Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (13 page)

There it was again—the tiny crinkling crunch of dry leaves, crushed underfoot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My breath seemed to stick in my chest.
What the hell?
Slowly, I let go of the branch and turned around as quietly as I could. Where had the noise come from? I turned my head, peering into the gloom beneath the trees, but the mottled shadows stirred and shifted as the breeze blew on the leaves above. For one gut-wrenching fraction of a second, a dark shape became the bulk of a man, crouching, ready to spring up from his hiding place among the ferns. I blinked. No. It was just the stump of a broken tree, wrapped in ivy. I swallowed hard and took a breath. And when I looked down, the knife was in my hand. I stared in horror. Without thinking, I’d taken the knife from my belt, and held it out in front of me, ready to strike. The handle was suddenly slippery in my sweaty fingers. I shook my head and lowered the knife. “You’re losing it,” I muttered. “It was probably just a—” But before I could finish my sentence, I heard it again. Closer. And I was sure of it now—someone was coming toward me, creeping carefully over the carpet of dead leaves. I spun around, frantically scanning the forest. And there it was, incredibly close, the biggest deer I’d ever seen in my life. My mouth fell open. The creature was standing sideways on to me, and it obviously didn’t know I was there. It chewed contentedly, then lowered its head to feed. At least, that’s what I thought at first. But then I heard it—the gentle splashing sound I’d been dreaming of. “It’s drinking,” I whispered under my breath. And again, louder, “It’s drinking.”

The deer’s head snapped toward me, its ears pricked forward, then suddenly, it turned and ran for its life, hurtling through the forest with hardly a sound. And I ran too, heading for the place I’d seen the deer drinking.

The stream was very small, but it was the most wonderful sight. I put the knife back in my belt then I knelt down and scooped up the crystal clear water in my hands. Without hesitation, I drank it down in great gulps. It was delicious. I drank more. And more. I drank until my stomach ached and gurgled and then I scooped up more water and splashed it over my face, my hair, the back of my neck. The cold water coursed over my skin, sent shivers tingling down my spine, until finally, I sat back, looked up into the leafy green canopy, and I smiled.

“I’m going to be OK,” I said. And it was true. I had a fire, a good supply of wood and now I had running water. I even had a sharp knife. Sure, it wasn’t enough for the long term, but at least I’d make it through the night. And up until this moment, though I’d tried not to think about it, things hadn’t been looking good. Now the only things I needed were a shelter and something better to eat than dandelion leaves. I laughed.
Dandelion leaves
.
Just wait until I tell Dad about the dandelions
. I pictured his face, imagining his look of utter disbelief. I heaved a sigh. “That’s if I ever…” I started to say. But I couldn’t finish the sentence. I had to get home. I just had to. I rubbed my eyes. I was suddenly very tired. I took one last drink then pushed myself up to my feet. As I stood, the blood rushed to my head and the ground felt unsteady beneath my feet. I staggered sideways a little and put my hand on a tree to keep my balance. “I don’t feel…” I murmured. “I don’t feel too good.” I took a few deep breaths.
I’m getting weak
. I’d been running on empty for too long. I needed to rest and conserve some energy. I needed to get back to the fire.
The fire
. How long had I been away?

Walking as quickly as I could on my unsteady legs, I went back to the fallen tree. I sized up a branch that looked easy to break and grabbed it with both hands. I pulled it downward and twisted it with all the strength I could muster. But when the wood gave way with a loud crack, the branch was suddenly too heavy for me, and as I let it drop to the ground, I almost fell over backward. “Bloody hell,” I muttered. “I’m weak as a baby.”

I stood for a moment and caught my breath. A squirm of queasiness stirred in the pit of my stomach and a cold shiver ran through me. Maybe I shouldn’t have gulped down all that cold water. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten all those dandelion leaves. I grimaced. I definitely shouldn’t have drunk from the muddy puddle. I rubbed my stomach and groaned. I thought of my bed at home, and pictured Mum bringing me a bowl of warm soup. “Maybe later,” I mumbled. “Maybe later.” Slowly, I bent down and picked up one end of broken branch. I didn’t feel up to carrying it, but I reckoned I could drag it, so I set off, trailing the branch along the ground behind me. It was heavy, but it slid easily across the dead leaves on the forest floor. Now I had enough wood, I just had to hope the damned fire hadn’t gone out by the time I got back.

It didn’t take me long to find my way back to the clearing, but by the time I got there, I knew I was ill. Sweat ran down my forehead and my shirt clung to my back. But I was cold. So cold. I couldn’t stop shivering. I dragged the heavy branch to the fireside then sat down heavily and stared at the tiny flickering flames; they were all that remained of my fire. Still, at least it hadn’t gone out.

I threw on a few twigs from the pile, and as the flames revived, I added a few larger sticks. I looked at the branch I’d dragged from the forest. It was far too long for the fire so I’d have to break it up into smaller pieces. But I just didn’t have the strength to tackle it.
I’ll use up the wood pile first
, I thought.
Maybe when the fire picks up, I’ll feel a bit better
.

But when I picked up the last few pieces from the wood pile they were damp. “Oh well,” I said. “They’ll soon dry out.” And I threw them onto the fire anyway.

The damp wood hissed and steamed. I sat and watched the steam curl up and mingle with the smoke until the acrid fumes caught in the back of my throat and made my eyes water. I turned my head away and coughed, rubbing my eyes. With each cough, my stomach churned and squirmed.
Oh god
, I thought.
I’m going to throw up
. And I was right.

I bent over and puked onto the grass. The vomit streamed from my mouth and splashed on the ground; a mess of bitter water and vile green mush. I retched until there was nothing left.

Afterwards, I sat up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Oh man,” I moaned. “That’s bad.” My nose was running and I sniffed, but the stench of vomit set off a fresh wave of cramps in my stomach.
Not again
.
Please not again
. I took a breath, let it out as slowly as I could, then took another gulp of air. I breathed as deeply as I could and stayed perfectly still until the cramps faded away. “Thank God for that,” I mumbled. It was over.

But that didn’t mean I was OK. I was exhausted—weaker than ever. I could hardly hold my head up. My stomach still ached, and though the shivers had gone, my head was killing me. My body was telling me to lie down, and I didn’t have the strength to resist. I turned away from where I’d been sick and I lay on my side on the grass, resting my head on my arm. I didn’t care about the fire anymore. I didn’t care if lying down was the right thing to do or not. I couldn’t think about anything. “I just want to go home,” I whispered. And I closed my eyes.

Chapter 11

2018

AS CALLY’S BUS PULLED IN to her usual stop, she stood in the aisle and waited patiently for a gaggle of gossiping students to let her through to the exit. She stared into the middle distance and tried hard to tune out their cheerful chatter—a babble about nothing more than bars and nightclubs and dancing.
Ah well
,
I suppose it is Friday
.

She stepped down from the bus and trudged along the road, lost in her thoughts. Had she been like that once? Had she giggled with a bunch of friends and talked excitedly about boys and parties? She smiled sadly to herself. No. Going to university had always been her dream, her golden opportunity. It had always been about putting the work in. She wanted—what? To succeed? She sighed and thought of all the times she’d stayed in, hunched over her books while everyone else was out having a good time.
And what’s it all been for?
What have I missed?

By the time she arrived at her front door, she was thoroughly fed up. She let herself in, hoping she’d have the place to herself. It wasn’t likely though. She shared the house with four other girls, all final-year students like her, though all studying different subjects. There was almost always somebody at home. Normally, she quite liked that fact. But not today.

Cally shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, listening. The house was quiet. Perhaps she was in luck. But no. As soon as she opened the kitchen door, she heard the clatter of pots and pans. Gemma stood at the cooker, stirring a pan of something. The smell of herbs and tomato sauce made Cally’s mouth water. Gemma turned to greet her, but her smile quickly faded. “Bloody hell,” Gemma said. “What’s up with you?”

Cally stood in the doorway. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. It’s just…a bad day, that’s all.”

Gemma nodded. “Take your coat off and sit down,” she said. “This has just got to simmer for a while now. I was going to have a coffee—want one?”

Cally managed a small smile. “Thanks,” she said. “That would be nice.” She shut the door and dropped her bag on the floor. She slipped her coat off, draped it on the back of a kitchen chair and sat down with a sigh.

Gemma put a steaming mug of coffee in front of her and sat down opposite her. “There you go,” she said. “It’s even in your favourite mug.”

“Thanks,” Cally said. She held the cup up to her mouth and breathed in the aromatic steam. Gemma was being so nice. Her housemates normally made fun of her habit of using the same mug all the time.
I must look as miserable as I feel
.

“So,” Gemma said, “what’s happened to upset the wonder girl?”

Cally tutted. “Is that what you call me when my back is turned?”

Gemma wrinkled her nose. “No. It’s too sexist. And patriarchal.”

Cally rolled her eyes and laughed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Gemma sipped her coffee. “No, you shouldn’t. Made you smile though.”

Cally sat back and ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah. You got me that time.”

Gemma leaned forward. “Seriously though—what’s the problem?”

Cally looked down at the table and tried to get her thoughts in order. Now that she had to explain it to someone else, it all seemed so silly. “It’s just my stupid dissertation,” she started. And without meaning to, she poured the whole story out to Gemma.

Gemma listened carefully, her head tilted to one side. And when Cally finished, she reached across the table and held Cally’s hand. “That’s awful,” she said.

Cally shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just making a fuss over nothing. I’ll soon catch up.”

Gemma sat up straight. “That’s no good. You can’t just give in. You can’t let that old fool push you around.”

Cally shook her head. “It’s not like that.”

“How is it not like that? That old fart gets you on your own when there’s no one else around. He intimidates you. He bullies you. It’s just plain harassment.”

Cally took a sip of her coffee but it was bitter and already growing too tepid for her taste. Why did Gemma have to turn everything into a battle of the sexes? “The thing is, Gem—he’s got a point. I’ve based the whole project on the wrong thing. I even used some research that turns out to be discredited.”

“No,” Gemma said. “The two things aren’t the same. Just because you’ve lost one piece of evidence, doesn’t mean the whole basis of the project is wrong.”

Cally frowned. “But Doctor Seaton said—”

“Stuff Seaton,” Gemma interrupted. “You don’t have to do what he says, do you?”

“Well, no.” Cally looked down at the table. She drew imaginary circles on its surface with her finger. “It’s not that simple though. He’ll be on the panel.”

Gemma waved Cally’s objection aside. “Listen. I do know about these things. Three years of law has taught me a thing or two. If you felt harassed, he’s on thin ice. One word to the right people and Seaton will be suspended before he knows what’s hit him.”

“No,” Cally murmured. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Gemma shook her head. “Then you’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

Cally looked into Gemma’s eyes. There was so much fire there, so much determination. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was just a case of the old men of the establishment feeling threatened by a young woman with new ideas. “I just don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if I can take that risk.”

Gemma sighed. She leaned forward and took Cally’s hand. “Listen. You’re not like us.”

Cally pulled her hand away and opened her mouth to complain, but Gemma didn’t let her speak.

“Most of us are just plodding along, trying to jump through the right hoops. But you—you’ve got something. And I don’t just mean that you work harder than everyone else, though god knows that’s true. I mean, you’re original. You’re sharp.”

Cally studied Gemma’s face. Was her friend making fun of her? No. That wasn’t Gemma’s style. If she thought you were being stupid she’d tell you to your face. “So, what do I do about it?”