Cinder (5 page)

Sighing at my craziness, I return to the kitchen and start to clean up. “You say that you’ll only tell me about my father when you get what you want from me,” I try to speak to Cameron again as I scrub down the countertops with a dish rag. “But what exactly do you want from me?”

I wait for him to answer, but he never does and the silence only adds emptiness to the house. Deciding I need to hear an actual living person’s voice, I cross the kitchen and collect my cellphone from the table. Then I go over to the note beside the sink and get the phone number to the clinic my mom’s at. I dial the number and the secretary answers after three rings.

“Hi, can I speak to Rose Lawson,” I ask, sitting down at the table.

“And who may I ask is calling?” she responds in an automated tone.

“Ember Edwards,” I tell her and then, since we don’t have the same last name, I add, “her daughter.”

She pauses and I hear keyboard keys clicking. “Just one moment, please.”

There’s a ringing in the background, overlapped by the sound of voices, as I silently wait. Moments later, the secretary says, “I’m sorry, but Rose Lawson checked out last Friday.”

“That’s impossible.” I press my fingertips to my nose, feeling a headache emerging. “That was over five days ago and she hasn’t come home yet. Can you please check again?”

She tells me she will, but I can tell she’s just tolerating me. When she gets back on the line, she tells me the same thing and I hang up without saying good-bye. I have no idea what else to do besides call Ian. But his phone sends me straight to voicemail and I hang up, feeling helpless, clutching my phone in my hand as I lower my head.

I breathe in and out, telling myself that it’s okay. That my mom probably just decided she wasn’t going to come home because she doesn’t want to be around me, which is highly possible and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Still, I can’t help wondering if she left of her own freewill, or did something happen to her? I need to find that out, so I go up to the computer and search the internet for any suspicious headlines, like maybe an unidentified body of a woman. It’s sort of a messed up place to start, but since there’s been a lot of murders lately, I have to go there first. Thankfully, nothing turns up. I could call the police, but I doubt that’d go over well. She’s an adult. I’m crazy. End of discussion.

I start to head up to my room, when I hear the front door creak open. I pause, waiting for the sound of footsteps or a voice, but all I hear it the wind. Slowly, I go into the foyer again. The door is wide open and leaves are blowing in across the floor. There’s no one in there though. No one out on the porch. I stick my head outside and there doesn’t seem to be a single soul in sight.

“That’s weird,” I say, shutting the door, confused as I turn for the stairs.

That’s when I hear the
swish
.

Seconds later something flies over my head, getting so close it brushes against my hair. I duck, throwing my arms over my head as a dark mass circles around and does it again, this time going through me. A cold chill soars through my body, like it did the night the book was stolen, and I drop flat on my stomach on the hard floor. It feels like the wind is knocked out of me as I flip over, catching my breath, trying to scream, even though there’s a good chance no one will hear me.

But as my lips part the shadow swoops straight up and then plunges straight at me, a black mass ready to devour me. I open my mouth to scream again, but the air is sucked from my lungs. I hear a voice as it nears, one I swear I’ve heard before, but can’t place.

“You better watch what you do,” the shadow whispers, nearing me. “We’re everywhere.”

Then it disappears, right before it hits me.

I lie on the ground, stunned as I stare up at the ceiling stained with water spots. “What the hell was that?” I ask, breathing loudly

You’re being stalked.
Cameron’s voice rises in my head again. 

“By what?” I ask as I sit up, my body aching in protest.

By a Reaper,
he says.
I’m not sure who it is though.

I clutch onto the wall as I get to my feet. “Sure you aren’t.”

I’m not,
Cameron snaps.
I might be a Reaper, but I sure as hell don’t know all the Reapers or what they’re all doing. Your guess is as good as mine who that was and why they appeared so suddenly.

“It wasn’t suddenly,” I say. “They were here an about a week ago too.”

And you didn’t tell me because…

“Because you’re you.” I get my balance and trudge toward the stairway.

Ha, ha, you’re hilarious.
He pauses.
So when the shadow was here last time, did it do anything to you?

I shake my head as I start up the stairs. “No, it just dove at me and then stole a book from me. Honestly, I sort of thought it was you.”

Well it wasn’t. And I really wish you’d mentioned this sooner.

I pause at the top of the stairway. “Why?”

Because it seems you have a Reaper stalker on your hands.

“Like you?” I ask sarcastically.

I’m not stalking you. I merely see something I want and refuse to give up until I have it.

“Which will be never,” I say, turning down the hallway. “So you might as well give up now.”

He doesn’t respond. I wait until I enter my room before I repeat what I said. I never get an answer and eventually the silence gets to me, along with the fear of being stalked and the fear of having a Reaper live inside my head. I decide to go to school because it’s better than sitting around in a quiet house again, waiting for my shadow stalker to return again. Then, on my way home I can check out the clinic and the streets for my mom. I gather my backpack from my room and then head out the door, hoping upon hope that this isn’t going to turn out like my dad.

I drive to school in my mom’s car, cranking up the music because it’s the only thing that will block out the dark thoughts in my head and the quiet around me. I thrum my fingers on top of the steering wheel to the beat as I drive up the highway, focusing on the road instead of the dead people walking up and down the streets. There are more of them today; I spot at least five. I have no clue if they’re people who died here or if the Anamotti are scrounging for puppets elsewhere.

There’s also a lot more living people out and about today. Usually, I only pass maybe six or seven, but I spot three crowds, plus ten individuals just on the main strip of town. The growing population only rises when I arrive at the school and almost every parking spot is taken. Finally, I find one at the back, near the road, and maneuver my car into it.

I haven’t been a fan of school at all lately. Never have been, even before the entire town thought I was a killer. So when I get ready to climb out of my car and my gut churns, I think it’s caused by my usual loathing towards school. When I make it across the parking lot and to the school yard, I realize something’s off. People are filing in and out of the school entrance in a perfect line, their attention straight ahead on the person in front of them. They all move together in sync, taking steps together. It’s not the entire population of the school, but it’s enough people that I notice it.

I swing the hand of my bag over my shoulder and hike across the grass underneath the shedding trees towards the entrance, pink and orange leaves covering the browning grass. My eyes are fixed on the people in line along with others wandering around who seem a little out of it, like they have no real direction. When I pass by one guy with long legs and broad shoulders, his gaze catches with mine and I swear to God his eyes briefly glow, but it’s just a flash and then he’s turning around to head off in the direction of the west entrance.

I grow nervous with each step, especially when I pass by a few dead people roaming around, watching me with faint smiles. I keep my attention straight on the door, ignoring the rest of the looks I can feel boring into me. I tell myself that it’s just my imagination, which feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told myself. By the time I enter the school, I’m sweating and anxious.

Things only get worse when I pass the line forming from outside that weaves around through the columns of the quad and to the main office. Heads turn in my direction, one by one. Eyes lock on me, filled with hatred, like I’m some foul creature they want to get rid of.

Crap. This is bad.

The only thing I have going for me is that no one has yet to make a move on me and there’s no way I’m sticking around to find out if they’re going to. I pick up my pace, heading towards where I entered, deciding that leaving is the best decision. However I slow down in the center of the quad when Mr. Morgan approaches me. He’s in his mid-forties, with chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes. He’s wearing tan cargo pants and a red polo shirt smeared with charcoal, paint, and clay. He’s also Asher’s uncle, at least, if what Asher told me was the truth.

“Hey Ember,” he says with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “How’s it going today?”

I pretend it’s not weird at all that he’s approaching me. “Good, I guess.”

He smiles, but I can tell it’s forced. Then he discreetly glances around the school, his attention lingering on the line before he returns his attention to me. “Look, could you meet me in my classroom for a moment? I’d like to discuss a project with you.”

Project? Um, what?
I’m about to ask him what he’s talking about when he aims me with an urgent glance. “It’s a project Asher was supposed to turn into me, but I haven’t seen him in a while so I wanted to talk to you about it.”

I slowly catch on. The fact that the entire school seems to be under some sort of trance makes me wary to go anywhere with anyone, yet as I examine him over, attempting to see if his eyes are glowing like the others, he looks normal. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any visible wounds on him or other signs that he’s part of the undead

“Okay, yeah. Sure... but I need to hurry because I have class.”
Because I need to get the hell out of here.

He nods and then turns for the hallway between two columns, motioning for me to follow him. For a moment it looks like a shadow is tailing him, but as soon as I blink it’s gone. So I keep walking, more attention draws to us as we weave through the crowd. I’m trying my hardest to keep from touching anyone, but a lot of them seem to be determined to touch me, slamming their shoulders against mine, stepping on my toes, their deaths smothering me.
Blood fills the streets. They all lie dead. A cloud covers the town.

One foot in front of the other. Breathe. Eyes drift in my direction and some notably glow all around me. I have this gut-wrenching feeling that I’m being watched by something more than just their eyes.

I hold my breath the entire journey and only breathe freely again when we’re hidden in his classroom with the door shut behind us. He seems to feel the same way as well, since he lets out a loud exhale the moment the door clicks shut.

“Jesus, things are getting intense,” he says, turning around and leaning against the shut door.

I don’t respond, looking around the vacant room with art on the walls, bare easels and paint supplies everywhere. I can’t stop my mind from wandering to thoughts of Asher and the first time we came so close to kissing in here.

“Are you okay?” Mr. Morgan asks.

I stand near the tables and face him. “Yeah,” I reply with hesitancy. “Although I’d like to know why you wanted to talk to me in here because I’m guessing it’s not about a project.”

He stands up straight. “No, it’s not.” He takes a cautious step forward. “Tell me, how have you been doing through all this?”

I shift uneasily, noting that he’s positioned himself between me and the door. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

He points over his shoulder at the door. “The whole town going… well, a little berserk.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed things are a little…” I search for the correct word that would best describe the madness. “Strange.”

“Strange might be a bit of an understatement. It’s like they’ve been taken over by some sort of…” He trails off, shaking his head. “And there are the murders and the strange disappearances.”

I’m wary to say anything. We’ve barely exchanged more than twenty words and now suddenly he’s talking to me about the fact that the school looks like it’s been taken over by pod people.

He sighs when I don’t answer him right away. “Look, Ember, I know we haven’t really talked, but I’d like to help you the best that I can. I know you’re friends with Asher. And I know you’re important to him.”

I wonder if he knows I’m a Grim Angel. If he’s an Angel himself. I eye him over, deliberating if I can trust him or not, at least enough to ask. Then I come to the conclusion that it doesn’t really matter. If he’s after me, then he’s already got me trapped. If he’s not and just thinks I’m crazy, then he can be one more person I add to the list.

“Are you… are you…”
God, please don’t think I’m crazy
. “Are you an Angel of Death, too?”

He shakes his head, not startled. A good sign. “I wouldn’t be able to help you if I was, but I do know about them—Angels and Reapers.
You
.”

“Because Asher told you?”

He considers something very carefully. “More or less.”

There’s more to it than what he’s telling me. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that he’s probably not going to tell me because he either can’t or wants to keep his secrets. “You said you were going to help me,” I say. “But how exactly? And from what?”

His attention strays over my shoulder as he picks a chunk of clay off his shirt. “I’m going to help you the only way I know how, by giving you some advice.” He looks at me and when our eyes fasten, fear pulsates through me. I don’t know where it stems from, whether he’s scared and I’m sensing it, or if he’s simply scaring me. “Have you ever heard of something called a
ambulate umbra
?”

“No… why?”

He yanks his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up. Then someone bangs on the door and moments later a face appears in the small window at the top. Their eyes are bleeding, seeping out like rain and splattering across the glass. I glance back and forth between the dead person and the Mr., wondering if he can see it, but he continues on with the conversation, unbothered.

“The problem is, I have no idea where it is…” He keeps talking, his hand falling to the side, his brows dipping together. “Or who even has it.”

I hitch my finger under the handle of my bag, adjusting it higher on my shoulder as I watch him pace back and forth in front me. “What is it exactly?” My eyes widen as the door creaks open and the dead person enters the classroom, glancing around at the art on the wall with a perplexed look.

Again, Mr. Morgan seems oblivious. His forehead creases and then scurries over to his desk. “How about I show you,” he says as he opens his desk drawer. He retrieves a pencil and paper from the drawer and starts sketching while the dead girl just stares at me. There is a mark on her neck like a rope burn, the tips of her hair stained with blood. As I look closer, I recognize her features as one of the girls I saw in the newspaper; one that was murdered a week ago, her body found near the forest.

“Help me,” she says in a haunting hollow voice as she stares at me with a distant expression. “Help us… free us from the pain. He’s got our souls trapped, Ember. And he plans on trapping a lot more and then destroying us all.”

I want to ask her what she’s talking about, but what about Mr. Morgan? What would he say if I started talking aloud? If I told him I could see the dead?

Debating what to do, I start to open my mouth, deciding that looking insane might be worth the risk to find out what’s going on. But as soon as my lips part, she disappears, vanishing into thin air without so much as a sound.

“I’m much better at drawing what I mean than trying to explain it,” Mr. Morgan continues to talk, while I stare at the spot where the girl vanished.

He’s
got people’s souls trapped? Like someone is stealing souls and keeping them? Or is it something different? And who’s he?

As my thoughts keep racing, Mr. Morgan glides the pencil effortlessly across the paper. He makes one last stroke then drops the pencil down on the desk before holding up the drawing. My jaw just about hits the floor, but I smash my lips together to conceal my shock. It’s a drawing that looks almost identical to my grandmother’s necklace; the one Cameron has and swears my Grandmother stole from him. The problem is, I have no idea what the color of it is, so I can’t be one-hundred percent certain.

A warning goes off inside me not to utter that I know where or what it is. “So it’s a necklace,” I state the obvious.

He nods and hands me the drawing. “It’s believed to have the blood of the original leader of the Grim Reapers, Altarius Vinceton. He created it to protect himself from his own kind, making it out of Chrysoprase and sealing it with the blood of himself, which was the more powerful of the two elements so it made the green in the Chrysoprase turn a dark red.”

Dark red.
I stare at the drawing, the lines forming a near replica of the necklace I once owned.
It has to be my grandmother’s necklace.
“But why would this Altarius guy need to protect himself from the Reapers if he was the leader of them? Wouldn’t that make him the boss?”

“If only things were that easy,” he tells me. “If being the leader meant you never had to worry about anything, but unfortunately for Altarius, he knew the evil within himself and therefore understood the evil that lay in Reapers, all of them. No matter what they tell you.”

What a convenient little story he’s got going on here.
The abrupt reappearance of Cameron’s voice startles me so badly that I jump.