Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(66)

Dots dance in front of me, green and blue and red, and they’re so close that I reach up with one slender finger, trying to touch one. Tim’s talking again, but his words don’t register. Exactly six seconds tick by and I give up on the dots, eyes drifting shut.

“Wake up,” someone—Landon?—orders. “Open your eyes. Now.”

I smile sleepily. His voice is familiar, comforting. “No point. No point.”

“Tap, tap,” Landon says. Now I frown. It doesn’t seem like something he would say. I don’t know how I know this; I just do. “Tap, tap,” Landon says again, and now I do open my eyes, looking past Tim’s red, bulbous face to the window. A little figure stands on the sill, her pretty face pressed to the glass. It’s sprinkling outside, and her hair sparkles with lingering droplets. As if she doesn’t even notice the rain, the creature clenches her tiny fist and knocks on the window. Tap, tap. She looks worried. Why is she worried?

Darkness is clouding in again. I lose awareness of anything besides Tim’s grip on my air supply, the consuming dizziness, something humming in my ear. No, wait, there’s a fly in the room. It buzzes past my nose.

And then, like a star illuminating the black night, a new voice explodes through the shrinking space. “Get out. Get out now and never come back, or I swear to God I’ll call the cops and have you put away for the rest of your miserable life.”

Without warning, the crushing weight is gone. Coughing and gasping simultaneously, I gulp in gallons of air, my lungs greedy. Suddenly time is utterly still, and it’s over. I lie there, my back to Landon, gazing around my room until my vision clears up completely. I’m alone except for my bed, the dresser, the rickety desk, a mirror, and the mural. I try to figure out what was real and what was illusion when Tim was choking me. For a wild second, I thought I’d actually heard Landon … And had Moss really been standing at my window? One quick glance shows the empty sill, the lonely glass. No. I’d been half-delirious.

Which brings me to wonder where Tim went. The house is so still—he must really be gone. How … ? I lift my nose and sniff the stale air, wondering if an otherworldly being saved me … maybe Fear … there’s nothing but the scent of alcohol. Tim.

He might come back.

I try to stand and find I can’t. Pain grips me and draws me completely beneath its murky waters. I struggle against it, but then darkness cackles and whooshes in with its inescapable embrace. This time there are no dreams, just a face. Pale hair, crinkled azure eyes, conceited grin. Fear …

Quiet.

A gentle touch.

I must have fallen asleep. When I wake, I blink rapidly. The blurred world comes into focus, as does the face of my champion. And of all the people who could have rescued me this time, it’s the boy who’s not my brother. He’s squatting in front of me, his eyes clouded with concern. His mouth moves as he speaks, and I crane my neck to see past him.

I struggle to my feet, Charles supporting me and all the while still talking in my ear. Tim wouldn’t actually leave just because he was told to, would he? I whisper with a pang of hope, “Fear?” No answer. No tang of terror. Just then the clock chimes in the hall. I’m late for school. A simple thought, reflex.

“Elizabeth, answer me, damn it!” My not-brother’s face looms close, demanding and concerned.

“Charles?” I squint, as if he’s an apparition that’ll disappear any second. When I realize that he’s real, he’s not going to fade, I ask with slight disbelief, “What are you doing here?” I see that Courage is gazing at me, his hand on Charles’s shoulder.

“Only for you would I risk coming back here,” Courage tells me solemnly.

My not-brother is still holding my arm, and when he sees that I’m finally lucid, he lets out a breath of relief and lets go.

“Are you all right?” he says rather than answering. “When I first came in, it seemed like you were in pretty bad shape. I had to take care of Tim, so I left you for just a second, and when I came back, you were passed out. But now it doesn’t look that bad.”

He and Courage watch as I study my arms, legs. Nothing. No bruises, no cuts. No pain. My throat is fine. I must have healed as I slept. I look at Charles again, at his achingly familiar mop of hair, ruddy skin, fidgeting hands. Of all the people I would have expected to save me, he was the unlikeliest possibility. “What are you doing here?” I repeat. I already know, of course, but for some reason I need to hear the words out loud.

Charles just shrugs. “I had a bad feeling. I came back to make sure you’re doing okay, and I heard … should I take you to the hospital?”

“I’m fine. I think I’ll even go to school today.” I rest my hand on his arm, right next to Courage’s dark-skinned fingers. The Emotion’s heat enfolds me, and my quailing insides calm a little. “Charles,” I say. Just the one word, just his name. He has to hear the question in it. We’re standing in the middle of my room, surrounded by the mural, by the pieces of the past, the truth that I’m not his sister. We both know it—but still, Charles came back. I didn’t expect this. Very few times in my life have I been wrong about a person.

Experiencing Courage’s influence for the first time, Charles makes a choice. He reaches for me and jerks me to him for a quick, awkward hug. I hug him back. When he pulls away, my brother clears his throat. He does it again. Finally he blurts, “I’m going to be here from now on, all right?” He means to sound gruff, but his tone is laced with relief and a faint tinge of pride. Right before Courage disappears, I catch sight of a tiny smile curving the Emotion’s normally serious lips.