The Dark Divine(78)

I screamed. It was such a shrill, foreign noise I didn’t realize it was coming from me at first. But I couldn’t stop.

The hulking shadow lunged at me.

I turned to run, but I tripped over something lying in the street.

The bear man caught me, crushing me around the middle as it wrenched me up away from Pete’s crumpled body. The beast held my back to its chest, its ragged breath in my ear. I kicked at its tree-stump legs. I screamed louder, even though I knew no one in the school would hear me over the thumping music. A huge hand clamped over my face, covering my mouth and nose—silencing me.

“Don’t scream.” His voice was trilling, almost crying. He was afraid. “Please don’t scream, Miss Grace.” He wasn’t a monster at all.

“Don?” I tried to say, but his hand pressed so hard over my mouth, no sound came out.

“I didn’t mean it. He was hurting you. I thought he was the monster. I had to stop him. I’m supposed to be a hero just like my granddaddy taught me.” Don’s knife scraped my arm as he held me. It was sticky and wet with Pete’s blood. “But he’s not the monster, is he?” Don’s voice grew shriller. “He’s … just a boy.” His hand tightened over my face. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

I couldn’t breathe. I tried to tell him to let go, but I had no voice. I clawed at his hand.

“You can’t scream, Miss Grace. You can’t tell nobody. Pastor will be mad. He’ll send me away like he almost did after the fire. I didn’t mean it. I was trying to help.”

Blood dripped off the knife—it slithered down my arm.

“You can’t tell nobody!” Don bawled. A hot tear landed on my shoulder.

Stop! You’re hurting me. I can’t breathe!

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it,” Don cried over and over again. His hand tightened around my face as he sobbed, almost as if he didn’t realize I was there anymore.

I blinked, fighting the long wispy fingers of darkness that slipped in behind my eyes. My body felt limp, uncontrollable. I couldn’t fight the dark any longer.





THREE YEARS AGO




I stared into the still, quiet darkness from the front-room window. Watching. Waiting.

Mom paced behind me. “I don’t know where he could be,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “The Nagamatsus said he left Scouts two hours ago.”

Dad said good-bye to the person on the phone and came out of the study.

“Who was it?” Mom practically sprang on him.

“What did they say?”

“Don,” Dad said. “There’s a problem at the parish.”

Mom’s breath caught. “Jude?”

“No. Something with the remodeling.”

“This late?”

The keys jangled as Dad took them off the hook. “I’ll be back soon.”

“But what about Jude?”

Dad sighed. “He’s a good kid. If he isn’t home by the time I get back, then we’ll start to worry.”

Mom made a noise like she didn’t agree with that plan.

My gaze didn’t leave the blackness of the night. The storm clouds parted, and I thought I saw something moving near the walnut tree. I leaned into the window.

“Jude,” I said. “I see him.”

“Thank goodness,” Mom said, but her voice had that edge to it like she was preparing a lecture.

“You could always get him a cell….” I started in on my favorite topic, but then I noticed that Jude wasn’t walking toward the house from the side yard—he was stumbling.

And why was his face smeared with chocolate syrup?

Jude grabbed the porch railing. His legs folded under him, and he crumpled onto the porch steps.

“Jude!” I ran to the front door, but Dad was already there.

“No, Gracie,” Mom shouted.

I couldn’t see over their bodies that filled the doorway. “What happened?” I tried to squeeze between them.

“Da—” I heard Jude sputter. He coughed like he was choking. “Dan—”

Dad pushed me back. “Get away, Gracie.”

“But—”

“Go to your room!”

And suddenly I was being pushed up the stairs. I couldn’t see anything beyond my mother’s body and her shoving hands.

“Room, now. Stay there.”

I ran to my bedroom and pushed up the blinds. I couldn’t see the porch or anything that was going on with Jude. But something else caught my eye. It was something white yet shadowed in the full moon’s glow, crouching under the walnut tree, watching what I couldn’t see on the porch. I squinted, trying to make out what it was, but it receded into the shadows and vanished.

“I’m sorry,” the darkness whispered, cutting off the forgotten memory in my head. It was one of those phantom voices from so long ago. It was too far away and I tried to reach for it, but something bound me tight—I couldn’t remember what.

“I’m sorry, Don,” the phantom said.

The voice was followed by a thump, a metallic clink, and half a gasp. The bands that held me fell away, and I felt the rushing of wind, then hardness under my back, and warmth pressing over my lips.