Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-
Eight

My knees are going numb in the snow as I watch them drag Daphne away. If it’s possible to help her, I’m sure they’ll get her the help she needs. And if she’s beyond hope, well, at least they’ll make sure she can’t hurt anyone else. I wonder what could possibly make a child so young behave the way she has. I wonder if she ever really had a chance at a normal life.

She’s screaming, and it’s tha
t same inhuman sound as before. But after all I’ve seen her do, it’s grotesquely fitting. Still, I’m glad when she’s shut into the back of a police cruiser and I can’t hear her anymore.

I look over toward the front of my house and see a cop talking to Sierra, an EMT standing by. Sierra hands over what I recognize vaguely as Daphne’s bloody clothing and I remember how carefully she collected them. It didn’t matter to me then, but now I see it for what it was: Sierra expected to die
. She collected evidence so that justice could be served—even posthumously.

Suddenly Sierra points toward where I’m
kneeling and I think she sees me. But then she turns away again—she’s just telling them what direction I went.

Of course they’re going to look for me now.

I take a page out of Sierra’s book, dropping the knife into the snow where the cops are sure to find it. They’ll need it, and all the blood evidence on it. But they can’t find
me
—not just yet.

One thing at a time
.

Now that I’m done with Daphne, now that my mother is safe, I have one more thing to do.

One more person to save, if I can.

If it’s not already too late.

I steal a final moment to look at my house, at my mother, sobbing in her chair on the front porch. My heart aches for her—especially since her agony is completely my fault—but I turn away. She’s going to have to suffer a little while longer. I’m afraid that’s the price she has to pay for being alive.

Because at this moment there’s only one person in the world who needs me more than she does. And I owe
that person
everything
.

As
I walk, keeping to the trees before popping out on the side of the high school parking lot farthest from my house, I tear strips of denim from where Daphne’s knife shredded my jacket’s sleeve, bandaging my wounds as best I can. I’ve lost enough blood that I’m feeling dizzy; my head is pounding and blackness keeps swimming across my vision, forcing me to pause and rest several times as I wind my way around the high school. It’s a longer path, and it’ll cost me precious minutes, but it’ll keep me out of sight.

But for all that, my whole world seems to be sitting at the opposite end of a tunnel that keeps getting longer
. My entire skull aches and I finally admit to myself that I almost certainly have a concussion on top of everything else. The urge to lie down, to sleep, is almost overpowering. I want to sleep so badly. But I can’t.

Not just yet.

I don’t bother knocking when I get to Sophie’s house. I’m betting that Sophie’s mom hasn’t left her side since I let myself out her front door less than an hour ago, which would mean she didn’t lock the door behind me.

Sure enough, the knob turns and I push the front door open with a soft whisper as it brushes over the carpet. The house is almost silent, but I hear a strange, rhythmic hissing coming from the back of the house. I tiptoe to
the hall and make my way to Sophie’s room. A dim light shines out from under the door, but it’s not all the way closed. The hissing continues; it’s definitely coming from there.

The door opens easily with a slight push from my fingertips.
An oxygen mask is strapped around Sophie’s face and a machine forces air into her lungs, hissing with every breath. Her thin, frail chest rises up and down in tandem with the mechanical whir.

She can’t even breathe on her own.

Sophie’s mom sits beside her daughter with fingers on her wrist and I can almost hear her counting every heartbeat in her head. Sophie did this to herself for me. Trusting her mother to keep her alive, and trusting me to get the job done.

The movement of the door must have caught her mom’s eye because she looks up in worry. Her face darkens immediately
—I must be quite a sight. But she doesn’t seem to care that I’m dirty, disheveled, and covered in blood. All she sees is me—the troublemaker who convinced her daughter to backslide on her recovery
twice
. “You dare show your face here?” she whispers.

I
recoil as if struck, even though I know it’s only her grief speaking. Grief I understand now, at least to some degree. It was that terrible, desperate grief that brought me here to begin with.

“I have an idea.” My voice shakes as I speak. Because even if my idea works, it’s a terrible, terrible risk to myself.

But is it any greater than the risk Sophie took for me?

Sadly, after
Smith, I know that it
might
be a bigger risk.

I can practically hear Sierra’s words echoing in my mind:
I believed with my whole soul that he was someone I could trust.
She’s not wrong, but has anyone ever proven themselves more worthy than Sophie? The answer to
that
is a resounding no.

I have to do it.

“I may be able to help her.”

Sophie’s mom
is watching me skeptically, but there’s a spark of hope in her eyes.

I only pray
I can deliver. It’s just a theory.

“At worst, it won’t do anything, but …”
Darkness is encroaching on my vision again and I know if I don’t sit down, I’m going to
fall
down. “Will she be okay if I lie beside her?” I can hear the slurring of my own words, but I force myself to remain conscious for just a few more seconds. Almost there.

Her mom nods curtly, skepticism still the most prevalent emotion in her expression. But then, she’s watched Sophie do this her whole life. I’ve known Sophie for one
whole week. I’ve known about the existence of Sorceresses
at all
for one week. But the way Sophie felt when I had a vision I’m sure … I think … it’s
got
to work.

I lower myself onto the bed and carefully curl up beside Sophie. I almost pull back. She’s
cold
. She’s not breathing on her own, her heart is barely beating; she really did bring herself to the very brink of death to save my mom. If I had any doubts about what I’m about to do, they’re gone.

I dig out my focus stone
out, grasp it with one hand, and lay the other gently across Sophie. Before I can lose my nerve, I close my eyes at last. My eyelids are too heavy to lift again, but I force myself to say, “I hit my head pretty hard today. If I don’t wake up on my own, you have to shake me awake in an hour. An hour should be enough,” I add in a mumble.
And hopefully not too long for me
. I’ve heard too many stories of people with head injuries going to sleep and never waking up again.

But I can’t consider that now; it’s time to work. The last time I did this it was an accident.

And it was with Jason Smith.

I try to picture that night
, the same night I found out he was the murderer. The night I showed up physically—switching places with Michelle, choosing to face her would-be killer in her place. The killer who turned out to be the same man I thought I was working with to
stop
the killings. In that moment I was desperate to keep him from escaping. It was an instinct, really. Something my body—my mind—knew I could do, but I’d never been taught.

Still,
I did it once—I have to believe I can do it again. I grasp Sophie tighter, ignoring the pain in my arm, and I remember the sensation of reaching out and grabbing Smith, pulling, yanking, sucking him with me as I leapt into my supernatural plane.

I reach for Sophie
and prepare myself to break a solemn promise. It was a good promise—a promise I made to protect myself and the world both. But what good are promises if you can’t save your friends?

I
pull.

Pull.

Pull!

Chapter Twenty-
Nine

Sophie and I tumble onto the mirrored floor of my supernatural plane. She rolls over and lies still, breathing raggedly. Is it because her physical body is having such trouble breathing? Will she regain consciousness? I don’t know all the rules of this place, but lately I’m not sure anyone does. In all of history, has an Oracle brought a Sorceress in like this? Would they admit it if they had?

But
only minute or so passes before Sophie groans, pushing up onto her hands and knees, peering around with wide eyes. “Charlotte, where are we?”

“This is my … my world.”
I’ve never really had to describe it to anyone before. Everyone else who knew about it already knew, far better than I did what it was.

“Yours?”

I nod. “Are you … okay?”

H
er hands travel over her body, then she holds up an arm and stares at it with wide eyes. She looks more like the pictures her mother has hanging in the hallway than the tired, near-emaciated girl I met at school. She’s still ballerina-thin, but the frail gauntness is gone and her arm has a softening layer between the skin and the bones. Her fingers go to her face and I imagine she’s feeling the fact that her cheekbones aren’t so sharp.

After feel
ing her chilly body in the bed a few minutes ago, I want to reach out and touch this new Sophie, simply to make sure she’s
warm
, but I hang back and let her explore herself first.

“Been a long time since I felt this good,” she says at last.

I smile, and it dawns on me that I’m not in any pain, either. The agony has been so constant and overwhelming for the last hour that it almost pushed the memory of
not
hurting out of my head. Instead it’s a new and amazing sensation to simply feel
nothing
.

Maybe I needed this
, too—because it’s not over for me. Not yet. When Mrs. Jefferson shakes me awake, the pain will be back. I try not to think about that now—to enjoy what time remains before I have to return to consciousness in my physical body.

Maybe I’ll be stronger for th
e respite.

“Is your mom okay?” Sophie
ventures reluctantly.

I smile. I can’t help myself. My mom is alive! “Yes,” I breathe. “Thank
s to you.”

“There’s so much power here,” Sophie says after a few moments,
and though she sounds weak, she’s also clearly happy. “It feels like Scuba diving—deep, where the pressure is just amazing, pushing in on you from every direction at once, and everything is so quiet you can hear your heart beating.” She looks over at me and I’ve never seen such joy shining out of her face. “Do you know what I mean?”

I shake my head. Sierra has worked hard to keep me safe my entire life, so I’ve never been anywhere as dangerous as the ocean, and
right now that fact makes me incredibly sad.

“Well, trust me, it feels that way.” Sophie lies on her back and stretches her arms and legs out in four different directions and it looks like she’s sunbathing.

It’s just as I hoped.

I d
on’t know how long it’ll take. What I do know is that thing Sierra told me about the energy it takes to see every possible roadblock, down every possible fork, down every possible road. A nearly infinite amount of energy, and it all resides right here in my dome, practically flowing through me. The energy of this place feels normal to me, but if Sophie felt better just being near me when I had a vision, it stands to reason that coming to my supernatural plane while she’s touching me could really charge her up.

Much the way Smith wanted to, really. Only this time, it’s
my
choice. Sophie isn’t leeching off of my powers; I’m feeding them to her. She said the refilling of her power was something beyond physical, and I hope bringing her here—a place where only other supernaturals can come, a place that essentially is
made
of power—will give her what she needs. Enough to make her heart beat on its own. For her lungs to pull in their own air.

Enough to save her life
, the way she saved my mother’s. That’s all I want.

Sophie looks up at the eternal dome of scenes above our heads. “What do you do here?”

“Well, until this week, I’ve been fixing it.”

“What needed to be fixed?” she asks, rolling over and propping her head on one elbow.

“It’s a long story. And I’ll tell you the whole thing,” I add, looking her in the eye as I make that terrifying promise. “But first, I want to show you something.” I stand and reach out both hands to pull her to her feet.

Sophie rises with a grin, but a thought makes her face fall. “Is my mom okay?” she asks.

“Worried,” I confess. “But she’ll feel better if
you
feel better, and the longer we stay here … well, it’s only a theory, but I think we might be able to speed your recovery along significantly. But I don’t know how long we have; time is different here. It might feel like days, for all I know. Or it might feel like minutes.”

So I need to get started.

“Okay,” she agrees, and though I can tell she’s still concerned, I do my best to distract her.

“Be careful, you might lose your balance when I do this.” I close my eyes and picture a future in
which Sophie’s completely recovered and we’re together in our art class. When I open my eyes, scenes of Sophie laughing are all around us and, because I haven’t lowered the volume with my thoughts, that laughter fills the air, making the space around us feel alive with it.

Sophie’s eyes dart from screen to screen, her grin
matching the dozens that surround us. “How are you doing this?”

“Just wait,” I say, and I look just above eye leve
l until I find a good one, then focus on it, making the dome roll down, the scene coming closer and growing larger.

“Whoa!” Sophie says, stumbling and gripping my hand. I grab her arm and help her stay upright until the dome stops moving, remembering how it felt when I first started coming here. It’s fun to see her experience it.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready for what?” She looks equal parts scared and excited, and I love being able to show this Sorceress something that—for once—I knew and she didn’t.

“Come with me.” I still have her hand clasped in mine and I step carefully over the edge and into the scene. As we walk forward the view splits, giving me two choices, and I choose the one where Sophie and I are doubling to the prom in fancy dresses, with tuxedo-clad dates who look as happy as we do.

I bite my lip and try to ignore the fact that my date is Linden.

My dome shows
possible
scenarios, not necessarily
smart
ones.

I pull Sophie forward until the scene splits again and this time we’re running down the shoreline of an unfamiliar beach
, dressed in brightly colored swimsuits, laughing when the waves rush onto the shore and cover our feet.

Another choice, and another
, and I take her through a perfect senior year, ending with us hugging and throwing our dark blue caps into the air.

But I keep going. I’m looking for something specific, and I know in my heart-of-hearts that it’s got to be here somewhere.

Two more choices and I see it. I pull Sophie through and she looks up and gasps in wonder. My smile is almost painfully wide as we watch Sophie in a ballet studio, rehearsing with other college students, spinning across the floor
en pointe
, her head flipping as she spots across the room.

Another split and we’re standing in a darkened auditorium watching a recital where Sophie dances, long-limbed but healthy with a hot guy on a stage.

In the spotlight.

Sophie’s hand is limp in mine and I turn back to see her standing with tears streaming down her face. “It’s never going to happen,” she says, her voice raspy.

“That’s the thing, Sophie,” I say, taking both of her hands and forcing her to meet my eyes. “That’s the beauty of this place; nothing can come into this dome unless it’s
possible
.”

Her eyes dart from me to the figure of herself dancing on the stage, b
ack to me. “Really?” she says in such a small voice that I know there’s nothing in the world Sophie wants to do more than dance.

Except saving lives.

“You can do both,” I say. “With me, you can. I can bring you here, as often as you need, and help you recover. And you,” I shrug, “you can teach me how to not screw up so badly.”

“You’re serious?”

“Well, I’ll try to learn,” I say dryly. “I might be hopeless.”

She smacks my shoulder. “You
know
that’s not what I meant. Is this really helping me recover faster? Being here?”

“
Let’s go see,” I say, pulling her backward.

I lead the way
, toward the hole that opens up to the mirrored floor where we started. I have to yank hard; Sophie’s eyes are still fixed on herself dancing her
pas de deux
.

“Someday,” I whisper,
still tugging on her hand. “It’ll be real.”

Once we’r
e back in the dome I focus on something new and the images around us shift. I peer at the vista of scenarios before choosing one and bringing it close.

“That,” I say, pointing. “That’s us
, in maybe half an hour.”

Sophie lets go of my hand and walks forward on her own, right up to the edge of the scene. It’s her room, her bed, and we’re both lying there, just like before I pulled us into my supernatural plane.

It’s the same, and yet, entirely different. The oxygen mask is gone and I can see color in Sophie’s cheeks. As we watch, Sophie’s mom strokes a hand down her face.

S
he’s smiling.

I lean forward and peer closer. M
y makeshift denim bandages have been removed, replaced with neat rows of stitches. I blink back tears as I think about how angry Sophie’s mom was to see me—but she patched me up anyway. I could probably have guessed—given her dedication to Sophie’s supernatural life—that she would have medical training beyond simply her role as a nurse. I could not have guessed though, that even in the midst of her anger and grief for Sophie, she would take care of me, too.

“
Half an hour?” Sophie asks, reaching out her hand and then pulling it back before her fingers actually enter the scene; still a little spooked at this new “magic,” I assume. I don’t blame her. I wonder just how long it’s been since she was confronted by something supernatural that she wasn’t familiar with. “I look healthier than when I moved here. Is this for real?”

I nod.

Just seeing this scene makes me feel confident. Already, relief is loosening the knots in my shoulders. It worked, and
together
Sophie and I can be so much stronger, better, than either of us could be alone. It’s something I never thought could happen for me. For any Oracle.

I
wanted
to believe it while Jason Smith was leading me around by the nose. But it was never true with him—it was always an illusion. With Sophie, it’s
real
.

“What happened to you?” she asks,
noticing my bloodied clothes and shredded jacket.

“Well,” I say, dropping down to sit cross-legged and patting the spot beside me, just like she did with her bed the first time I came to visit her
at her house. “Tonight is simply the latest episode in a very, very long story.”

“Is this the one that includes Linden?” she asks, and she obviously noticed the identity of my date a few minutes ago.

“He’s part of it,” I say, though I can’t fully embrace her levity. This a secret I never dreamed I’d tell anyone; three months later, I still sometimes wake in a cold sweat. I fiddle with my hands. “I hardly know where to start. It’s a such a big story.”

“Once upon a time,”
Sophie suggests, and though she smiles encouragingly, she seems to understand what a big deal this is.

“Okay,”
I respond. “Once upon a time, I was sent a vision; a vision I couldn’t fight. A vision of a girl who had been murdered.” I smile tightly. “She was wearing these gorgeous maroon ballet flats.”