Where Silence Gathers (11 page)

The adrenaline is leaving my veins, and soon I hear that sound again in my memory. The one coming from the man in the ski mask as I shot at him.

He was laughing.

Slowly, I return to my car. I get in, close the damaged door. Grip the steering wheel tight, as if I'm still fighting to stay on the road. The normal thing to do would be to call the sheriff. But those words are ringing in my head, paralyzing me:
Tell anyone about this, we go after your precious Saul and Missy next.
The threat probably applies to this situation as well.

So I don't call anyone. I don't cry. I just take a breath, shift gears, and drive the rest of the way to the lake.

At least now I know that I'm capable of using the gun.

Fourteen

Someone left their car doors open and the radio blaring, so Elvis is crooning to the entire lake when I get there. Joe must be in a wistful mood, because it's one of the ballads. I park and get out, thankful that my legs aren't shaking anymore. It's dark enough now that no one will notice the damage to my car unless they're looking for it. Georgie spots me right away. She's well on her way to getting drunk, because she leaves Billy and gives me a fierce hug.

“We won't give up on you, you know,” she whispers in my ear. Her breath smells like beer. I pat her back and start to respond, but she's already flying away, back to her flock. A few of my classmates greet me, and I nod. Briana stands near the fire, the orange and black lights flickering over her face. She smiles and waves. I wave back and find the cooler. Just like every other time, I take out a can and go to a place empty of conversations or people. This time it's the shore. The sand is cold and damp, but I sit down anyway. I pop the lid on my beer and take a sip.

To keep myself from reliving what just happened on the road, I picture Revenge. The lyrics to the song echo across the still-thawing waters. Images of my friend change to memories of sitting outside the Fosters' house with him beside me. All the expectations, all the promises.

Suddenly Forgiveness is here, wrists dangling on his knees as he looks out over the lake. It's my fault, really, for thinking about Nate Foster and how old he looked hiding in his car that night.

“Change is the law of life,” Forgiveness says. Usually he lets us have a few moments of quiet. “And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.” Finished, he looks at me and sees my questioning frown. “John F. Kennedy.”

I focus on a house in the distance, old man Holland's place. There's a local myth that he's really a ghost, but the stench surrounding him when he visits the diner says otherwise. Like me, Holland has lost most of the family he had left in the world. Just his bottle and his bitterness. Am I on my way to becoming him?

“Never had something from the other plane quote a president at me,” I comment, hiding my thoughts as best I can.

“Someone.”

I frown and turn my head toward Forgiveness again. “What?”

“You said ‘something.' The correct term is ‘someone.'” He meets my gaze, unflinching.

Suddenly my rage awakens again. It wasn't gone, it was just waiting for an opportunity. “Well, to quote
you
, nothing from the other plane is human,” I counter, forgetting my own convictions that Revenge is different. Too late, I realize that I'm raising my voice, and glance over my shoulder to make sure no one has noticed. Billy is telling a story, and everyone is laughing. The only one who stands apart from them is Briana, and she's looking up at the sky. Probably searching for constellations despite the approaching storm. She loves finding meaning in something as vast as space. Watching her, the anger within me dims again. The world can't be entirely bad with someone like her in it.

Forgiveness's voice brings my attention back to him: “ … is that dog you've been leaving food for,” he says. “But you don't think she's just an animal, or you wouldn't be—”

“Have you been watching me?” I demand. No one knows about the stray, not even Revenge. Sometimes I wonder if she's real or just something I conjured up so I don't feel so alone.

The Choice doesn't answer, which is answer enough. He sits there concentrating on the lethargic waves as though they're speaking to him, telling him just how to get under my skin.

I don't know what to say, so I let out a breath and hug my legs tighter. “Prove it. Prove that you have some kind of … individuality. Come on.”

For the first time, he hesitates. He doesn't respond. The pause stretches and thins and I start to think he has no answer to give, but then he leans forward. His voice drops and he looks out at that house across the water. “Sometimes … I get tired of being what I am,” he whispers.

I'm so surprised that I forget to be annoyed, and our gazes collide. “Really?”

“Really. Sometimes I envy you humans. Your ability to choose, your chance to leave marks on the world, your opportunities to become more.” There's a wistful note to the words, making it impossible to doubt him.

I want to say that it's not as wonderful as he makes it sound. Instead I hear myself say, “You leave marks on the world, Forgiveness.”

At this, he smiles. There's a pleased light in his eyes and something in my chest flutters, as though my heart has become a butterfly in a jar. Once more I check to make sure no one is observing our exchange. No; we're alone, even with a crowd just a few yards away.

Feeling reckless, I turn my body toward Forgiveness. Somehow the mood between us has changed, and I don't resent his presence so much. Forgiveness shifts closer, too, his palm sinking into the sand. Pictures touch my mind. Two old women clasping hands over a bingo table, a child kissing a baby on the forehead, some teenage boys roughing each other up on a basketball court. Sobering, I huddle into myself again. It's getting colder, and now faint plumes of air leave my mouth. I polish off the last of the beer. Thunder rumbles.

Finished, I wipe my mouth off with the back of my sleeve and toss the empty can to the sand. It doesn't make a sound. Time is running out; I can feel it. Soon the sky will open up and drench the mountain with its tears, and everyone will run for their cars. They'll go home to their families, make hot chocolate, and remain blissfully unaware. I could go back to Saul and Missy, I really could … but I know I won't. The call of Nate Foster is too strong.

“I feel like you've already given me the speech a million times,” I murmur to Forgiveness, a lump swelling in my throat. Maybe tonight will be the night. “Aren't you getting sick of it?”

“Never.”

The word makes me remember, again, that moment in the attic with Revenge. My stomach flutters as I picture how close his mouth was to mine, how our bodies were a breath away from touching. It hardens me against Forgiveness.

“How long have you been around?” I ask, without turning my head. “A thousand years? A million? You've watched us, and changed us, but have you really learned anything about us?”

It seems like no matter what I say, I can't ruffle him. “Yes,” he replies, so simply that I know he believes it. His dark eyes radiate sincerity.

I hate it. I want him to be as uncertain as I am. To be as lost as me, as lost as my father's rocket. “What could you really know about losing your family?” I challenge. “You've never had one.”

Forgiveness sighs and looks away. The wind toys with his curls. “I know what it is to lose someone I love, Alex.”

“Really? You're capable of love?” I ask, trying to sound mocking. The words come out as cautious things, though. Then Hope betrays me, squatting next to us and smoothing my hair back. She's an Emotion I rarely let close, a plain creature who is somehow beautiful, even with the unexplained scars on her face. Her eyes are sympathetic. She knows how I think of Revenge, and how hopeless it is for us to have any kind of future. I wish I could shove her away.

“I'm capable of everything you are,” Forgiveness says, nodding politely to Hope. She smiles just before disappearing. “Pain, longing, anger. Even more so, because I exist on the same plane as all of them.”

The imprint of Hope's hand lingers, a sensation like someone put a branding iron on my skin. I clench my fists, and if I had nails they would leave marks. I've been chewing them lately. “But you don't know what it is to watch your father die,” I say through my teeth. “Your mother. Your brother.” There's movement in the distance, something small and dark. Loons. They came back even when spring didn't. I focus on the ripples they create in the frosty water. One of the loons suddenly releases a mournful cry into the night. “I can't let myself remember that day. I think I'd lose what's left of my sanity. I can remember everything else, though. The sound of Dad's laugh. The smell of my mom's perfume. My little brother … ” I swallow. “My little brother … ”

Alex! Alex!
The exact details of his face may be slipping away, but I'll never forget the sound of his voice the first time he said my name. He was sitting in his high chair, Cheerios stuck to his chin. He beamed at me, and Mom gasped with wonder and pride. The memory causes a sharp pain to grow in my chest, as though a knife protrudes from the inside, and I blink rapidly. One of the loons stares back at me, drifting close enough to the shore that I can see the droplets glistening on its black feathers.

“Tell me about them,” Forgiveness says. He's asked before, without success, but something has changed. This time I don't lash out. I don't try to get a rise out of him or push him away. Instead I do it. I talk. About my father's booming laugh, my mother's gentle hands, my brother's first steps. All the while the loon draws nearer, as if it wants to hear, too.

When I'm out of breath, out of words, Forgiveness continues to look at me instead of the bird. I don't look back at him, but I can feel the weight of his gaze. “You have Saul and Missy. You haven't lost everything,” he tells me gently. It doesn't matter; the words could be made of air and they would still feel like fists.

“When you say things like that, it's just a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

I get up, sand sticking to my clothes. Forgiveness remains seated and tilts his head back. “That you really aren't human, no matter how easy it is to forget,” I tell him.

Briana starts toward me but gets waylaid by one of Billy's friends, Dylan. Even with the wind in my ears, I can hear the slur in his voice. I turn around so they can't see my face. This is the part of the night when I should walk away, or shift gears, or end the conversation. Yet I don't move. Why do I stay, when every part of me insists I should go?

Because I always stay.

Now Forgiveness stands, his white T-shirt flapping against his torso. He's so close I can feel his breath on my cheek again. Maybe he's more human than I thought. Heartbeats. Lungs. Those are for the living. Aren't they?

No, not always. Because I have them.

The Choice bends to say the words directly into my ear. “You can blame it on Nate Foster, you can blame it on my kind, and you can even blame yourself. But none of it will bring them back.”

Missy said almost the exact same thing once. My jaw works, and the knife isn't stabbing now—it's tearing through me. My soul bleeds. “Don't you think I know that?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

“Do you?” He waits, but this time I'm the one who doesn't respond. I cross my arms as a weak shield against the wind. Behind us, the bonfire crackles in a desperate attempt to remain bright and burning. Seconds pass, and the only ones who speak are my friends, their conversations empty and light. Their universes are planets of homework and routine and somedays. Someone is yodeling.

“You can't trust him,” Forgiveness says suddenly. There's no need to clarify who he means, but he does anyway. “Revenge has been among us longer than anyone realizes.
The Count of Monte Cristo
isn't entirely fiction. And he was at the center of the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre. He was there at the beginning of the War of the Roses, and when the Roman Empire—”

I feel my nostrils flare. “I get it, okay? He's selfish and impulsive and dangerous. But he's not as bad as you think. He's my … ” I stop, start again. “He'll always be there for me, no matter what I choose.”

At this, Forgiveness falters. He never falters. I know I'm not going to like what he's about to say. For a moment I think about bolting. But then he's opening his mouth, and words are coming out, and it's too late to escape them. “The thing about choices is that they only exist as long as there's one to make,” he says slowly.

Briana has managed to disentangle herself from Dylan and is coming toward the shore again. She's smiling, and the space between us shrinks. Forgiveness and I are out of time. Though I want to see his eyes when he answers, I focus on the loon while I force myself to ask, “What are you saying? That you'll vanish the instant I choose one of you?”

Again he hesitates, and I swallow the hysterical scream that wants to demand the truth
right now
. More seconds tick by, marked by the teeth-grinding silence. Just as I'm about to let the scream out—damn whoever hears—Forgiveness sighs. “Essentially, yes,” he says, his tone reluctant. He rakes a hand through his dark hair. Is that regret in his expression?

I don't have a chance to find out; Briana is nearly upon us, and I finally turn to her. But Forgiveness isn't done. “Unlike Emotions, we are only allowed near a human before and during the summons. Afterwards, we're gone. It's just the way things are.” The words should be hard, absolute, yet there's a shadow of imploring in them.

I don't—can't—acknowledge it. All I can do is think,
Revenge didn't tell me that
. No, he
lied
to me. He said … he said … what
did
he say, exactly?

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

I will never give up on you.

When you've really made your choice, I'll know, and that's the moment I'm free to touch you.

But each of those statements could apply to the choice itself. Revenge never actually promised to stay with me once the choice was made. Suddenly everything has a new, darker meaning.
Why do you want to kiss me?
He never responded. Well, I have my answer now. Best friend? No. Revenge? Yes. That's what he is, that's what he's always been. I was an idiot to let myself believe otherwise. Once I make this impossible decision—even if I choose him—he'll leave my life forever.