What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) (9 page)

At one point the rope slipped from the grasp of those hauling and, for a few sickening seconds, I tumbled back down. The rope caught, did not break and I was slammed up against the splintery wood above me, then smashed back down to the cage’s floor.

I heard quite clearly, “If you guys let her fall into the river, they’ll kill you.”

“But they’re going to kill her anyway.”

“They want her brought to the square. Alive.”

They managed to drag the cage over the edge of the bridge’s railing and hoisted it onto the back of a flatbed truck. I couldn’t see anything clearly—not their hands, not their faces—but I was sure they were the normal ones, like Jendra and William. Not the Black Riders. The Black Riders were waiting for me somewhere nearby.

Someone drove the truck away from the bridge and through the downtown area of the city. The ones who had lifted me clung to the back of the truck, to the roof of the cage as we rode. They whooped and shouted, playfully trading insults, trying to shove each other off the back.

The truck snaked its way through narrow canyons, between rows of tall buildings. The streets had a cleared center lane along the route we took, abandoned vehicles shoved aside to make room. Crouched in back, I watched the dark streets flow past like I was in a boat going upriver.

The truck pulled onto an open space nine blocks in from the bridge and again squealed to a stop
—
the square someone wanted me brought to. I couldn’t see much beyond the center of the open space where the bonfire was already roaring.

The cage was taken from the truck and carried past the fire. The warmth of the flames intoxicated me and I wanted to crawl up close. I felt so weary, so lifeless. The cage was taken farther from the fire than I wanted and set on top of a piece of sculpture made to look like the base of a broken white column.

A tarp was thrown over the top of the cage like I was a bird meant to go to sleep for the night. There were shouts, running footsteps, the crackle and hiss of the flames. Then the drumming started, ragged and uncertain at first but building in intensity. The boombox was switched on and someone ripped the tarp away.

Dancers like black shadows, weaving their way through the pulsing glow of the firelight.

Howling, wailing, maniacal laughter, as if the long-dead residents of an old lunatic asylum have come back to life.

A dark silhouette presses itself against the bars of my cage and screams right in my face. I shut my eyes so I can’t see its features.

I try to scrunch down into nothing. I would disappear if I could. Even though I’m shaking, trembling, unable to keep still, there’s a numbness creeping over me. My thoughts are slowing. It’s too much. Too much to see, too much to hear. I wonder if the purpose of all this is to drive
me
insane.

The inky, limber shapes of the dancers throw themselves about, twirl apart and slam against each other, working themselves up into a convulsive frenzy. They aren’t really moving to the beat of the drums or the screech and thud of the electronica, they’re just shaking uncontrollably, like they’re having seizures.

But the strangest thing I see, framed against the light of the bonfire, are two of these creatures slow dancing. Oblivious to all the others. Pressed tight together, like the dancing is just an excuse for them to grope each other.

It’s the others, the normal-looking ones, the Jendras and Williams, who pound the drums, keep beating out a ragged rhythm, trying to compete with the blare of the boombox.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the drumming, using it to drown out the shrieks of the wraiths. I slip back to the memory of a Native American ceremony I saw as a child on a school field trip. I can see myself as a little girl, sitting on a bench in a smoky longhouse while dancers in raven and salmon masks whirl by.

Then, so abruptly it makes me jump, the noise of the boombox is cut. The sound of the drumming follows, dying away, a few erratic beats thumped out here and there until the drummers have all risen to their feet. Others from different parts of the square, from farther back in the dark, move forward to join them.

The shadowy dancers have stopped dancing. They are right beside me, pacing like wolves around all sides of the cage.

They press in closer. I can’t tell how many there are. When a gust of wind blows in my direction, I get a whiff of that strange smell I caught before while riding in the van, a mix of copper or burnt wiring with something spoiled, rotting. But the smell blends with smoke blown my way from the bonfire and I might just be imagining it.

Some of the creatures carrying torches raise them up high, turning their faces away from the flames as if holding the flickering light so close hurt their eyes. I can’t see much of them, of their flesh. They all wear much the same costume, baggy black pants and black jackets with hoods, shiny black boots. Their faces are pale, their eyes dark.

They’re not like us.

The thought fills my mind.

These
are
the Black Riders, the rulers of this city, now celebrating before the fire. They seem more like wraiths than ever—spirits, phantoms. I both want to and am terrified of seeing them up close but I’m certain of one thing—
they’re not like me
. I feel it in my bones that they don’t look, move, smell, speak, think like Jendra or William or Emily or Stace or me.

Then one of them comes up to the cage behind me and slaps its hand hard against the bars. I wince and try to curl tighter into myself, hugging my legs, scrunching my chin against my kneecaps. It’s grown so quiet that all I can hear are the hisses and pops the bonfire makes and the sound of wood toppling in on itself.

More of them move in. They’re not breathing heavily. They’re not winded. I see the dim outlines of hands pressed against the bars, black shapes looming over me. The thought of one of them reaching in to grab me is unbearable.

As if reading my mind, one of them breaks the silence by saying, “You’re not going to try to pull her out, are you?”

“God no. Touch that thing? Disgusting.”

There’s a clap of hands loud enough to be cymbals crashing. “
All right!”
It’s a female’s voice as sure of itself as a general. There’s a pause and I imagine the speaker peering around at the others, demanding their attention. “It’s decision time. I want suggestions for how we’re going to dispose of her.”

There’s chatter, laughter. Then someone close to her says, “We should take her back to the river, Moira. Throw her in.”

Moira.
That name. I remember hearing the others on the bridge say about her,
She’s going to take over.

“We should have just built the fire on the bridge and cut the rope. Imagine what she’ll go through, sinking to the bottom trapped in that cage.”

They’re giving voice to the nightmare I had been living with all day while I hung suspended above the water. It occurs to me,
Why didn’t they just cut the rope instead of putting me through all of this?

Moira says, “That’s one option—”

“Just throw her on the fire,” another voice shouts. “In that cage…”

“Beheading. I like beheading.”

Moira laughs, a sour little laugh. “All right. There’re a thousand things we can do. I think we should let her out first. I want her to see Gideon. I want her to know why we’re doing this to her. I want her to see what she did. Agreed?”

“And then the fire?” someone asks.

“I like that idea,” Moira says. “Burning her like a witch.”

“A heretic, like Joan of Arc,” a male voice says.

“Not like Joan-of-freaking-Arc,” Moira spits back at him. “She’s a witch if she’s anything.”

“Some people thought Joan of Arc was a witch.”

“She’s just a plain, freaking witch. End of story,” Moira shrieks. Her voice is unnaturally loud, like it’s amplified. It makes my ears hurt.

There’s another pause and I imagine Moira looking around to see if anyone is going to dare contradict her. “Children!” she calls out at last. She has grabbed a torch from one of the other Black Riders. By its light I can see her beckoning those waiting near the bonfire forward—the normal ones, the ones like me.

I stare at her, not realizing I’m doing so. I both want and don’t want to see her clearly. It amazes me that I’m actually frightened of getting a good look at her face after all I’ve been through. But I have a feeling the faces of these creatures must be altered, twisted in ways I can’t comprehend.

I catch myself staring and turn away but before I do I see that Moira, too, is averting her eyes from the torch’s glare. I get a glimpse of jet black hair framing the pale moon of her face, black lips and dark eyes but the shape of her nose, her mouth is indistinct.

The normal ones hesitate. I see them shuffling around, exchanging glances in the glow of the bonfire. Finally they start to slowly approach. I can’t tell how large the group is but I get the feeling there are more of them then there are Black Riders. Maybe fifteen, twenty kids my age. They move a little closer to the Black Riders and stop.

Moira says impatiently, stamping her foot, “One of you better get your ass over here now. Bring the key and open this damn thing.”

I see the group pushing a tall, thin boy forward. He stumbles, tries to retreat. Moira hisses. He starts moving toward the cage, his head bent, looking like he’s about to be beaten.

I scurry back as he draws near. I begin thinking that if they release me I will go down fighting. I will bite, kick, punch, scratch, smash them with my forehead—anything but let them take control of me again. Anything but let them put me to death on their terms.

The boy fumbles with the padlock dangling from the door of the cage, starts to tug on it like it will magically snap open. “A key, Carson. I think you need a key,” I hear Moira say, her voice corrosive.

The boy called Carson lets go of the padlock and turns toward her, head bowed. “I don’t have the key.” His voice trembles, on the edge of tears.

“My God! You—Are you all complete idiots?” She waves the torch at the others, shouts at them, “Does
anyone
have the key?”

No one responds.

“Say something please.” At last a girl with a cloud of long dark hair pipes up. “We don’t have it on us. We left it somewhere.”

Someone else says, “But we can get it for you.”

Moira spits at the boy called Carson. “You are useless. All useless.” She begins to pace madly, shaking the torch in the faces of the normals. Her voice makes her sound hysterical. “You get this cage open in two minutes or less or it’s one of you who’ll be tossed on the fire.”

The boy runs back to the group and there’s a lot of pushing and shoving and whispering. Finally, he and another normal hurry to where the truck was left parked at the edge of the square.

“Don’t touch my truck,” one of the black wraiths barks and the boys freeze in their tracks. I hear this man’s voice curse and catch a glimpse of a black shape flitting toward the truck. The voice is from my ride in the van. I recognize it as the voice of the one they called Bodie, the driver. A door slams and soon he’s back.

Bodie hurls something into the middle of the pack of normals and confusion erupts with cries of pain. Some of them stumble back, fall on the ground. A heavy piece of metal clangs to the brick at their feet. Carson picks whatever it is up and runs back to the cage. Like he’s possessed, he takes this thing, a crowbar, and begins whacking at the top of the padlock.

The sound of metal striking metal, the vibrations from the impact of each blow, rattle through every inch of my body. I back away as far as I can, pressing myself against the bars, mindlessly clawing at the floor of the cage with my fingernails as if I could tunnel my way out.

The lock breaks open. In triumph, Carson pulls it free from the latch and brandishes it like a trophy. Moira storms forward. “Get out of the way.” She’s about to shove Carson aside with an outstretched hand but just before she touches him she stops herself. She holds a bloodless hand outstretched for a moment as if surprised by what she was about to do, then yanks it back. Carson hurries away.

She turns back to the cage. I watch that pale white hand reach out and snatch the cage’s door open. There’s a groan of resistance from the rusted iron. “Come out, little thing,” she coos. That coppery, moldy smell grows stronger and bile pushes at my throat. The smell—I wasn’t imagining it.

This is it
.

My thoughts slow. My heart pounds, my pulse races.

Leave the cage.

But I have to scramble past her.

You can’t stay where you are.

I want to fling myself out of the cage, push myself up from the ground and run as fast as I can but I’m so afraid of her grabbing me, snatching me before I can get past her. I stay pressed against the iron bars until another of the creatures thrusts their torch against my back.

This time I hurl myself at the cage’s door but stop on the brink, my hands clutching the bars on either side. Moira steps back, motions to the group of normals. “Come here, all of you. Pull her out.” Soon hands are clutching me. I scramble backward but feel the heat of the torch. I have no choice but to let them drag me out.

When my feet hit the ground and I’m standing straight, I try to lash out, beat them back, clear enough space so I can run. But being caged up, cramped and immobile for so long has taken its toll—a spasm of pain shoots up my back, across my shoulders. My legs turn to rubber and I slump to the ground like an empty suit of clothes.

Two of the normals grab my arms and haul me up. Two boys at either side hold me steady.

“Good,” Moira says. “Now comes the part where we show her what she’s done.” I struggle, furious at my weakening body, but others grab the back of my coat, press in close all around me.

The Black Riders have retreated into the shadows. I can no longer see any of them. The boys clutching my arms drag me along, my feet bumping across the bricks, hands pushing at me from behind.