Ink and Bone(67)

“Come on,” he said. “I know the way.”

He put the flashlight on the ground and shifted off his jacket and held it out to her. It was denim with a fluffy lining, probably still warm from his body. And she was so cold. She reached for it, and as she did, he grabbed her arm, yanking her out onto the ground.

“Momma!” he yelled, his face lit with malicious glee. “Momma, she’s here!”

“Shut up, Bobo,” she said. She ran at him and started hitting hard, beating her fists at his chest and trying to cover his stupid mouth. But he just smiled, leaning back, and swatted her blows away as if he were swiping at gnats. Her little fists didn’t hurt him.

“Momma!” he bayed again, the word filling the night.

She tried to run, but he grabbed her and threw her to the ground hard and then climbed on top of her, his weight on her chest so heavy that she could hardly breathe.

“Why are you helping her?” Penny hissed. “She doesn’t love you.”

Bobo’s face was blank. “Yes, she does.”

But she heard all the notes of uncertainty and despair. She knew things about Bobo, things he didn’t tell, things she wasn’t even sure he knew about himself. That’s what it was like for her. She could look at a person and see what that person wanted her to see. But she could also see what squirmed beneath the surface, raw and pink. Like when her mommy sounded angry and was using her stern voice, but she was really just tired. Or when Sophia at school acted like she knew better than anyone, but was really just afraid that no one liked her and had to prove she was smart so that no one would make fun of her. Or how her brother pretended not to like sports but was really just ashamed of being a little clumsy, so he stuck with the things he knew he was good at, even though he secretly wanted to play soccer. All the layers were exposed to her, always had been.

“No,” she said. Cruelty was the only weapon she had now; she had no choice but to wield it. “She doesn’t. If she did, she wouldn’t spend all her time in the graveyard trying to talk to your dead sister.”

“Shut your stupid face,” he said, his eyebrows wiggling with sadness. “I’ll let them put you with the other Pennys, the bad Pennys.”

She saw a hole, then, a deep pit with no bottom. It was in a cave, with a high rocky ceiling. There was an old light burning. Where was it? It was a dream and a memory, but neither of those things. Then it was gone, and she was back in the woods with Bobo. A space opened inside her. A cold, deep abyss of fear emptied her out until she was one with the night and the cold. She went quiet, all her power, all her speed, all her strength leaving her. That was why, she knew with a clarity she didn’t quite understand. That hole was why they had all been brought here. Not for Momma. Not for Real Penny. The girls that had come before her, they would never go home, and neither would she. They would all disappear into the maw where the voice lived, and they would be there forever.

But this is your home. It always has been.

“Don’t,” she whispered. And Bobo looked down at her, seeing her, she thought, for the first time. Not New Penny. “Please. I don’t belong here.”

“Where? Where?” Momma yelled. “I can’t see you.”

He waved the flashlight in the air, and she heard Momma moving toward them, clumsy, stumbling through the trees and debris.

“She’s here!” he yelled. “She tried to get away, but I caught her.”

A lash of anger and some of her power came back. She couldn’t beg him. He wasn’t going to help her. He was like a beaten dog, slinking after his master. Never to be trusted.

“Penny was the smart one, the beautiful one,” she said. “She rode horses and did well in school. When she died, Momma died, too. There was no love for you. She never loved you because you’re ugly and stupid. Who could ever love you?”

Bobo didn’t say anything. He just looked so sad that she almost took it back.

“Let me go,” she said. “Bobo isn’t even your name, is it? It’s what Penny called you. What’s your real name?”

“Arthur,” said Bobo softly. She picked up on the note of pride, used it.

“That’s a nice name,” she said, thinking quickly. “It’s a king’s name. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Do you know that story?”

He shook his head. Of course, he didn’t. But he was listening. “Arthur was a king and he lived in a huge castle with a beautiful wife. And everyone loved him.”

“And he was strong and brave?”

“Definitely,” she said. “Just like you.”

He smiled a little at that, climbed off of her. He was a little boy in a big boy’s body. Just like her little cousin Jared, who was a wild toddler prone to tantrums. She could always talk him out of it, just by listening and figuring out what he wanted. He had a hard time making himself understood, and then he’d just go crazy because none of the adults around knew what he wanted. Somehow she always knew.

“Let me go,” she said. “Come with me. We can both leave here. You won’t have to work all day and hunt for Poppa. I know you don’t like to kill the animals. I’ll take care of you.”

Momma came through the trees, looking haggard and terrified. She washed over with relief when she saw them. But then anger set her features into a tight fist. Her long gray hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she wore a barn jacket that was frayed and dirty, jeans that were too big, and thick boots. Her face was a landscape of lines and grooves. A hideous storybook witch, a crone.