Wink Poppy Midnight(43)

Silence.

I squeezed her hand.

“I’m listening, Poppy. I’m ready.”

Silence.

It started small. Wink’s eyes closed, and her lips drew tight, tight, as if her face was trying to swallow her mouth. Her cheeks sunk in. Hard, dark, hollow bruises.

The Yellows stopped turning their heads and sniffing the air. We all froze.

Wink’s head tilted back, so far her hair touched the floor, and her body went rigid, it snapped, like a rope pulled tight, like the rope that we used to tie up Poppy, snap, her wrists to the piano.

The things that came out of her mouth . . .

Gibberish and swearing and moaning. Guttural groans and sobs. On and on. Wink jerked and strained against my fingers but I didn’t let go, I didn’t let go. Her head whipped sideways and her back arched and tears streamed from her green eyes . . .

What should I do? I wanted to stop it, I had to stop it, but I was scared, so scared, was this what Poppy had wanted? For Wink to come to the Roman Luck house and let the unforgivables in, let them destroy her too? Wink said bad things would happen if we let go, but I wanted to let go of her hand, I wanted to shake her, shake the unforgivables out of her, god, it was horrible, no wonder Poppy had died, left alone with them, how could we have done it?

Wink started screaming and I screamed with her and Zoe and Buttercup screamed too and Briggs shouted and Thomas was silent and . . .

And, suddenly, it stopped.

Wink hushed. Everything, her voice, her arms, her hair, hush.

Her fingers went limp.

She straightened, and opened her eyes.

The thunderstorm hit, right then, right that very second. Rain slapped the broken shards of the bay window, plop, plop, and then faster and faster. Thunder cracked so hard the ground started shaking, or maybe it was just me, shaking and shaking. I couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

Wink yanked her hand away. Her fingers slipped right through mine. I let out a little groan as it happened. I’d been so sure that if I just held on to her everything would be okay in the end.

She stood up. She flipped her red curly hair behind her shoulders, and put her hands on her tiny hips.

“God, you’re all such losers,” she said.

And it wasn’t Wink’s voice, small and whispery and soft. It was arrogant. Sultry.

Wink touched her hair, and looked at her arms, and her legs, smooth and graceful twists, eyebrows raised, lips pressed together in a pout.

“Can you believe this shit? Feral Bell. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

The chill started in my heart and shuddered through the rest of me. My scalp stung and my skin itched.

I still held Buttercup’s hand in my left. I’d forgotten all about it until she was suddenly squeezing my fingers so hard it took my breath away.

“Poppy . . . Poppy, where are you? Are you okay? What happened to you?” Thomas had tears coming down his face, fast, like the rain outside.

“I’m dead.” And she laughed. And it wasn’t Wink’s laugh, it didn’t remotely sound like Wink’s laugh, whispers and chinkling toy piano keys. It was cold and hard and sneering and Poppy, all Poppy.

“Dead. I’m dead and this house is my tomb and I want you to burn it down, I want you to burn the Roman Luck house to the ground.”

None of us moved, none.

“Where are you? Can we help you? We’re so sorry, we didn’t believe it, didn’t believe you’d really do it . . .” Buttercup’s voice fluttered, in and out, like the candle flames.

“Wink and Midnight tied me up and left me here, but the unforgivables did their part too. Freckle-faced Feral was right about them.” And she laughed again, hollow and mean and cold. “They’re here right now, breathing down your necks . . . except you can’t even see them, you fools. They won’t hurt me anymore, I’m beyond all that, they’ve got their evil focused on you now.”

“Who’s here? What are the unforgivables?” Briggs, voice strong and quivering at the same time.

Wink sighed . . .

I mean Poppy . . .

I mean Wink . . .

“This is so boring. I’m tired of answering questions. Just shut up, all of you, and let me do what I came here to do.”

She climbed on Thomas then, cuddled right up to him, knees on each side of his hips.

She kissed him.

He kissed back.

It was Wink’s red hair and Wink’s skinny spine, but it was Poppy’s lips and Poppy’s gestures and it was horrifying. Horrifying.

She put her mouth by Thomas’s ear and began to whisper and whisper. His eyes filled with tears again and his mouth parted and he looked so sad . . . and so filled with joy . . .

Then she was up and onto the next person.

Zoe.

Buttercup.

Whispers and stricken looks and horrifying, horrifying.

Briggs, she kissed him too, freckled hands on his cheeks. My heart broke watching it. Split in two. And I didn’t know if it was because Wink was kissing him, or Poppy, or both.

She sat in my lap last. She grabbed my hair in her fingers and her curls burrowed into my neck and her chest pressed into mine.

And the things she said, the things she said, Poppy’s voice coming out of Wink’s lips. She said she was sorry. She said it over and over.

But Poppy never said she was sorry, not ever.

Not ever.