Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (2 page)

Despite the lovely scenery
I know there’s something important here and I wait for the tell-tale pull, the force that centers somewhere deep in my stomach and feels like a rope tied about my waist, tugging me wherever I need to go. It seems reluctant to show up, somehow, but after a good minute it finally does and my feet carry me up the stairs into the master suite—or anyway a collection of rooms big enough to give me that impression. The first room I walk into is this sitting room thing and I can see a huge closet and bathroom off to the left. To the right the room is L-shaped and I walk around the corner.

In the vision I fall to my knees, stomach clenched and roiling.

The red is everywhere. Splattered on walls, dripping onto the carpet, even the sliding glass doors that look like they open onto a balcony are striped with spattered blood. The tug at my abdomen grows urgent, so I take several deep breaths and force myself to rise to my feet so I can take a few staggering steps toward the bed where two people lie in a literal pool of blood. A man and a woman. The owners of the house?

Through the gore
I can see what appear to be stab wounds
,
dozens at least—dozens
each
. Arms, legs, jagged holes in their bedclothes. Whoever did this stabbed them over, and over, and over.

I’ve seen enough.

In the vision I back away—step-by-step, almost running in reverse—but in my mind, I’m drawing a curtain over my second sight.

And sitting on a tall stool in the art room again.

“Charlotte, Charlotte?”

Someone is shaking me gently by the arm.
I jerk upright a scant few inches, glad to recognize my teacher’s voice. “Mr. Fredrickson,” I mumble, through still-clenched teeth. My entire jaw aches sharply and I know I must have been clenching it iron-tight through the entire vision.

“Normally I’d take offense at a student falling asleep in my class,” he says,
and I can hear the smile in his tone—which is good, since my physical eyes are struggling to adjust to the light. “But since you’re generally so attentive, I’ll give you a pass this once.”

L
ight and colors filter back in and I can see his face, still smiling but lined with concern. My muscles are relaxing, too, but I suspect it’ll be another minute or so before I can walk. I force a smile. “Thanks. And I'm so sorry. Tons of Calc homework last night.” I’ve become such an adept liar. Sometimes I think it’s my best skill. But where does
that
fit on a resume or college application?

“Well, get some better sleep tonight, okay?”

I nod and turn very slowly to grab my backpack. Only then do I notice that everyone else is gone. I didn’t even hear the bell.

Stiffly,
I shoulder my backpack with a grim sense of purpose. What does it matter that I embarrassed myself?

I am Charlotte
Westing, I am an Oracle, and I have lives to save.

Chapter Two

“So which kind are you?”

Her voice seems to come out of nowhere. Still on edge from the macabre vision, I flinch, knocking over my chocolate milk. It splashes across the table and pours over the edge, faster than I can react, soaking the crotch of my jeans and staining them brown. I jump up with a shriek, trying to slick away the milk, but it’s
way
too late for that.

“Sorry,” the voice says calmly. “Shall we try that again?”

I blink.

I’m sitting.

The milk is back in my carton, inches from my right hand.

“Don’t knock it over this time. ’Kay?”

My whole body is frozen. I can’t move or breathe. It’s a little like waking from a vision, only … not. It takes several seconds of shouting at my neck before it obliges me and tips my head down to look at my thighs.

Dry.

It happened again.

Like with the pastel.

I turn slowly toward the voice—mindful of my milk this time—to see Sophie Jefferson standing behind me, one hand resting on the short stair railing that leads outside from the auditorium. Her back is perfectly straight, her neck long and slim, and I wonder if maybe she really
is
a ballerina.

It’s not the only thing I wo
nder. I no longer have to question if
she
was the one who saved the broken pastel, but the death of one doubt only makes room for a thousand more. Is she from the Sisterhood—another Oracle, albeit one with powers I don’t understand? Is she some other supernatural creature, like Smith? And most importantly, is she somehow involved with the murders I foresaw?

But years of honing my silence are taking over in my lizard brain and all I can do is sit there, silently staring.

Possibly glaring.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, obviously,” she adds, gesturing to the milk carton.

I’m not sure exactly what the
obviously
part means; as far as I can tell she’s basically flaunting her … whatever it is.

She peers down at her nails in a show of nonchalance, but tension is crackling through the air and it seems like a pretty lame attempt.
“I suspected you were something when you noticed me take back my pastel dropping on the floor,” she continues, either unfazed by my open expression of horror, or oblivious to it. “But wow, that surge of energy you took during class? What was that? That was amazing.”

My heart is pounding so hard
I’m afraid it might crack a rib. I already know
not
to trust anyone who knows what I can do. The last time I did, I got four kids killed. Last year—but only because it’s February.

L
ast year, sharp as freshly-shattered glass.

Last year, when I was
released from one prison and locked in another.

Who the hell
is
this girl?

She
holds out a warning hand. “Just so you know, I’m not available.”

What?

“I’m recovering from the last disaster I averted, in case it’s not obvious.” She ends her sentence in a quiet voice and rubs one hand up her arm, pausing where the bones at her elbow jut, even through a fitted jacket that doesn’t really look warm enough. She straightens and smiles, then slips onto the bench across from me, as though she were invited.

“I didn’t ask you to join me,” I say, finally finding my voice. I discovered this table behind the school a couple weeks ago. It’s broken—wobbly—but not so bad that I can’t handle it.
My own little fortress of … well, maybe not solitude, exactly, but I never see Linden out here, and others only rarely. I don’t come here every day; I’m trying not to be a
total
social pariah, because that draws almost as much attention as being super popular. I have to strive for a happy medium. That’s what I’ve been trying to do with my life the last two months: find a happy medium.

Horrible
pun not intended.

But sometimes I need to be alone and, trust me, no one willingly eats their lunch outside in Oklahoma in February.

Except me.

And
, apparently, Sophie Jefferson.

“You own this table?” Sophie asks, one eyebrow arched.

I hate smart-asses.

“So, are you a Witch?”

Witch?
She doesn’t know what I am. I can scratch the Sisterhood off my list of worries … assuming this isn’t some kind of trick to see if I’ll break their rules. But it sure doesn’t
feel
like a trick.

Sophie’s laugh tells me she’
s taken my furrowed brow and speechlessness for something other than total bewilderment. “I know, I know. But there are so many of them; statistically it’s always the best guess.”

Never reveal that you are an Oracle to anyone except another Oracle.
I have to get away. I can’t say a word to her until I know what
she
is—what I’m dealing with.

I’ve got to talk to Sierra.

“Not fae, surely? Not out in this cold,” she muses, almost to herself. “But with that much supernatural energy, I guess you
could
be fae.”

I sh
ove my notebook into my backpack—notes from my vision,
not
for Sophie Jefferson’s eyes. Or anyone else’s. I yank the zippers closed and am on my feet before she can stop me. I sweep the remains of my lunch into my crumpled paper bag and start to turn.

A sharp
gasp makes me look back. “Are you an Oracle?”

A
nd—of all the stupid things—there’s
wonder
in her voice.

Damn it
. I know my face is confessing everything, so I spin away again. Hiding. Fleeing.

“Hey!” she calls after me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know
! I—”

C
an’t respond. Can’t stop. Goodness knows I can’t go back. I’m already gasping for breath and gulping down tears of terror. I hate that I’m falling apart, but I can’t do this again. People died.
Kids
died. In pain and terrified, and sometimes dismembered in a shed splattered with their blood. That’s what happened when Smith found me, and I don’t know what Sophie is but she’s found me, too, the same day as a blood-soaked vision. I can’t handle it happening again. I just … can’t.

For once I’m
so
glad I live less than a block from the school and I’m halfway across the parking lot before I have a chance to even think about my plan. I risk a look behind me and once I’m sure Sophie isn’t following, I slow down and try to chill.

I didn’t tell her anything.

Not that it matters. She obviously
knows
.

But … she apparently could tell I was having a vision. And not just because she saw
me zone out. She said something about a huge surge of energy? I guess that’s one way to describe it. It’s not any kind of energy
I
can sense, unless I’m the one having the vision. Though I guess I’ve never tried. My aunt has never been one to share more information than absolutely necessary, and I can’t remember ever seeing Sierra fight a vision, much less succumb to one. But it feels like it’s one of those things like … like peeing, I guess. You just don’t do it in front of other people. If Sierra did, though, would I be able to tell? Would there be any way for
me
to sense a vision coming to another Oracle?

             
Hello, brain overload.

Having a vision
of a murder should’ve been more than enough for me to deal with today. For nowhere near the first time, I wish I were normal. The sense of purpose and motivation I felt after the murder vision has been completely sucked out of me and replaced by what I don’t feel is an irrational desire to get as far away from everyone as possible.

“Hey Mom,” I call when I pop through the front door.

She backs her wheelchair out of her office just enough to see me in the foyer, where I’m hanging up my backpack and taking off my coat. “You’re home early.” There’s no suspicion in her voice, just curiosity.

“Half-day,” I lie cheerily. “I didn’t know either.” Sierra will call in later and excuse me. I was about ten when Mom started putting her down as one of my official guardians on school paperwork and it has made life
so
much easier.
My
life, I mean. At the very least it cuts down on the frequency of casual lying.

“Do you need some lunch?”
There’s hesitation in her offer, and I suspect she’s on deadline and running behind. At least I can help there.

“I ate before I left school. Don’t worry about me. I have homework.”

She gives me a smile and then wheels forward again—back to work.

I head to Sierra’s room.

Which is unlocked. It always is now—something that still thrills me every day, even after two months. I do knock—we still follow basic rules of privacy and all that—and at a soft, “Yeah?” from inside, I push the door open.

“Charlotte, you’re home early,” Sierra says,
barely looking up from her screen as I enter.

I close the door behind me before I confess, “Ditching,” in a whisper. “Can you call in for me later? Please?”

She gives me a stern look. “Why are you ditching?” Do not mistake my aunt for a pushover. Helpful when necessary? Yes. Overly obliging? Not exactly.

I step forward and fold my arms over my stomach, feeling cold from the inside out. “I went into art class today and a bunch of guys were screwing around and hit a table and this new girl’s pastel dropped on the floor and shattered.”

Sierra arches one eyebrow and opens her mouth, but closes it without a word and nods for me to continue.

“
Then time backed up five seconds, it all happened again, and the girl put out her hand and caught the pastel before it could fall.”

Sierra’s eyes widen a little
—almost imperceptibly. “I’ll call the school right now.”