas wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “That’s a nifty piece of hardware you’ve got in your bag there,” he says. “Old Mrs. Dead-Eyes seemed pretty impressed by it.” He snaps his chopsticks together and picks up a piece of the deep-fried stuff, then shoves it into his mouth. As he chews, he talks, and I wish he wouldn’t. “So I’d say you’re some kind of ghost-slayer. And I know you’re here for Anna.”

I should probably ask what he knows. But I don’t. I don’t want to talk to him anymore. He already knows too much about me.

Fucking Daisy Bristol. I’m going to tear him a new one, sending me here where there’s a telepathic tagalong lying in wait, and he didn’t even warn me.

Looking at Thomas Sabin now, there’s a cocky little smirk on his pale face. He pushes his glasses up on his nose in a gesture so quick and easy I can tell he does it often. There’s so much confidence in those shifty blue eyes; he could never be convinced that his psychic intuition was wrong. And who knows how much he’s been able to read out of my mind.

Impulsively, I pluck a deep-fried circle of fish off of the platter and pop it into my mouth. There’s some kind of sweet and savory sauce on it. It’s surprisingly good, heavy and chewy. But I’m still not touching the fish eggs. I’ve had enough of this. If I can’t make him believe I’m not who he says I am, I at least have to throw him off his cocky horse and send him packing.

I knit my brows in an expression of puzzlement.

“Anna who?” I say.

He blinks, and when he starts to sputter I lean forward on my elbows. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, Thomas,” I say. “I appreciate the tip. But there is no cavalry, and I am not recruiting. Do you understand?” And then, before he can protest, I think hard, I think of every grisly thing I’ve ever done, the myriad of ways I’ve seen things bleed and burn and twist apart. I send him Peter Carver’s eyes exploding in their sockets. I send him the County 12 Hiker, bleeding black ooze, the skin pulling dry and tight to his bones.

It’s like I’ve hit him in the face. His head actually rocks back and sweat immediately begins to bead on his forehead and upper lip. He swallows, the lump of his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. I think the poor kid might actually lose his sushi.

He doesn’t protest when I call for the bill.