The Cemetery Boys (19 page)

The blade appeared between blurs of motion as all three of us fought for control. I heard my dad say, “Stop it! All of you! Before someone gets h—”

Cara jerked her arm back. The metal weapon sang through the air, and when it connected, tender skin burst open wide. Blood spurted from the exposed artery, spattering one of the headstones in crimson. Screams tore through my throat, echoing into the night. It was over now. It was all over.

The pain was unbearable. My knees buckled. All around me the sounds, smells, sights of night swirled into a blur. They had won. Death had not yet come, but he was already in his chariot and well on his way.

As I crumpled to the ground, I met Cara's eyes. She looked shaken for all of a heartbeat, but then her face settled to stone. She didn't regret a thing. Devon placed a calming hand on her shoulder, and they turned to walk away. Cam looked like he might throw up, but Nick and Thorne had the same cold expressions as their leaders. One by one, the boys followed Devon and Cara out of the cemetery, out of the torched remains of our Playground.

My father lay on my lap with a desperate, panicked look on his face. His left hand clutched his wounded neck.
Blood pooled quickly all around us, darkening the ground. I gripped his shoulders and tried to lift him, but he was too heavy. “Dad, you have to get up. We have to get you to a doctor. Everything will be okay.”

I started to slide out from under him, my mind racing, but he stopped me by gripping my wrist with his free hand. “I wanted more for you, Stephen. Remember that. Will you?”

“Stop talking like that. I'm going to get help.”

“I wanted more for you than this damn town has to offer. Promise me you'll get out, first chance you get. Forget about revenge. Nothing ever changes here. Just get out.” He coughed and his grip on me weakened. “Promise.”

He was barely whispering now, and the realization that I was losing him hit me hard.

“I promise,” I said.

The life left his body. Sorrow and fury and loss welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I didn't know what I was going to do.

I only knew that the Winged Ones had been appeased by my father's sacrifice. The sounds of their beating wings had stopped.

The reservoir looked black, even though it was the middle of a chilly fall day. I attributed the water's color to the steel gray sky above, but maybe it was something else. Maybe the water was simply reflecting my mood. Or maybe it was a sign that more bad times were coming to Spencer.

I tried not to think about that. Instead, I stood there on the cliff where Devon and the boys had initiated me into their group at the beginning of the summer, and thought about everything that had happened since the night my dad died. Since the night Cara killed him.

Behind me, in the Playground, there was a new grave.
My father's grave. I guess he'd never leave Spencer now.

I didn't hang out in the Playground anymore. The only reason I'd come here now was the note Markus had left on my window. After everything we'd been through, I still felt a kinship with him. He was like me—just a guy trying to get by in this world. So if he wanted to talk, I wanted to listen. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it need of a friend.

After my dad died, I'd half expected my grandmother to soften. But she remained as bitter and stuck as she had been before, and if anything, she became worse. She did put up a photo of my dad as a kid by the kitchen sink, but she never could bring herself to say that she missed him.

I missed him. What's more, I respected and appreciated him. He'd finally grown a backbone and had come to find me when I'd needed him the most.

Officer Bradley led a pretty involved investigation into my dad's death, during which both Cara and Devon were detained and questioned. But before long, Nick came forward and confessed to killing my dad and setting the Playground on fire. He said that he'd snapped. He said that none of the other boys or Cara had been involved at all. It was probably the most talking that the quiet boy had ever done. The twins were released into Martha's laughable custody.

Small towns protected their secrets, it seemed.

No one believed a word I said about what had happened
in the Playground that night. And since then, not a single person in town would meet my eyes, not even Ms. Rose. Spencer had become an incredibly lonely place. Lonelier than it had been when I first arrived.

But I knew the loneliness wouldn't last forever. The second I turned eighteen, I was out of here, and unlike my dad, I was never coming back. In my bedroom, inside the drawer of my nightstand, sat an early acceptance letter from the University of Colorado in Boulder. They were impressed that I was taking classes at the community college. As I had said on the application, Spencer High was just too concerned with cliques for me. Beside the letter sat my sketches, the ones I'd made based on Devon's journal and couldn't bring myself to throw away. My future, right next to my past.

Of course, most nights, when I woke up screaming, the past didn't seem so past.

“Hey.” Markus's voice, accompanied by the sound of his approaching footsteps. His sneakers crunched over gravel and fallen leaves before falling silent beside me.

A group of crows was circling the air over the peninsula on the other side of the water. I watched them for a moment before responding. “I heard you're moving back to Atlanta soon.”

“Yeah. Next week.” We hadn't spoken since I'd visited him in the hospital that day. The one time I'd gone to his
house to see how he was doing, his mom told me he was out, hanging with the boys. Scot was back with the group, too. Maybe their involvement was all for show. Maybe it was so they'd live to make it out for good. I didn't know. I didn't care. “I heard you're moving back to Denver soon.”

“Yeah.” Boulder was close enough to Denver to say he was right. I wished I didn't have to wait.

“Got family there?” He was struggling to make small talk that I didn't want. The awkwardness between us was so strange.

“My mom's there.” It felt weird to talk to him about her. But I was less sad when she came up in conversation now—not that she did that much anyway. Mom and I had been chatting over the phone once a week since Dad's death. She'd become a part of my life again. Her doctors said the new meds were promising, so who knew what awaited me back in Denver? She'd still have to be institutionalized, but to answer Markus's question: yes . . . I had family there.

Markus nodded and looked around, as if waiting for the right words to find him.

My tongue tasted bitter. “What do you want?”

“Cara sent me. With a message.”

“I don't want to hear it.” It was a lie. And we both knew it.

“She misses you.”

I swallowed hard. My throat felt like it was lined with
sandpaper. I had to resist the urge to ask why she hadn't come to talk to me herself. Not that I would have shown up if she'd asked. Or maybe I would have. I was still confused over the whole thing. I missed her. I hated her. Didn't get much more confusing than that.

Markus shoved his hands in the pockets of his black wool peacoat and looked at the ground between his feet. If he was hoping I'd make him feel better, he was hoping for something that I just couldn't give. He said, “Devon and the boys, too. We all . . . we all miss you.”

I ran a thumb across the scar on my left wrist. It would never heal. Some scars never did.

Hating that I missed the boys, too, even after all that they had done, I said, “Maybe you should've all thought about that before murdering my dad.”

“Stephen, I didn't—I wouldn't—” Tears filled his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks, as he looked at me. “I tried to warn you.”

“Oh yeah, you were incredibly helpful, Markus. What stopped you from saying, ‘This group I hang with are all psychopaths. Run for your life'?” I raised my voice and narrowed my gaze, hot anger welling up inside of me, masking my pain.

Markus's eyes widened. “I . . . I didn't really know, Stephen. I mean, I'd guessed that Devon had something to do
with his dad's death, and I knew that Cara wanted us to stay away from you, but I had no idea it would ever get to that point, and I—I was scared, Stephen. I still am.”

He had every right to be. Markus was a soldier in Devon's army, with Cara giving the orders. What choice had he had? Still. That didn't mean I was ready to forgive him. “Just . . . just tell them if they value their lives, they'll stay away from me.”

His words came out in whispers. “They might not listen.”

A breeze picked up, rustling the trees around us. Spying something on the ground by my feet, I crouched and picked it up, my eyes moving from it to the crows across the water. I stayed there, perched near the cliff the way Devon used to perch on his tombstone. “I know.”

It felt like days before Markus spoke again. And when he did, his words came out hushed. “I'm sorry. For everything.”

“You should be.”

He sighed and turned to leave. But he only got about five steps before he paused and faced me.

“At least the bad times are over now.”

I wanted to punch him. But I couldn't deny that it was true, for some people anyway. The new and improved theater was up and playing horror movies again. A new auto-parts factory had opened right outside Spencer, and for the first
time in years, things were looking up.

“Yeah.” I stood, then stretched out my arm and opened my fingers, dropping the object I'd picked up. The long, black feather floated down in a spiral, breaking the surface of the water just before I turned away.

I have always been drawn to darker things. From a very young age, I sought out shadows in all forms of entertainment. Some people are just that way, I suppose. But it was my dad, Marlin Truax, who fed my infatuation with the strange and macabre from a very young age. From the first time we watched Rod Serling together, I knew that I had found my core. Thanks, Dad. For warping my impressionable mind in the best way possible.

This book would not be what it is without the hard work of a fellow beautifully twisted mind—my brilliant editor, Andrew Harwell. Andrew, it has been my pleasure to take
your hand and lead you through the streets of Spencer. It has been my dark delight to watch as you pointed out the shadows that I had not yet seen. This book is evidence of our journey, and I look forward to many more together.

My career wouldn't be what it is without the insight, wisdom, guidance, and invaluable support of the best damn agent in the world, my friend Michael Bourret. Michael, I can't thank you enough for always having my back, seeing me through every obstacle, and cheering over every success. You are, in a word, amazing. Thank you.

Sanity is a fragile thing. I am fortunate in that I have a wonderful sister by the name of Dawn Vanniman who keeps mine (relatively) intact. Dawn, you are one of the few people whom I trust implicitly and whom I cannot be without. You are my closest confidant, my dearest friend, and I will always love you and appreciate everything about you. Especially your strength and ability to overcome.

I owe every single member of my hardworking, kick-butt team at HarperTeen a huge hug and undying gratitude. Everything that every one of you has done or will do for me, for authors and teens everywhere, is so deeply appreciated. I know I will forget someone, but my heartfelt thanks go to my peeps at school and library, marketing and publicity, Team Epic Reads, the cover gods over at the art department, and the mail room guys, too.

I have always told my children that “you will find your people.” It's something that I firmly believe, even though it has taken me a long time to experience. I have found my people. They are you, members of my Minion Horde. You are my people, Minions, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Together we have faced Elysia, survived the Slayer Society, fought off Graplars, and come together against bullying. We are unstoppable. Please keep being your weird, wonderful selves. And remember—Auntie Heather loves you.

An enormous part of my thanks must go to the man himself, my personal hero, Mr. Stephen King. I know that you may never read this book, but I want you to know that you are the drive behind my love of the written word. In short, if not for you, Mr. King, I would not be following my dreams. So thank you. With much love, from Constant Reader.

But most of my gratitude belongs, of course, to the Brewer Clan. Paul, Jacob, and Alexandria, you are my everything. No one has supported me the way that you have. No one has loved me the way that you have.

(Except for the kittehs. Because . . . well . . . you know.)

We have been up. And we have been down. But the important thing is that we have been together. I love you all. Thank you. For everything.