Flicker (3 page)

“I thought you were going to that party with Kendall,” her mother said.

“I am,” she lied. “I just—
forgot my backpack.”

“What do you need your backpack for?”

Lee’s insides squirmed. Dana Capren knew her daughter well enough to know why she was here. She was only asking out of courtesy.

“I just
…
” Lee fumbled for an excuse, but she knew that nothing she could think of would sum it up better than the truth. She fiddled with the strap on her backpack and stared at the floor. “It’s better this way, Mom. Trust me.”

“
Those kids
won’t
bite, Lee.
You know that.
”

Lee sighed.
“You sound just like Kendall.”
How Kendall used to sound, anyway.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Sometimes.”

Her mother smiled and shook he
r head. “Either way, it’s okay
.
”

“You think so?”

“Of course.
You
always
do fine
, Lee,
no matter what
you do
.”

Lee smiled. “Thanks, Mom.” She walked down the hallway and pecked her mother on the cheek. She crossed the living room and stepped out onto the porch
, trotting down the steps
. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“D
on’t stay out too lat
e,” her
mom
called. Her voice echoed down the street.

* * *

The last vestiges of lemon-lime sunlight filtered through the trees, stretching the shadows and making them dance. Lee crouched near the edge of the trail, among leaves and low branches, her sketchbook balanced across her knees
as she sketched a small white rabbit that dozed beneath a nearby bush
.

T
he sky was the color of a fresh bruise. B
irds fluttered in the trees
, mostly hidden by a thick canopy of branches. If Lee tilted her head back, she could catch glimpses of bright feathers flashing through dark leaves.

Lee had been crouching for so long that her ankles had gone molten and her feet tingled with pins and needles. She shifted
carefully
until she was sitting cross-legged on the ground, her movements muffled by a thick layer of last autumn’s fallen leaves.

She
reached
for the half-open pencil box lying near her foot. The end of a light brown pencil caught the side of the box as she pulled it out, flipping the box onto its side. The pencils clattered together a
s they spilled
into the dirt.

The rabbit twitched into motion, its ears sh
ooting upward and its
bead-like
eyes flashing in sudden alarm. A moment later, it
was lost among the underbrush.

For a moment, Lee stared after the rabbit, watching the shrubbery sway in its wake. Then, h
er
tranquil mood dispelled,
she
sighed and
started
packing away her supplies.
Slinging the bag
over her shoulder, the perturbed artist glanced around. The forest had taken on a purplish-green tint in the failing light, the trees and bushes throwing long, intimidating shadows. She had half a mind to pursue the rabbit, but quickly dismissed the idea.

Lee turned around and started back down the path. Through gaps in the branches above,
she
could see stars fading i
n from the dusky
void.

A sound stopped her. It was a
glowing
sound, low and whispery as a secret.
It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, from within Lee’s own bones. Chills bloomed all down her arms and the back of her neck. Then—silence. Lee didn’t think she’d ever heard silence quite so profound before. She found herself holding her breath, waiting for the sound to come again.

At the edge of her vision, a small light flickered. She froze, instantly alert, then shook her head. Probably just some kid with a flashlight, she told herself.

Another flash among the trees, just as she
started to turn
. The light w
as growing larger and brighter. All at once, many lights glowed around her, all in greens and yellows and blues. Flashing between the trees like fireflies, they
emanated a low, sweet hum that called to her.

Before she knew it, she was straying from the path, following the lights.

Music was playing, softly at first, growing louder.
She couldn’t pick out any individual instruments.
It was a single sound, throbbing as if with a pulse
, coming from the ground and the sky and the trees
.

Silvery
smoke rolled in from nowhere, obscuring her vision. There were voices now, all speaking over each other in languages she didn’t recognize. She stumbled toward the voices, feeling her w
ay through the haze. S
he must’ve turned herself around somehow. Which direction was
she going? Where was the trail?

The smokescreen ebbed in places, slowly receding bac
k into the trees, leaving her
at the edge of a
clearing so large that she couldn’t see where it ended.

Colorful
orbs of light
dazzled her eyes
as she wandered into the clearing
, sparkling like miniature fireworks
.
She passed long, moss-covered tables
piled with
bizarre, exotic fruit, roasted meat
and goblets filled with shimmering wine.
Balloon-sized fireflies
bobbed over the grass, glowing with the same musical light as the ones she’d seen among the trees. The air was heavy with music and an odor—an eerie mix of blood and flowers that made Lee’s head swim. Her mind was
clouded by color and sound.

Figures morphed into the edges of Lee’s vision, too big and too small to wrap her mind around. Whether she was dreaming or awake, she couldn’t tell.

A woman with a body of bark and stiff leaves for hair
drank
from a cup-s
haped flower.
Two ladies made entirely of ivy lounged in a patch of clover, singing. Their voices sounded like plants growing. Lee turned in circles as she walked, trying to take it all in.

People—real, human people—were sprinkled among
the creatures
. They sat dazed as creatures fed and stroked them and braided their hair with flowers and bells.
For the most part, the creatures flowed past Lee in a river of beautiful horror, paying her no mind. But some began to drift in her direction, their unearthly eyes glinting
as they approached
.
The haze
of color
ev
aporated from her mind. F
ear
flow
ed
down her spine like cold water.

Lee reached for her backpack, patting the ground near her, but she found nothing. Its absence hit her like a blow.
Where had it gone? When had she lost it?
Sinking to her knees, she crawled, shuffling around several disinterested monsters and more giant fireflies, searching for her missing bag. But it was nowhere t
o be found. S
he
dropped
onto
the grass
and buried her face in her arms
, defeated
and drained.

The music
grew
loud in her ears, crashing over her like a wa
ve
.
She felt like she was forgetting something, like there was someplace she had to be, but her thoughts were difficult to hold onto.
Notes worked their way into her bones, and she
t
hought she felt something stir and twist inside of her
, like a
strange
set
of wings unfurling
. Lee’s
skin crawled. Her limbs tingled painfully.
The sensation intensified, demanding notice, commanding her.

Urged to her feet by the music, Lee stumbled into the fray, where strange figures swayed together in dance, clapping a steady rhythm and shrieking with laughter. She felt as if those wings had begun to flap, like some great owl being loosed from
the cage of
her chest, taking her breath with it. She felt hollow and too light. Nothing held her in place anymore.

Her heart seemed to stutter and take up the rhythm of the music—and in that instant, the world dissolved and reformed, and everything was beautiful, even when she closed her eyes.

Lee whirled over the grass, arms spread, moving as the sound bade her. A dozen hands pushed her in a dozen d
irections, and she didn’t care. The more she danced, the less she felt like something was slipping her mind.
She didn’t need to con
trol anything, not even herself
.
She rose and fell with the notes, her steps random, and she never grew tired.

S
inging and laughter and
someone
pressing a cup
to her lips. She drank without thought, and was surprised by the
bone-melting
sweetness of it. The d
rink was liquid summer, sunlight
and flowers and running through an open field.

She could feel the music pulsing in her blood
, her veins rejoicing. Her heartbeat was a drumbeat guiding her steps
.
Her bag didn’t matter anymore.
The hollowness in her chest didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered. There was nothing in the world but
this music, this dance.

And then:
a voice. It drifted toward her, singing like
birdsong
, and she listened.

“Come and sit with us, little one.”

A
young woman
stood before her,
lithe and elegant as a tree swaying in the wind. Her long hair was a tumble of greens, the color of grass in high summer, and Lee thought she could see
leaves and birds perched on branches crowded in the woman’s dark green eyes.
Lee studied them, both aware and unaware.

“There are paintings in you, little one, in your heart and in your hands. Come sit with us.”

The
woman
smiled, and Lee saw that she was wearing a dress made entirely of leaves. A pair of delicate
, leaf-shaped
wings arched from her shoulders. Her feet were bare. She took Lee’s
wrist
and led her over the grass. Lee tripped over her own feet. The
woman
laughed, and so did Lee. She was happy that the
woman
was happy. It didn’t matter why.

Lee
blinked and
fo
und herself sitting
beneath a hu
ge willow tree
, the grass soft beneath her
. She couldn’t
remember how she’d gotten there.

“Give us a smile, now.”

T
he creatures here seemed
almost like
people, but Lee knew they weren’t. Their ears were pointed, and their limbs were too long. Many of them had wings. When she looked out of the corner of her eye, Lee saw that some of them had tails, or hollow backs, or backward feet. But they were beautiful still, lovelier than any creature had any right to be. The s
ight of them made Lee ache
, longing for something.

“Such pretty eyes. Give us a smile, a smile
…
”

Lee kept seeing faces, hanging just out of reach
, disappearing when she tried to look at them directly
. A blonde girl with brown eyes. A woman with
pale
red hair and laugh-lines around her mouth.
She
knew them
, but she
couldn’t remember
their names
, and that frightened her.
The hollow feeling expanded.

Uneasy thoughts floated thro
ugh her mind
. Unable to hold on to any of them, she shifted restlessly. The beautiful creatures laughed and sang, oblivious to her discomfort. One of them braided white flowers into
Lee’s
hair; anothe
r put a
dark blue
dress on her,
the fabric soft as mist, and discarded
her old clothes.

There was a paintbrush in her hands, with canvases and paints laid out before her, but she couldn’t even raise her arm. Something was wrong. She could sense it, even if she couldn’t put words to the feeling. She was
forgetting something terribly important
. Panic stirred in her. Fear. Ripples breaking the surface
and breath
coming in gasps
. She felt suddenly that she would drown
.
What if she never remembered what she’d forgotten? What if—