Comes the Night (32 page)

“We know you’re tired, Connie. Tired beyond belief; crushed by the weight of so many years of being out here, stranded without a body to go back to. I’ve felt that in you.” Alex had pulled a sharp breath, then just let it spill out. “We found where they buried your body. Your... bones. We were thinking maybe your cast can get back in. So you can finally rest. Finally get some peace. God knows, you deserve it. We’re going to dig the remains up, so you can try it. If that’s what you want, I mean. You can try to cast back in.” She’d pause to draw breath. “That
is
what you want, isn’t it?”

Connie had stood perfectly stone still. Even the wind seemed to die down as though holding its breath while it waited to see what she’d do. Connie looked as if she’d turned to an empty statute, completely and perfectly motionless. Though Alex no longer felt fear when she saw the caster in the daylight, she clamped down on a tremor of it then.

She had expected Connie to be happy. In her imagination, the lonely caster had hugged her tightly, clasped her hands in a silent thank you. But when she finally did move, Connie simply looked down at her doll, stroked its head gently. Only then, did she lift her black, empty face to Alex. And nodded slowly.

As tired as she plainly was, as lonely as her world had been, and as ready as Connie just had to be after so many heavy decades without reprieve from her caster existence, it still meant the
end
of her existence. The end of everything for Connie Edwina Harvell.

When Connie had extended her doll toward Alex, Alex’s heart had leapt in her chest as she understood.

“You keep your baby, Connie,” she said. “I’ll look after her when... when you rest. I promise.”

Connie had nodded again.

Later, when Alex had cast out with Brooke and Maryanne, Connie had said little about the plan other than to offer a gentle thank you to each one of them, and to tell them that, when she let herself dare to, she so hoped it would work.

They had stayed out late, soaring through the Mansbridge sky. Even with the copper bracelets, Alex had felt the heaviness coming in as the night wore on. But this was Connie’s night—one of the few remaining—and it was as if she wanted to rise her highest as she soared her last with her new-found friends. She showed them the places she’d discovered over the years; the windows she’d listened at where people talked late into the night, the most breathtaking spots along the river. And Connie warned the girls about the places to stay away from.

Like Ira Walker’s farm.

She’d whispered to Alex as they’d flown along the river. “I’m scared to go back into Harvell House.”

“I know. But I’ll be right beside you,” Alex had told her.

“Then I’ll... I’ll try. If you’re there, Alex, I’ll try.”

“I promise I will be.”

“And no one will hurt me?”

“No one will hurt you. I promise that too.”

Alex breathed deeply now as she walked across the attic. Though her mind still wasn’t tired, her body was starting to feel the effects of the late hours, the busy hours. She rubbed a hand over the back of her stiff neck. She walked right up to the window, leaned her forehead against it and closed her eyes. A floorboard creaked as she adjusted her stance. The wood had never made that groan before, but maybe it only protested because she’d stood there for so long in contemplation.

“This is it,” Alex said softly. “This is what I want. I want to remember. I’m ready.” She didn’t so much whisper to herself, but to the stained-glass Madonna who’d been there to witness everything she’d suffered. All that Connie had suffered too. “If Connie can face her fears, so can I. I’ll remember everything this time. Everything that bastard did to me. And I’ll see his face.” She felt the rush of emotion, felt the anger growing. And yes, she felt the fear of knowing her nightmare—of pulling it to her again. But she was more than ready. No longer would Alex fearfully wait for that hammer of memory to finally breach her mental walls. She was ready to grab it herself and smash it through.

Alex opened her eyes and looked up at the lady in the glass. Her colors were muted in the cloudy night, but her beauty wasn’t. Nor was her compassion. It seemed to radiate from those magnificent eyes like a balm to Alex’s spirit. She placed her hands flat on the glass, feeling the cold of the night on her palms, then she fisted her hands. With jaw-tightening determination, she tapped the window.

“I am ready,” she whispered. “And I want out!”

Alone into the Mansbridge night, Alex ventured toward the moment. The memories—the last of them, the darkest of them—would come back in with her. She was ready. She truly was. But before she went back inside to confront the memories, she would take a few minutes to commune with the night around her. Her soul could use the fortification.

For once, as she soared off toward the Saint John River, Alex didn’t look back at her body slumped helplessly on the floor. This time—perhaps because her excursion would be so short—the worry wasn’t with her.

But it should have been.

Maryanne

M
ARYANNE AWOKE ALL
at once.

She’d been dreaming. But already the vision was wisping away—a railway line, blue balloons, two old women conspiring as they stood a ways down the tracks. They’d cast cautious glances her way.

Maryanne didn’t even try to peddle her mind back to chase that curious dream. Instead, instantly, she pushed herself more awake. More alert. She’d heard a strange sound from above her. A snap or a crack of some kind.

She was almost sure of it. Could still hear the echo of it in her mind.

She looked around the gloom of the room, waiting and blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Brooke half grumbled/half turned in her sleep as if something had invaded her dreams too, though not enough to wake her. Within moments, she was snoring again.

Maryanne sat up, brushing her long hair back from her face. She snapped on the low-wattage bedside lamp and tilted the shade away from sleeping Brooke and over toward Alex’s bed.

Alex wasn’t in it.

Worry crept into her thoughts.

Where the heck was Alex?

They’d all been out so late, traveled so far. Alex had been just as exhausted as Brooke and Maryanne.

So why wasn’t she in her bed? Had she gotten up to go somewhere and cry alone? Like the attic?

That was definitely a possibility.

Alex had always seemed lost somehow. Well, at least since Maryanne had known her. Either all alone or suffocating in the world. Those sad eyes had stayed with Maryanne since the day they’d met. But lately Alex had seemed even deeper in thought. Strangely, especially whenever they cast back in. Why? What haunted her so? Was that what pulled her out of her bed tonight?

But what if she were sick? Or hurt somewhere and couldn’t cry out? What if something was wrong? Desperately wrong!

She caught the train of her thoughts and slammed on the brakes.
Those were Jason thoughts
. All the worries that raced through her mind now—all the frightening scenarios that she imagined—rose up to swamp her now simply because Jason had died. Because of what she’d done.

But what if it wasn’t just about Jason?

What if the worries were founded? If something happened to Alex, it would be her fault all over again. Dear Lord, she couldn’t own another death...

“Brooke,” Maryanne whispered. She tilted the lamp to shine on Brooke’s sleeping face.

No answer. Not even a break in her roommate’s snoring.

She whispered again, louder, more urgently. “Brooke... Brooke, are you awake?”

Not so much as a murmur.

Maryanne reached down to the floor for a slipper and flung it at her.

“Uhhh! What the fu—”

“Alex is missing!”

Squinting and blinking, Brooke leaned up on one elbow to look over at Alex’s bed. “Where is she?”

Maryanne rolled her eyes. “I don’t know where she is. That’s why she’s missing.”

Brooke thumped her head back down on the pillow. “Jesus, Maryanne,” she said. “She’s probably down the hall to the bathroom.”

“I thought I heard something. Maybe from the attic. Maybe she’s up there?”

“Then maybe she is. So what?”

“By herself?”

Brooke half sat up again. “We’ve all been up there by ourselves.”

Maryanne couldn’t argue with that. But still... it didn’t feel right. She bit down on her lip before she asked. “Think we should go look for her?

“Look,” Brooke said, groaning. “You know Alex. If we go up there and she’s in one of her dark moods or reading Connie’s diary again, she’ll be pissed to think we’re checking up on her. Or spying on her. Hell, Maryanne, she’s not a baby!”

For one gut-wrenching moment, Maryanne thought she was going to puke. She could feel the sweat on her neck, between her breasts, gathering on her stomach. “No,” she said, softly. “She’s not a baby.”

“She probably just needs some time alone. This stuff with Connie... it’s freaky enough for us, but you know how close Alex feels to her. How possessive she is of Connie... She just needs her space. Now go back to sleep. More importantly, let
me
go back to sleep.”

Brooke turned to face the wall.

Maryanne clicked off the light. She pulled the covers up again and lay back down.

Brooke was probably right. She was probably just worrying over nothing. Maryanne closed her eyes again and almost instantly felt the blessed touch of sleep. Everything would be fine in the morning.

Like it was with Jason?

Her eyes flew wide open. She would not sleep again this night.

Alex

A
LEX STOPPED AT
the oak tree down by the river. She wasn’t so much resting there as simply
being
in the quiet of it. She looked up at the gently rustling leaves, looked down at the tall yellow grass blowing in the same wind. Feeling that wind blow through her, yet her caster form didn’t so much as waver, nor did the breeze’s chill register. It all still fascinated her, this casting thing. Still scared her, too, even as she rejoiced at becoming so completely one with the night. There was so much more to learn... A dog barked from some distance away. Well, more of a bay than a bark, like a hound dog would make. The mournful sound only added to the depth of the night around her. Slowly, Alex moved up the oak tree, through to the branches where Connie’s bracelets hung. She wouldn’t be donning the copper again tonight. She only wanted to touch the metal because Connie Harvell had made the small bands. Tonight Alex caressed the copper not for the physical strength it could lend her cast, but for the emotional fortification.

But Alex was tough, and she knew it. Strong. Yes, it had taken her a while to get some of that back after the assault. But she had. She wasn’t spoiling to get into the fights anymore. Not looking for the most dangerous crowd to run with. She didn’t need to do that anymore. Leah and Kassidy thought she’d gone soft, weak. But it wasn’t weakness.

She was tough enough to change. Strong enough to face what she had to face.

And tonight she was ready to face the last of the memories of the night she was raped. To grab hold of them. Remember everything that had happened to her. Remember who had done it.

Alex would see that face.

And then she would go to the police. She’d tell them what had happened.

Alex had thought it over long and hard. There would be little, if any, physical evidence, as she’d scrubbed herself practically raw that morning she’d woken up on the attic floor. She’d also thrown away the coat she’d used to cover herself with. But she still had her torn jeans—the ones she’d found in the dresser. Maybe, just
maybe
they’d help the police. And soon she’d have her memories.

Still, it would be an uphill battle in more ways than one. The police might not believe her. But maybe she wasn’t the only one this evil piece of shit had attacked. Maybe another girl would come forward after Alex did. And if it got to trial, Alex would take her chances with a jury. Or a judge.

She was quite aware that her past—the partying, the booze, the dope—would reflect badly on her. But it would be worth it if just a few of them would turn their judgmental eyes on her assailant. That in itself might be enough to stop another rape. Be a victory of some kind for her. She’d be brave enough. Whoever had done this to her
had to
pay. And if a court of law wouldn’t convict him, maybe the court of public opinion would.

But pay for it, he would.

In more ways than one.

Alex pulled one of the copper bracelets free from a branch after all. She held it tightly.

She’d have her caster revenge. Alex had decided this too. It was different from Brooke seeking revenge for love unrequited. Different from Maryanne swooping McKenzie’s car and running him off the road. This man had
raped
her. And all the pain she held inside, she’d shriek out toward him. Let him feel her fury. Let him feel that pain that welled within her. She’d shriek like no Heller before her. Drive him insane. Deafen him if she could. The bastard could have his pain back.

The distant dog bayed again—the sound of it swelling in the night and dragging Alex back from her thoughts. Back to the present and what she had to do.

It was time to grab that memory. She set the copper circle back up on the tree. She’d never be the same, and she knew it. But she knew—somehow—she’d be all right. So damned much like Connie, she was—Alex froze.

Back in the attic, her original held perfectly still, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps on the floorboards. Not the soft, sock-footed steps of Brooke or Maryanne venturing upstairs. No one whispered to her through the blackness. But someone laughed low and deep in his throat as he moved towards her helpless body on the floor.

Her heart hammering in terror, Alex tried to move her body, but all she could manage was a helpless flop of her hand, a feeble twitch of her foot. Her helplessness—she couldn’t even turn her head to see him—and her moan of fear only made him laugh all the more. Confidently, he stalked toward her.