Soul Screamers Volume Four: With All My Soul\Fearless\Niederwald\Last Request: 4 (47 page)

She was afraid now—the real BethAnne trembled beneath me on her mattress, so small and scared—but I needed more. There is a well of true terror in everyone’s heart, and she was hiding hers from me instinctively.

No fair holding back.
I wanted it all.

The Sleepwalking me leaned forward and stared down at BethAnne in her bed. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her fists clenching the sheet at her sides.

I closed my eyes again and swiped an eraser over my mental whiteboard. In her dream, the concrete beach disappeared, along with the dry ocean bed. But the bars remained, and BethAnne could see nothing beyond them but a yawning black abyss. I’d left her no sign that the rest of the world still existed.

She opened her mouth for a scream, and I gave back her voice. But the blackness devoured it the moment the sound flowed past the bars. No one would hear her. No one would see her. She could scream, and cry, and bang on the window all day, but...

Wait, window?

And that’s when I saw through the cracks and into that well she’d tried to keep from me. I fell into the well and landed in the middle of her
true
nightmare—the remembered terror I’d somehow recreated for her with no conscious thought. I was on autopilot, gorging on her fear without noticing the changes until they’d gone too far.

BethAnne whimpered.

A basement, pitch-dark, but for the pitiful streetlight shining through a narrow, filthy window at the top of one wall. A child version of BethAnne sat in the stretched rectangle of dirty light, tiny arms hugging her knees. Something skittered in the corner, and BethAnne sobbed. Her empty stomach growled and cramped. Her tongue felt thick and dry. She’d wet herself the day before.

The stairs were lost in darkness and the door at the top was locked from the outside. With a padlock. BethAnne had gotten out of the house once when her mother went out, and someone called social services. Mommy wasn’t taking any chances this time. She had to keep her daughter safe from nosy strangers with cell phones. Safe from anything until Mommy came back with food and water, smiling and playing the hero. And when she did, BethAnne would love her, and hug her, and cling to her shining salvation. So what if her savior was also her jailor?

But what if her mommy didn’t come back this time? What if no one ever heard BethAnne again?

Beneath me, her heart beat faster. Too fast. She was sweating now, and her pulse was irregular.

Too much. Too far.
What kind of sick-ass parent would do that to a kid? No wonder BethAnne kept that one buried.

Maybe I was better off without a mom.

I opened my eyes and withdrew from her dream, and without my will to support it, BethAnne’s nightmare collapsed like a house of cards. I was done with her. Just like some restaurants are too dirty to eat at, for fear of finding roaches in my fries, some fears are too filthy to consume, for fear of planting rot in my own soul.

Her breathing slowed, and I slid off her. BethAnne rolled onto her side. She pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked one hand beneath her cheek. Silent tears streaked her face, but she breathed deeply now, without my weight to constrict her lungs. She looked so vulnerable—a larger version of the girl huddling in the basement—and suddenly I wished I’d chosen someone else to feed from on my first night at Holser. Someone a little less damaged.

I was warm and full—nearly glutted—but the meal sat heavy on my soul, like bad fish in my gut. There was nothing left to do but lie awake in my bed and wait for morning. And try to forget BethAnne’s basement, and the fact that I—a walking Nightmare—had been outplayed by the memory of an ordinary, human nightmare of a mother.

* * *

Morning couldn’t come fast enough. It never did. You’d think I’d be used to that, after fifteen years of lying awake in bed—I only seem to need three to four hours of sleep—but it never gets easier to fill the empty hours when you can’t do anything without waking someone else up.

When I was four, I’d learned not to ever, ever wake anyone else up.

By five forty-five in the morning, I’d had all the nighttime I could take, and by six-fifteen, I was showered, dried, dressed, brushed, and scowling at the locked cafeteria door.

“I don’t serve breakfast until seven-thirty,” a voice said from behind me, and I turned to find a blue-eyed woman in khakis and a green button-down shirt. Around her neck hung an official laminate ID, reading Kate Greer. “Most of the girls aren’t even awake this early in the summer.”

“I’m not most of the girls.” But I was starving for actual food, now that my more exotic hunger had been temporarily satisfied.

“Then you must be Sabine,” Greer said, and I nodded. “Well, Sabine, how ’bout this—I’ll let you eat now, if you help me serve breakfast afterward.”

“Yeah, I guess.” First served, plus I wouldn’t have to pretend not to notice the others avoiding me.

“Great. That’ll fulfill your chore requirement for today, too. Follow me.” Greer pulled a pink coiled key chain from her pocket and unlocked the door, then led the way through the dining room into the kitchen, where the combined scents of bacon, butter, and syrup were enough to make my head swim.

“Why is the food ready, if you don’t serve it for another hour?” I asked, staring at the serving line, where steam rose from slits in aluminum foil covered buffet trays.

“Because I feed the day shift before their shift starts.”

“That’s really cool of you.” And probably not a requirement of her position.

“I don’t mind. Help yourself.” She pointed to a stack of plastic trays at one end of the serving line. So I did.

I scarfed pancakes, bacon, and juice while the day shift techs and staff members wandered in alone or in pairs.

None of them sat near me. A couple smiled—I’d seen them the day before—but when my gaze met theirs, they looked away and hurried past my table. My creepy factor was strongest after a good meal, and I’d fed well the night before.

Kate Greer was the only staff member so far who didn’t seem in a hurry to get rid of me. After I ate, she gave me an apron and a pair of tongs. “You do bacon and I’ll handle the pancakes. If they want seconds, they have to wait until everyone else has eaten. Got it?”

I nodded just as the first residents pushed through the double doors into the cafeteria. Twenty minutes later, when everyone had been served, Greer’s pile of pancakes had dwindled to a single stack of five, but my bacon tray was still full. I’d only served two girls. All the others had passed with one glance at me.

“That’s weird.” Greer frowned as I covered the full tray. “Bacon’s usually a hit. Now what am I going to do with all this?”

I had no answer, so I hung up my apron and crossed the cafeteria in silence, avoiding eye contact while I was still so warm and full—and obviously sending out creepy-vibes—from BethAnne’s nightmare.

It wouldn’t take long for Greer to notice that no one was eating whatever I was dishing out. I’d have to find a more solitary house chore and wait to eat with the general population, no matter how loud my impatient stomach complained.

At least the nighttime buffet is plentiful.

Or so I thought....

* * *

I spent most of my second day at Holser House alone in my room, avoiding people so they couldn’t avoid me. That night, I was still pretty full—or at least not starving—from BethAnne’s nightmare, so I decided not to feed, hoping people would find me a little less creepy the next day. It turns out solitude is a lot easier to deal with when foster parents are the only people trying to ignore you. Though I would never have admitted it, being alone in a house full of girls my own age...well, that kind of sucked.

And it made me miss Nash even more. He and his family were the only ones I’d ever met who didn’t mind me hanging around—probably because they weren’t human, either. Knowing
why
I was creepy had gone a long way toward helping them get over it.

Unfortunately, revealing my species to the rest of Holser wasn’t an option. But skipping one meal wouldn’t kill me, right? I’d gone longer than that plenty of times. So that night, while I waited to fall asleep on an empty stomach, I put in my earbuds and listened to the iPod David had given me.

David was generous with his money, but with every gift I accepted, I could feel myself slipping deeper into his debt. Someday he’d expect that debt to be balanced, and I’d have to decide how much I was willing to pay to stay near Nash. Assuming I hadn’t blown that for good by getting sent to Holser.

The next day was Saturday. Visiting day. From 10:00 a.m. on, there were strangers everywhere I turned. At least, that’s what it felt like, though once I started counting, I realized only about a dozen of the girls had company

I wasn’t one of them. Not that I’d expected to be. Jenny was pissed that I’d gotten arrested again—I felt bad about that; I actually liked her—and it wouldn’t look good for David to come see me without her.

So I decided to scout out a suitable meal for that night from among the girls who didn’t have visitors. I tried the common room first, but the only two girls there were talking to parents, one of whom had brought along a kid brother, evidently glued to a 3DS.

The cafeteria was the same, only worse. Several more fractured family units were spread out around different tables, alternately talking, arguing, and sitting in uncomfortable silence. Another point in favor of me not having a real family.

My only other option was the backyard. None of the visitors wanted to leave the air-conditioning for the broiling Texas heat, so all three picnic tables were occupied by Holser residents. The only one I knew by name was Sharise, who sat alone at the shaded end of a concrete picnic table.

I dropped onto the bench across from her. “Hey.”

Sharise looked up from a game of solitaire and met my gaze, unflinchingly. “Hey.”

She hadn’t picked up her cards and run—definitely a good sign. My growing hunger would make it harder for me to read her fear, but easier for her to tolerate my presence. “No company today?”

“Or any other day.” She flipped over a red five and stacked it on a black six. “No one left to come see me ’cept my sister, and she can’t drive yet. What about you?”

Had she just asked me a personal question? That was new. “Same. Minus the sister.”

Sharise nodded like she understood. “You in foster care?”

Wow. Two questions in a row. That was practically a conversation! “I was.” I shrugged, trying not to look shocked as I squinted into the blinding sun. “Not sure anymore.”

Jenny probably wouldn’t let David take me back. I was pretty sure she’d gone out of town that night to get away from me anyway, even if she didn’t really understand her own motivation. She hadn’t been sleeping very well lately—plagued with nightmares of one miscarriage after another, caused by the fear that she’d condemned her husband to a childless life. Well, caused by that, and by
me
.

What she didn’t know was that David’s worst fear was actually being saddled with an infant. He’d been having trouble sleeping lately, too....

“So, how long does this family love-fest last?” I asked, peering through the window at a family in the cafeteria.

“Till five. But everyone with enough privilege points gets to check out for dinner.”

Dinner out? Something told me I wouldn’t be so lucky. Fortunately, so far the food at Holser was much better than I’d expected.

I was oddly reluctant to end the unexpected conversation with Sharise—which would definitely happen once I touched her. But my other hunger had to be satisfied, too.

“Hey, you can use this two on that red three.” I leaned across the table and pulled a card from Sharise’s hand, letting my fingers brush hers in the process. I’d gotten very little from her before, but this time I got nothing. Not a single whiff of fear. Not even the brief spine chill I’d read from her the first time. All I felt from her now was a thick, smoggy kind of peace and acceptance of her past crimes and her conscious decision to move past them.

Sharise stared at me like I’d just snatched a bite of food from her fork. “I got it.” She plucked the card from my hand and played it, then went on with her game without another glance in my direction. Pointedly ignoring me.
I
might not have creeped her out, but my interference in her Solitaire game was definitely unwelcome.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, then stood and wandered away from her table, as confused by her complete lack of fear as I was disappointed to have lost her company. Sharise seemed cool enough; she was certainly nicer than anyone else I’d met at Holser. But making friends—if that was even possible for me—would have been like getting to know my hamburger right before lunch.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Across the yard, a girl I didn’t know sat on another concrete bench, while a second girl perched on the table behind her, braiding long strands of the first girl’s hair. I accidentally-on-purpose bumped their table as I passed and knocked a bag of tiny, neon-colored rubber bands to the ground.

“Sorry.” I knelt to pick them up, and when I handed them to the girl on the bench, our hands touched. I looked into her eyes and felt...nothing. No fear. I saw only patience and a weathered acceptance of Holser House and the part it played in her rehabilitation.

Really? Patience? Acceptance? And no fear?

“What’s your problem?” the girl asked, without any real venom, and that’s when I realized I was frowning at her, still holding the bag of rubber bands while she tried to pull them from my grip.

“Sorry,” I said, for the second time in as many minutes, backing away from the table and into the shade of one of the few trees on the property.

I might not be the poster child for normalcy, but I’d looked into the eyes of at least a hundred girls my own age in the past couple of years and had seen fears ranging in severity from the stereotypical dread of being dumped in public to the shy, quiet girl’s terror that her brother would lose his temper again and beat her to death in her own room. I’d also felt all kinds of accompanying paranoia, insecurity, and rage. But I’d rarely
ever
felt simple, overwhelming patience and acceptance from a normal teenage girl. Much less two in a row. Two parolees, who should—logically—have even more to fear and resent than your average high school girls.