Chapter Nineteen
Hello again.”
It was here. Scratch had found her again, and was in her aunt’s body. The drugs, Kit realized, and her breath caught like a trapped dove in her chest. It made no move to reach her, but Kit felt herself begin to shake. There was no angel under the bed this time. No ally biding his time to sneak up on Scratch from behind. This time Kit was truly alone.
And Scratch knew it. Its eyes gleamed, crusting her aunt’s normally direct gaze with the same sickly-sooted stare that Kit had seen in Jeannie. It was blasphemous to see someone she loved defiled in such a way, so Kit’s reaction was almost involuntary as she picked up the hospital’s plastic pitcher of water and threw it on her aunt’s face. Marin—or Scratch inside—sputtered. Her aunt’s head dropped, and the shocked expression was blotted away, along with the water, by the thin sheet. After a moment, Scratch came up smiling widely. “Nice try, dear, but you’d have to drown me in your tears to get rid of me now.”
For the first time in almost as long as she could remember, Kit didn’t know what to say or do. This was Grif’s domain, not hers. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t leave Marin with this . . . thing in her body.
“You know, from this perspective, you look just like your mother.”
The jab, meant to push at old wounds, was exactly what Kit needed to collect herself. “You don’t know my mother.”
“Ah, but I do, even if it is only through Marin’s dusty memories. And might I take this opportunity to add . . . it’s fascinating to be privy to the secrets people will keep. Even from those they love.”
The Third feed off negative emotion, and if you reveal even the slightest hint of it, Scratch won’t hesitate to use it against you.
Remembering, Kit said, “I’m not interested in knowing anything Marin doesn’t want to share with me herself.”
“Suit yourself,” Scratch said, its smile oily. “Her cancer’s still in remission, by the way. She beat it back, and now she’s tougher than ever. She’s always had a hard time of it, though. It wasn’t easy for her with Shirley as a sister, you know.”
“Get out of her mind,” Kit said evenly.
But it was too late. Scratch had access to Marin’s innermost thoughts, and because Kit had given it her tears, it knew her dark worries as well.
“You couldn’t possibly remember this,” it continued, breaking up its syllables like footsteps over fall leaves, “but Marin and your mother fought like junkyard dogs. For sisters, they couldn’t have been more different. Isn’t that strange when such disparate people come from the same family? Your mother, the aristocrat. Marin, the Everywoman. They stood toe to toe when they butted heads. Marin always wondered if that was what all sisters did, or if it was only them.”
“Stop it.”
“You remind her of her mercurial sister with your flightiness, your careless nature.”
“Marin loves me.”
“Marin loved Shirley, too . . . she just didn’t like her very much.”
Kit ignored that. “My aunt is not Lost, and you can’t have her.”
“I don’t want her,” it said, looking directly at Kit. “And I don’t need a vice in order to possess you. You gave me your tears of your own free will. It’s like giving me a key to your house and letting me riffle around. I can tell you all about you now. Would you like that?”
No.
“Sometimes it’s good to get an outsider’s perspective on these sorts of things,” it went on, winking. “Though I can hardly be called an outsider now, can I?”
Using Marin’s fingers, bending them back so far they should’ve cracked, it began to tick off things it now knew about Kit. “You love your work, and you’re good at it. You strive to live by the motto drilled into you by your patrolman father—”
“Don’t talk about my father,” Kit said through gritted teeth. She was trying to stay calm, but Scratch wasn’t making it easy.
It feigned affront, and benevolence. “Of course not. Besides, your time would be better spent talking to Marin about him.”
Kit frowned, unsure of what was behind the insinuation. But Scratch had already moved on, intent—as Grif said—on confusing and keeping her off balance. “We’re talking about you, anyway, and what was it your doomed ol’ dad used to say? ‘Don’t just find the easy answer, find the truth.’ ”
“You’re not going to make me doubt myself or those around me. I’ve created a good life because I’ve built it on the foundation of those strong family ties. I have it all—friends, beauty, love.”
“No, you merely have the hope of love.” It held out its arms. “Now that Evelyn Shaw. She had love.”
“You know nothing of it.”
“Love is patient. Love is kind. Blah, blah, blah.” It smiled. “And how do you love, Kit?”
“Passionately,” she shot back, displaying some of it now. If it knew her well, it should know she wasn’t going to just roll. “Wholeheartedly. Without restraint.”
“I know how that feels.” It met her disbelieving gaze with wide-eyed innocence. “I do. That’s how I hate.”
“Love is more powerful than hate,” Kit immediately countered.
“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”
“And you keep telling yourself that you’re relevant just because you exist. But you were created, not Chosen. You’re just a wrench in God’s cosmic tool belt that can be picked up or discarded, used for good or ill. You exist, but you’ve never truly lived, so you can’t speak to true passion. If you could, you’d know life is love.”
“See that idealism? That’s what I love to hate about you. You wear all your soft spots on the outside, exposed and just waiting to be pushed. Your blind hope is like a giant bruise.”
“Don’t say it like that’s a weakness.”
“Oh, I know it’s a strength, and it’s just the sort I love to break. It’s fascinating how you refuse to harden yourself to life’s disappointments. No matter who dies. No matter who lies.”
“You’re not going to turn me against the people I love.”
“But Griffin Shaw and Marin Wilson have lied to you,” it finally hissed, leaning forward, giving up any pretense of subtlety. “You! The girl who loves the truth. But I can give you their knowledge. Allow me to slip into your mind of your own free will for just a moment and I’ll whisper their every thought into your inner ear. Use free will to choose something for yourself for once.”
Kit raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to offer me an apple when you say all that?”
“You want to know how your father died!” it asserted, angering now.
“I know how he died,” Kit said coolly.
“You know what they told you,” it said, and the arctic chill in its voice was only part of the reason Kit went cold. “You’re like your beloved Mr. Shaw in that way, haunted by an old mystery and by all the answers you’ll never have. But”—it motioned down Marin’s body—“I have answers.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Kit said, and rose to gather her things. She didn’t want to think about her father or his death or what else Marin might know of it until she was well away from this room. And she had to get out now.
Scratch didn’t lunge at her, or move to stop her at all, and it didn’t speak again until Kit placed a hand on the doorknob. “You want to know who he’d choose.”
Kit froze.
“If he could, that is,” it continued, knowing it had her attention. “In the depths of night, when he’s lost in his dreams and away from you, you wonder what would happen if you and Evelyn Shaw were both alive, and all things were equal. Who, then, would be the recipient of Griffin Shaw’s unconditional love?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, without turning. “That can never happen.”
“But if you don’t learn the answer to that question, your dreams will lie dormant and mute. You’ll suffocate on your futile wish for true love, and like me, you’ll want to destroy the object of your affection.”
Now Kit whirled. “I would never hate like you! I don’t care if you call it weakness, I’m going to stay soft and open and hopeful. I’m a child of God, you winged beast. I belong on this Surface, not you! And I have the right to love and be loved!”
“But you won’t. Not ever,” it said, and though the words were almost whispered, Kit felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “I have your tears and I’m going to come after all the good things in your life, and dismantle them one by one. I’m going to claw my way into your heart. And then, I will destroy everything you love.”
“I’m not at your disposal,” Kit whispered. “I’m not Lost.”
“Lost,” it said, shrugging, “is just the opposite of Chosen. And who has ever really chosen you, Katherine? Griffin Shaw? He’s so busy remembering a dead woman that he can’t even see you. If I were you, well, that . . .” It shook Marin’s head. “That . . . that . . .”
Its eyes pinwheeled in their sockets until they stopped dead on Kit’s own.
“That would just piss. Me. Off.”
Kit fled then, but not fast enough. Scratch’s voice, ferried by hate and as chill as the center of the Forest, chased her down the hall. “Don’t get sick, dear. And for heaven’s sake, don’t get knocked out. Be careful of even sleeping too deeply. Because I’m here, and I can wait lifetimes to get what I want.”
Kit whimpered, and though she was rounding the corner of the long hall, she was sure Scratch heard her. She, after all, still heard it.
“Tick tock, Katherine. Tick tock . . .”