“I told you. They aren’t, like, how-to manuals—they’re not totally literal. ?What I see . . . What I sense . . . ?They’re more like . . . puzzles,” Crow said, pacing on the asphalt. “I don’t understand it any more than you do. All I know is what I saw—and felt. JD is dangerous. The details may be fuzzy, but the feeling is never wrong, Emily. I knew.” His voice got lower. Rougher. “I knew there would be a fire the night of the Ascension dance. If I had said something sooner, Drea might still be alive. Okay? So you’d better listen to me when I say stay away from him. You have to listen to me. You have to, Emily. I’m not going to lose you.” His voice started breaking. “I’m not going to fucking lose you, too.” His voice was almost a whisper, and Emily didn’t know what to say. He went on, quieter, pleading now. “Just—for a few days—till we figure this out. Stay away from him. Please.”
“But I don’t have a few days,” Em whispered back, feeling the full weight of the truth pressing in on her lungs, making it hard to breathe. She swallowed hard. “Remember your vision about the tiger girl? About when the transformation would happen? Well, I’ve figured that one out. And it’s tomorrow. Skylar is the tiger lady. Or she will be, the night of the play. Tomorrow night. I only have twenty-four hours left.”
“Tomorrow? It can’t be—not so soon. . . . I need more time.” He stopped pacing to stare at her. “I haven’t figured out how to . . . channel them. Those bitches won’t give an inch. They won’t tell me anything. So I have to get closer. You have to get as close to the heart of evil as you can, if you want to strike it down.”
How could he even think about getting closer? She wanted to be as far from the Furies as possible. “That’s not a plan, Crow. That’s suicide.”
He let out a harsh laugh. “Listen. Don’t worry about me. All you need to know is that I’m going to keep you safe.”
“How? It’s not like you’re gonna sit down over tea and have a chat. They’re crazy. And dangerous, and—”
Something passed across his face, an expression of uncertainty or fear, but it was gone too quickly for her to decipher. “Maybe I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”
“What could you have that they want?” she asked.
He stared at her hard. There was a pop of electricity between them. She could feel his eyes boring straight into her.
“You just let me handle the details,” Crow said quietly.
“I am not some damsel in distress. Whatever it is you’re planning, it’s too dangerous.”
“I’m supposed to save the princess, though. At least that’s how it works in the movies. . . . ”
“Don’t fucking joke about this, Crow.”
“I’m not joking, princess.” He took a step toward her. His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
Her pulse quickened. “Get what?”
His eyes, those yellow-green cat eyes, flared with emotion. He sighed deeply, as though he was reluctant to even say the words that came out of his mouth. “That I love you.”
Her stomach dropped and she was mute, unable to respond, terrified of her own pounding heart.
“I know you care about me,” he said, staring at her as if he were doing mental arithmetic. Then he offered her a thin smile. “And maybe you don’t love me, not the way I love you. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to protect you.”
And then he was gone, Em’s feet glued to the ground while Crow’s boots scuffed away. She wiped a tear from her cheek, whispering a good-bye he would never hear.
? ? ?
Driving home, she realized that she hadn’t yet told Skylar or Skylar’s aunt about the fire—or about Crow’s visions, or about Mr. Feiffer being dead. What would Nora and Hannah Markwell make of Walt’s death? It would be the final blow, tying the Feiffers’ tragic history together for Edie’s two friends.
She grabbed her phone and pulled up Skylar’s number. It didn’t ring—straight to voice mail. Em didn’t like that. She called the landline; it rang and rang. Something didn’t sit right; something was wrong. She decided to take the long way home, which would take her past Skylar’s house. If someone was home, maybe she’d just stop in. . . .
Nora’s tan Camry wasn’t in the driveway, but there was someone kneeling in the flower bed on the side of the house, where Skylar’s aunt planted her perennials.
“Mrs. McVoy?” Em called out her open car window. The hunched figure didn’t turn. She got that now-familiar swing of fear, almost like vertigo. “Nora?” Em said even louder.
But by now she was close enough to see that the person in the dirt wasn’t Aunt Nora or Skylar. It was Lucy, Skylar’s sister. She was humming again, that same tuneless drone that Em had heard the other day. Her face was practically buried in the plants.
“Lucy?” Em parked and stepped out of her car, wondering if she should call Skylar, or try to get Lucy back inside the house. “Do you remember me? I’m Emily.”
The girl turned around slowly, revealing a toothy smile. Em drew back unconsciously. Lucy’s arms were smeared with dirt, and in one hand she held a crushed white geranium; on closer inspection, Em saw that a piece of white petal was stuck to her lips. Had she been eating the flowers? And were geraniums poisonous?
Em looked over her shoulder, hoping in vain that she would see Nora’s car pulling into the driveway. She took a deep breath. Lucy was damaged, and probably scared, but she wasn’t dangerous. Em came closer and motioned to the flower in Lucy’s hand. “Doing some gardening?”
Smiling one of her bright, pageant smiles, Lucy nodded eagerly. “The albinos like shade, not sun.”