Beware the Wild (22 page)

Before I can do anything, she unfolds herself and pushes away from the bed. “He's reminding me that he's more powerful than I'll ever be and he'll never let me go. He'll keep doing this until I return to him,” she says, heavy with dread. “I'm still not free.”

Dad used to tell Mama he hurt us because he loved us too much. She'd sit in her rocker and he'd kneel at her feet with tears in his eyes and lies on his lips. She'd stroke his hair and tell him it was all okay because we loved him, too. And I hated her for it.

But looking at Lenora May now, I see an echo of Mama in her face. It's the look of a person who can't see anything but the horror directly ahead of them. She's trapped, just as Mama was trapped, because her cage is so convincing.

Again, I speak before I think. “You will be,” I promise. And I know I believe it.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

A
FTER MIDNIGHT
, I'
M ALONE ON
the front porch of the Lillard House, straining my ears for any sign of Heath's truck. I sit pressed against the door, my knees drawn close because, even though it's dark, I feel far too exposed.

It's every bit as hot as it was this afternoon. The clouds that were spotty earlier have become a solid blue-gray sheet aglow with moonlight, trapping all the heat and stale air beneath it. I'd give anything for a breeze right now. It's so quiet, every move I make is enough noise to wake the dead.

A twig snaps. I wait for the rumble of Heath's truck to follow, but it's dark as a dog's nose beneath the oaks. He should've met me forty minutes ago and he hasn't answered a single text. I open his contact info on my phone and pause with my thumb over the
CALL
button. There's a chance a call this late will get him into a big pot of trouble, and he's already got enough of that. I think I shouldn't, but then I remember the sheriff's star on Darold's hat and mash the button. It rings once, then goes straight to voice mail.

Heath's voice is sluggish and uninterested. “It's Heath. Leave a message. Or not.”

Hanging up is my first instinct, but before I do, I change my mind. “Hey, Heath, it's Sterling. I'm at the Lillard House. It's late and I don't know where you are. If you get this in the next ten minutes, call me. If not, well . . . call me.”

I console myself with the fact that if the swamp had him, it would've taken his number the way it took Abigail's. But if the swamp doesn't have him, then where is he?

Ten more minutes pass. Two more phone calls and on the last I don't bother leaving a message. A slew of other horrible possibilities rush through my mind, car accidents, heart attacks, falling down the stairs. No matter how I try not to, I picture Heath covered in blood at the wheel of a destroyed car. And then I purge that image with the memory of his lips on mine. There could be any number of reasons Heath isn't here.

The bucket of peaches we dropped off earlier sits next to me. We left them, hidden from view, hanging from an oak branch. At least the plan didn't involve Heath keeping them. I've waited so long and they smell so good my stomach rumbles. I eat one and toss the pit into the trees.

Five more minutes. I spend them trying to balance my phone on my knee, but there's only so much waiting a girl can do, and it's been a full hour since Heath said he'd be here. I can't wait any longer.

Selecting four peaches from the bucket, I drop them into one of Mama's canvas grocery bags, and pick a path down to the fence. It's slower going in the dark, but the clouds are full of gray light, which helps me avoid the tallest patches of grass. Along the way, I make plenty of noise to scare any snakes or raccoons or other toothy pieces of wilderness.

All the Wasting Shine is dim and distant. It says something about the state of my life that pale Shine is more concerning than bright Shine, but there's enough to follow, and that's all I need.

I climb the fence and drop to the other side. From this direction, the swamp is as unfamiliar to me as it is to the rest of Sticks. I adjust the bag on my shoulder and move carefully, trying to get to a place where Shine is close enough to command. All I need is a path. My feet slide in the dark, and the farther I go, the farther the dancing lights recede.

Sweat slips between my shoulder blades. There's even less air in the swamp than there was outside of it. Every breath I take seems to condense in my lungs, each one shallower than the last. Something bites my arm and I swat, unsuccessfully, at what I hope is only a mosquito. All around me the swamp grows louder and louder. It croaks and snaps and rattles. It groans and gurgles and shrieks, and I can't help but conjure the thought of that pale-faced beast.

I shake my head. These are the sounds the swamp makes.

I'm not afraid of the swamp
, I remind myself.
Not anymore
.

“Show me the way to Phineas,” I call.

Though all the Shine is still far from touching distance, it begins to braid a dim path. I run after it, but before I've gone very far, it disperses.

Again and again, I ask it to take me to my brother, but every time I move toward it, it's farther away than I think. By the time I stop trying, my phone says two a.m. I've been at it for an hour, the path I've walked has closed behind me, and each time I begin to make progress, the lights disperse. Just like the stories say.

Panic starts to build in my throat. This is what the Wasting Shine does: leads the unsuspecting victim in nonsense circles until they're too tired to continue. And I realize that it's not trying to help me; it's trying to keep me.

My phone is as helpless as I am. Repeatedly, it tries to find a signal and fails. I'm not surprised, but it doesn't help me relax.

“Move, Saucier,” I say. It helps to imagine Candy's scorn if she knew I was standing here, leaning against a tree like a damsel.

I pick a direction and walk with purpose. Walking might not do any good, but it's better than doing nothing. If I can keep to a straight line, I'll find the fence eventually and make my way home from there.

The brush climbs to my knees. I walk vigorously, stamping and shaking the undergrowth to make as much noise as possible. There are lots of biting creatures in the swamp, and I hope to all the sweet heavens they're afraid my clamor.

After another twenty minutes, I stop again. This patch of swamp is as unfamiliar as every other patch I've seen and my legs are starting the wobble from trudging through mud. I shiver in my swamp-damp clothes. I could die here.

All it takes is one snakebite, one twisted ankle, one long series of wrong turns and no one will ever find my body because no one will be brave enough to look. And how will that help Phin?

There's one person who can help, but my entire plan depends on avoiding his notice. Even Grandpa Harlan hadn't been willing to risk a second encounter with Fisher—had refused to cross the fence after it was built. Why hadn't I stopped to consider that before pelting into the swamp alone? And why hadn't Heath shown up like he promised? I'm lost and alone, with no Shine to guide me.

There's only one way out. What other choice do I have?

All you need do, my brave girl, is say my name
.

I hesitate, hoping the Shine will change its mind and brighten before me, but the swamp is unyielding.

“Fisher,” I reluctantly say into the tangle of vines. “Fisher, please, if you can hear me, I'm lost.”

Then I throw my peaches into the thick, lean against a sturdy gum tree to stop the tremor in my chest, and wait.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
T'S HARD TO TELL HOW
much time passes inside the swamp. It feels like hours since I said Fisher's name, but my phone reports that it's only been minutes.

The night hugs me too close. My skin is too damp and my feet are too wet. Again and again, I tug them up from the sticky swamp floor, and again and again they slide beneath that hungry mud.

An owl screeches in a way that makes people lay broomsticks over their door frames and cross themselves, their kids, and their dogs. I jump half out of my skin and take a few uncertain steps. All the trees seem to have shifted, and the brush has closed tight over any footprints I might have left. My own throat begins to close in response. I could scream, but that wouldn't do me any good. I'm too far from anywhere to be heard.

Something darts through the brush two feet in front of me and I shriek. The tops of the tall plants quiver in its wake. My heart shakes like a cicada.

The plants make a shushing noise as they settle into a continuous sound. Leaves whisper against one another, slowly, as though a breeze moves them. My ponytail sticks to the back of my neck, curls tickle my temples. I'm drowning in this fetid air. Listening to the rustle of leaves only makes it worse.

I get real still.

The brush whispers. Not in front of me, where the animal ran, but from the side. It moves slowly, but constantly, and it's getting louder.

I risk a glance. Before me, the swamp floor is obscured by lizard's tail plants, each
with a pale, curling frond wagging like chastising fingers. They sway in the dark, clearly marking the path of something crawling toward me along the swamp floor. Whatever it is, it's big, but it's not running and it's not growling, which are the only things I can take comfort in at the moment.

“Hey!” I shout, rustling the plants. Anything but a predator should run.

The whispering stops.

I try not to make a noise. I try not to move or take up space. I will my legs to look like gum tree trunks, for my sweat to smell like swamp mud, for whatever this thing is to go away.

“You're a little the worse for wear, aren't you?” Fisher speaks into my ear.

I jump. His breath teases my neck, warm and strong as Shine. I imagine it coiling around my throat, threatening.

“I got lost. Something's wrong with the swamp. All the Shine is fading. I couldn't follow it, I can barely see it anymore.” I'm talking too quickly, revealing my nerves and my secrets, but with Fisher so close, I can't seem to stop.

Fisher lifts my chin and looks so long into my eyes I start to feel utterly transparent. His fingers are rough against my skin, just enough pressure to convince me to stay put. Even with Lenora May's story fresh in my mind, I search his coal-dark eyes for any sign of tenderness.

The smile in them is unforgiving.

Finally, he speaks, keeping his mouth dangerously close to mine. “The Shine is here. It's you that's changed.”

I shake my head, pulling my chin from his fingertips. “I haven't. I'm the same Sterling I was.” But even as I say it, I know it's not true. I have changed since I was last in the swamp. I'm a brave new Sterling with an ill-conceived plan to save the brother I drove away.

“Not quite.” He extends an arm, and Shine fills his hand. He pulls it into threads with quick, practiced movements. “Clean,” he says, draping the web over my shoulders.

Shine slides down my arms, over my belly, and around my legs. It warms and pulls all the sweat and mud from my skin. Its embrace is divine. I close my eyes and soak in the refreshing warmth for as long as it lasts.

“That's better,” Fisher says. “Now, I think we'd better talk about these.”

He holds a peach. Bruised and slightly muddy, it's clearly one of the four I threw into the swamp however long ago.

“Phin said he was hungry,” I say, hoping I sound convincing and not conniving. “Peaches are his favorite.”

Fisher's eyes go narrow and shadowed, making my skin prickle with cold. It's a look as dangerous as a cornered raccoon.

He leans back on his heels, regarding me suspiciously. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Can you take me to him?” Acting casual under his gaze is a unique kind of torture. He doesn't relent even as I stand to put distance between us.