Where Silence Gathers

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

Where Silence Gathers
© 2014 by Kelsey Sutton.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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First e-book edition ©2014

E-book ISBN: 9780738742373

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Ellen Lawson
Cover image: “Reaching for Clouds”/©Brooke Shaden Photography

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Acknowledgments

It turns out that writing a second book isn't any easier than writing the first. First thanks must once again go to my agent, Beth Miller, although I'm fairly certain she's a superhero in disguise. Her patience and dedication are definitely not human.

To the entire team at Flux: Brian Farrey-Latz, for his guidance and continuing faith in me. Mallory Hayes, for being just as enthusiastic the second time around about getting the word out. Sandy Sullivan, for her sharp eyes and determination to get the story absolutely perfect. Ellen Lawson, for yet another gorgeous cover. And everyone else who worked on this that I never got the chance to meet. I'm eternally grateful to you all.

To my critique partners and cheerleaders: Stefanie Gaither, Gabrielle Carolina, Amber Hart, Tanya Loiselle, Tessa Edevold, and Bailey Hammond. These women urged me on and listened to every question or problem I brought to them. What would I do without you?

To all my fellow students, who went to so many of my events and encouraged me during the deadline crunch: Jordan Shearer, Joe Stusynski, Devan Bierbrauer, Mark Duret, Andrea Nadeau, Zach Hanson, Meagan Brault, Sarah Barott, Dezaray Thoen, Matt Lavrenz, Morgan Bartlett, and Tia Massar. Even when the time comes to part ways, I know this group will come back together again.

To my professors themselves, for being yet another support system: Larry Swain, Carol Ann Russell, Lauren Cobb, Maureen Gibbon, Jeanette Lukowski, and Rose Weaver. I can't thank you enough for letting me barge into your offices every other day.

To my Caribou crew, for reminding me to laugh in the midst of writing such a solemn book and having such enthusiasm for this world I've created: Grace Slaubaugh, Randi Georges, Liz Burnard, Becca Johnson, Katie Ogden, Liscia Oines, Tiffany Pierce, Mikaela Boyd, and Hana Kim. Someday I'll put your names in a book, like we're always discussing!

To all of my friends and readers online: Your passion for these characters is what pushed me to finish their stories.

And last but not least, to my incredible family, for being there every step of the way. Thank you.

For my grandparents, Lyle and Corby,
who have shown me by example how to
face down the difficult choices.

One

Revenge finds me on the bridge.

He sits down just as I finish my uncle's bottle of rum. His legs dangle off the edge. I don't look at him, and for a few minutes neither of us says a word. Plumes of air leave my mouth with every breath. It's still too cold for crickets, so the night is utterly silent. If I listen hard enough, I can almost hear the stars whispering to each other. Cruel, biting whispers.

“Saul's not going to be happy with me,” I finally slur, watching moonlight quiver over the creek. “He didn't even try to hide this, because he trusts me. But you know, if he
had
hidden it, I can find anything! Anything, I tell you!” I lift my finger in the air and almost topple over. Revenge doesn't reach to steady me. That's one of his rules, after all: no touching. I giggle, reaching for the bottle again. Oh, right. Empty.

There's a pause, and then Revenge turns his head to look at me. “I like the eyebrow ring.”

I touch the silver loop, almost surprised. I'd completely forgotten about it. Now I notice the pain. “Georgie did it for me earlier.”

My friend studies it for a moment, then faces the water again. “There are better ways to deal with this, you know,” he tells me. His usual grin is missing, which means that something is wrong. Swaying, I give him a questioning look. He shrugs. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Screw that. Tell me.”

A few more seconds pass, and I start to think he's ignoring me. He doesn't take his attention off the water. Then, suddenly, his gaze meets mine. Revenge's eyes always manage to make me feel things, no matter how much I try to pretend otherwise. Some days they're hazel, some days they're green. Once in a while, like now, they're a mesmeric emerald. Tonight, though, it's his words that are the most powerful.

“They let him out today, Alex,” Revenge says.

Instantly I open my mouth to ask who he means. Then comprehension slams into me with all the force of a hangover and my spine goes rigid. “No. No. He's not supposed to be out for another—”

“He was released on good behavior. He's already home.”

I lurch to my feet without hesitation, scraping my palms in the process. My car is parked just a few feet away. Revenge doesn't protest, doesn't help, doesn't encourage me. He just follows.

“That's where you were today, wasn't it?” I mutter, struggling to open the door. “I bet you're loving this.”

There it is, the thorn that's always made our friendship bleed. Once again Revenge doesn't answer, so I get in. After a moment he follows, tucking his body inside and somehow managing to make it look graceful. His hair glints, the color of spilled blood.

The keys are in the ignition. Revenge knows better than to offer to drive, so as I struggle with the gear—forgetting that I haven't started the car yet—he just settles into the passenger seat and waits. Usually I can't get him to shut up. His voice is a constant sound in my ears, at school, at home, with my friends. Everything is different now; the dynamic has shifted.

He's excited.

There's an animation to his expression that's never been there before. His time has come. My jaw clenches as I finally start the car.
I'm not ready for this, I'm not ready for this.
The engine whines into the stillness, but I don't move. Seconds pass and I think of another night, another drunken mistake. “You have to drive,” I finally mutter.

The Emotion—it's not quite what he is, but I don't know what else to call him—grins. As I climb back out and circle the car, he slides behind the wheel. Before my door has even shut completely, Revenge slams onto the gas. The tires squeal. He can't hold back a loud whoop.

Resentment appears in the backseat, a bald Emotion who talks almost as much as Revenge. Yet now he just touches my shoulder, sending his essence burning through me, and vanishes. They know, they all know, that something is happening.

I'm clenching my fists so hard it hurts. Nails. I haven't clipped my nails lately. “It's too hot,” I say through my teeth. As a response, Revenge leans over me to hit the window button. His familiar scent teases my senses: chocolate. I adore-despise it. “Get off me.”

Those green eyes gleam in response. “It could all be over tonight,” he murmurs, leaning closer than he ever has before. The car swerves, nearly hitting a tree. It doesn't even faze him; he just corrects us. “I'll help you, Alex.”

“I don't need your help,” I hiss. The road lines keep flying past, white blurs, and it's so disorienting.

“Come on. Who are you talking to?”

“I
thought
I was talking to my best friend. But I keep forgetting what you are.” I laugh bitterly. “Ironic, right? Forgetting something like that?”

At this, Revenge's expression darkens and he leans away. Which is exactly what I wanted: him to feel as unsettled as me. Still smiling tightly, I focus on the signs, knowing that the turn is coming up. The house we're looking for is two towns over from Franklin, an hour away if we drive fast. And we are. So fast that it almost feels like I'm leaving everything behind. Almost.

That's what I like about Revenge most, I think. He doesn't feel the need to slow down; he thrives on the speed just as much as I do. With the taste of rum in my mouth and the sting of remembrance in my heart, I set my sights on the man who killed my family.

I lose track of how much time passes. The glowing numbers on the dashboard don't exist; there's just what's coming. I can't stop myself from picturing the moment, the instant Nate Foster sees me.

“What was he like?” I ask. My voice is quieter now. Like that hushed moment just before everything implodes.

The trees continue to rush past as we drive down the mountain. A line deepens between his eyebrows as Revenge considers. Again, uncharacteristic. Revenge is impulsive and wild.

“Tired,” he decides. “He looked tired.” I don't say anything to this, and I feel him watching me. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

I'm thinking that I can't hear the whispers of the stars anymore, but Revenge wouldn't understand that. Instead I answer, “The day we met.”

He grins again. His grip is relaxed on the steering wheel. “You were so chubby back then. I'm glad you turned out nice.”

How can he sound normal? Apprehension materializes and reaches for me. I resist the urge to recoil. He pokes my shoulder rather than resting his hand on it, like the others do. He's one of the odder Emotions, with tangled hair and clothes that are baggy from him tugging at them so much. He's nearly identical to Worry, as if they were born as twins. Creatures from the other plane aren't born, though, and Apprehension smells worse.

Revenge notices our guest, but he wisely chooses not to comment. As always, I pretend not to see him. I do this with all the Emotions, even though they must know about my Sight. It's an instinct born from habit and a deeply rooted hatred.

Hatred for all of them—except him.

Apprehension disappears. I hardly notice; I'm remembering that day for real now. I was twelve. There was a newspaper on the coffee table, and the headline caught my eye. Saul must have forgotten to hide it.
Drunk Driver Kills Family
. I was young, but even then I was capable of darkness. The sight of those words caused it to spread through my chest.

That's when Revenge came into my life.

“You're small,” he said to me that afternoon. He was dressed in a simple long-sleeved shirt and jeans—a tame choice for him, I'd learn—yet I still knew he wasn't like me. By then I'd learned how to discern them from humans.

I glanced at my aunt, who was busy in the kitchen. Dishes clattered in the sink. “Who are you?” I asked, turning back to the stranger in our living room.

Revenge smiled, and the breath caught in my throat even then. “I'm your new best friend.”

“You're one of them,” I said, frowning.

He shrugged. “So? You're a fat little human. You don't hear me complaining. That's what friendship is, right?”

I thought about this. “Why would I be friends with you?”

“Because I'll be here when you need me, and I'll help you get what you want.”

“And what do I want?” I asked suspiciously.

Revenge wasn't smiling anymore. He straightened, looking down at me with an intense expression. “That's the question, isn't it, Alexandra Tate? What do you want?”

What do you want?

The question still echoes through my head six years later. I find myself looking away from the twists and curves of the road to study Revenge's profile. He's not beautiful in the traditional sense, but he is striking. Sometimes I have trouble tearing my eyes away. His coppery hair is cropped short, and his features are sharp and flawless. Every time he grins, dimples deepen in his cheeks.

Feeling my stare, Revenge turns his head. I quickly look at the road, biting my lip.

Has he stayed with me all these years because he wanted this moment so badly? Or did he stay because … he just wanted to? I've never let myself ask. I didn't want to ruin it, ruin us. My entire life I've chased after the things that scare me most—maybe because it feels like a punishment, or maybe because I can. But Revenge is one of my greatest weaknesses. As things are, he feels safe. Dependable. If I change this, there won't be any going back.

It's my fault, really, for falling in love with my best friend.

A love that's unorthodox, impossible, and worst of all unrequited.

To escape the black hole of my thoughts, I turn on the radio. Revenge glances at me with an indiscernible expression. We don't get reception up here, though, so all that will come through is Joe's local station. And he only plays Elvis. A song I've listened to a thousand times drifts through the thick silence of the cab.

“My dad hated this,” I say suddenly. “He grew up here, you know. Joe refused to play anything else back then, too, so the entire town has always been stuck driving around with Elvis in our cars. It's either that or tapes. No one exactly has a car made in this century. But where are you going to find tapes?” I smile.

“You don't talk about him much,” Revenge comments.

He's playing with me. I'm aware that it's what he does, but it still hurts. Revenge knows everything about me. What happened the night I lost everything, what's happened since then, why I don't talk about it. He wants me to remember, and he wants me to get angry. For the first time, I wish Revenge wasn't here. But there's no point in telling him to leave; the only thing creatures from the other plane listen to are their summons.

SANDERSON ROAD
.

The sign appears suddenly, a flash of color in the blend of black and brown. Revenge slams on the brakes so hard the smell of burnt rubber permeates the darkness. My nostrils flare as I take in the illuminated words. Every road on and around the mountain is named after some old miner from the very first crew.

Revenge's smile is back. He's forgotten to hide it, or maybe he doesn't care. Deliberately, he turns onto the street Nate Foster lives on. Elvis keeps singing, oblivious to everything that's unfolding. We're slowing down now, and I reach to flip the headlights off. I don't want him to know I'm coming. I want the moment we meet to be devastatingly unexpected.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires and moonlight guides us around the curves. There are only three houses down here, and they're miles apart. No witnesses.

Nate Foster's driveway is marked by a single mailbox. Plastic, beige, the number 36 stickered on the side. I've stared at it so much that the image is embedded into my brain. There's a
FOR SALE
sign next to it, which has been there for months.

Now I hesitate.

Sensing this, Revenge stops the car.

The only sounds in the entire world are Elvis, my breathing, and the rumbles of the engine beneath us. For a few minutes I concentrate on that, on the air flowing through my lungs. In. Out. In. Out. Then, as if I'm moving through an ocean of syrup, I lean forward, open the glove box, and take out the gun. It's cool in my hand.

Revenge says nothing.

“It's Saul's,” I whisper. He knows this, of course, but I feel an overwhelming need to speak, to say something. “He keeps it in his nightstand drawer. It was tucked under a Bible, shoved in the back, but I can—”

“Find anything,” Revenge finishes. The sound of his voice is jarring.

“Go,” I say.

He hits the gas and spins into the driveway, abandoning subtlety. Emotions flood the car and reach for me. Their hands brush my cheek, my hair, my shoulder, my back as Revenge parks and I jump out. The spring air tries to soothe me, but all I'm aware of is the wide window to the left of
the front door. Yellow light spills from a chandelier and over the ground outside. The dining room. Two people sit in chairs, eating and drinking. Wine quivers in their glasses. Somehow they haven't seen me. I dart to the side and edge closer, using the shadows of the trees to hide me. Closer. I still have the gun.

And there he is.

Over all these years, I'd built him up. He became this monster, this thing made of thorns and red eyes and hisses. But all I see now is a man. An ordinary, weary-looking man. He takes a bite of his food and chews like a cow, his jaw going around and around. There are bags under his eyes, and he's lost hair since I saw his picture in the paper. Nate Foster.

“Alex,” Revenge breathes from his place beside me.

He must feel the way my insides go still. “So that's who killed them, huh?” I ask, barely recognizing my own voice. It's flat, empty. My grip loosens on the gun. “I almost wish he was a monster.”

“Just because he looks like an accountant doesn't mean he isn't capable of murder.” Revenge is standing so close I can feel the heat rolling off his skin. That scent of chocolate coaxes me.
So good, so easy.