Torn wd-2

  Torn

  ( Wicked Dead - 2 )

  Stefan Petrucha

  Tonight's tale . . .

  Devin's rock band Torn is about to hit the big time. The haunting song he's just written is getting buzz. Between his gorgeous girlfriend, Cheryl, and all the perks of high-school stardom, Devin's feeling pretty good.

  Then his band mate is murdered. Viciously. Is it a gang slaying? Or has Devin's lingering melody called up . . . something . . . from the darkness?

  Wicked Dead

  Torn By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton

  THOMAS PENDLETON DEDICATES THIS

  BOOK TO JCP AND ALL THE WICKED

  ONES THE WORLD OVER.

  STEFAN PETRUCHA DEDICATES THIS

  BOOK TO THE DEAD—MARTIN, FELICIA,

  AMELIA, MICHAEL, FRANK, MARY,

  JOSEPH L., AND THE MANY OTHERS HE

  DOES NOT KNOW. HE HOPES YOU’VE

  ALL GOT A GREAT GAME GOING

  SOMEWHERE.

  PROLOGUE

  A storm raged over Lockwood Orphanage. Wind pounded through the eaves and played against the rhythm of marching rain. Lightning flashed in the wounded sky, bringing foul milky light to the black windows. All through the night grim weather had battered the roof and the sides of the six-story Georgian, but now the storm was moving inside.

  “She’s here.”

  Two girls stood in the great room of the orphanage amid a junk shop of tattered furniture. A third girl, lovely and delicate with golden hair dropping in long ringlets to her shoulders, sat demurely, her thin nightgown pooling around her on the cracked wooden floorboards.

  All three trembled as the shadowed air around them rolled and swirled. A cloud took shape before them, vague at first, but more defined with each passing moment. A face appeared in the raven mist. It had a narrow nose and thin, mean lips. The cloud rolled out violently, as if exploding, then was drawn back into itself. Suddenly, the mist was gone, leaving a tall form in its place.

  A woman.

  The Headmistress.

  She wore a long gray skirt and a white blouse with billowy loose sleeves that pinched down into broad starched cuffs at her wrists. A black brooch secured the collar of the blouse, which was so tight to her throat it would have strangled another woman. A living woman.

  She stood straight-backed with her hands knotted at her waist. Her pitiless eyes searched the room. With a rapid flash of the irises, she took in the tall girl in men’s striped pajamas and the pretty girl in the lovely nightgown sitting on the floor. Finally, her attention came to rest on the black-haired girl wearing a black T-shirt.

  “We weren’t doing anything,” Anne said too quickly, crossing her arms over the front of her T-shirt. Though defiant, her voice was laced with fear.

  “Indeed,” the Headmistress said. “And yet, you all know the rules. None of you are allowed down here after lights out. But here you are. Down here. Where you’re not supposed to be. So, in fact, you were doing something. Something quite wrong.”

  From her place on the floor, Mary lowered her head. She plucked at the hem of her nightgown nervously, then smoothed it.

  “We were looking for Shirley,” Daphne said, feeling waves of cold air rushing over her. Standing near the Headmistress always felt like being in an icebox. “We were playing a game upstairs, and she got frightened. You know how sensitive she is. We just came down to find her. We were going right back up.”

  The Headmistress nodded her head slowly. She cast a glance at Anne, who looked furious, with her jaw set tight. To Mary, she said, “Is this true?”

  “Yes, Headmistress,” Mary said, able to look at the woman for only a second.

  “Then why do you appear ever so comfortable, sitting on that floor?”

  “I tripped when you arrived.”

  “Clumsy, clumsy girl,” the Headmistress said.

  “Yes, Headmistress.”

  “This is lame. I’m going back up,” Anne said. She uncrossed her arms and began walking toward the great staircase. “Shirley can worry about herself.”

  “I think you’ll wait,” the Headmistress said. “I’m not quite convinced of your story’s veracity.”

  Anne stopped in her tracks. She spun around, facing the Headmistress.

  “Well, let’s find Shirley,” Daphne said, a bit too brightly. “She’ll tell you. It really was just a stupid game.”

  “Indeed,” the Headmistress said. “Let’s do ask your little friend.”

  With that, the Headmistress cocked her head to the side and opened her mouth wide. A plume of vapor rolled over her lips, and encircled her head like a dark halo. The ring expanded in misty waves. As the ripples met and continued past them, each girl heard the same thing.

  Shirley. Come to the great room AT ONCE!

  The command was deafening. On the floor, Mary covered her ears, but it did no good. This was not a voice of lung and throat and tongue, but one of spirit. It rattled the very material of her being and spread through the orphanage in waves.

  Daphne gasped at the sound. She shook her head rapidly to free herself of it.

  “God!” Anne said. “Ever hear of a volume knob?”

  “Silence,” the Headmistress ordered.

  “Great idea,” Anne replied. “It’s free, and it’s for everyone. Try some.”

  “Anne,” both Daphne and Mary said in warning.

  “How dare you!” the Headmistress roared, reaching out to grasp Anne by the arm. “Your petulant mouth will get you a night in the Red Room.”

  “She didn’t mean it.” Daphne rushed forward to defend Anne. She knew the terrors of the Red Room. So did Anne, but the black-haired girl must not be thinking straight.

  Anne looked from Daphne to Mary, who remained sitting. She looked back at the Headmistress, her expression still sour. “Yeah, right. I didn’t mean it. Talk all you want. That’s your thing. Enjoy. Just let me go.”

  “I’m not done with you, yet.”

  “The hell you’re not.” Anne yanked her arm hard and managed to free herself. She stumbled back a step, and then turned to escape, but she wasn’t nearly fast enough. The Headmistress shot forward and again grabbed hold of Anne’s arm.

  “You little beast!” the Headmistress hissed. “You will behave.”

  “Stop,” Daphne begged. “Please stop. Anne’s just worried about Shirley. Really, she is.”

  “Shirley,” Anne spat in disgust. “I couldn’t care less about that whiny freak.” She turned to the Headmistress. “And I couldn’t care less about you. I’m tired of taking orders from you. We’re dead. Do you get that? We’ve done our time. You have no right to tell me what to do. None. So go play Mommie Dearest with someone else, and get out of my face.”

  “Anne, please,” Daphne pleaded.

  Mary continued to fuss with the hem of her dress, unable to look up at the fight. Her mind raced. She wanted to help Anne. She really wanted to, but she couldn’t stand up.

  If she did, it would have dire consequences for them all.

  So she remained on the floor, pretending to be absorbed by her gown.

  The Headmistress pulled Anne close with one hand, while pushing Daphne away with the other. “Upstairs,” she said, her eyes burning into Anne’s.

  “Screw you!” Anne cried, returning the Headmistress’s gaze with equal fury. “You’re not my mother or my master.”

  “You have no mother, child,” the Headmistress said. “That’s why you were brought here. As for being your master…”

  The Headmistress blew apart into a cloud of vapor. Thin tendrils whipped out from the shadowy accumulation and wrapped around Anne’s arms, her chest and her face. The girl’s eyes grew wide with terror as more and more of her body became entwined by the misty ropes.

  “Don�
��t!” Daphne shouted.

  “Let me go, you bitch!” Anne screamed.

  She kicked her legs and thrashed her arms, but her struggle was futile. The dark mist had her bound; then it gagged her mouth. Only her eyes moved, looking desperate in her capture.

  “Oh, Anne,” Daphne whispered, hopelessly.

  Then the cloud moved away, taking Anne with it. Across the great room. To the stairs. Up and up, until the only disturbance came from the storm wailing above the orphanage.

  The girls fell silent.

  Shirley, wearing her pink flannel gown, descended from the ceiling, walking like a crab down the flaking walls. She paused for a moment, searching the great room for the Headmistress, but all she saw was Daphne by the sofa, one hand covering her eyes, and Mary sitting on the floor, playing with the edge of her nightgown.

  “Where is she?” Shirley whispered, too frightened to leave her place on the wall.

  “She has departed,” Mary said. “Like the unforgiving tide, she has crashed to the shore, taken her due, and withdrawn.”

  “Where’s Anne?”

  Mary opened her mouth to answer, but Daphne spoke first. “She went back upstairs. Just for a while.” She knew the truth would upset Shirley, probably make her disappear again.

  But Shirley already knew the truth.

  “She’s being punished, isn’t she?” Shirley said, scurrying two feet up the wall. “Oh no, we’re all going to be punished, aren’t we? We shouldn’t have come down here. We shouldn’t have. It’s against the rules. Oh, why did I let you talk me into this?”

  “Calm down, kid,” Daphne said, fully aware that it was just such an outburst from Shirley that had called the Headmistress in the first place. “Losing your head isn’t going to help Anne now. It isn’t going to help anything.”

  “But what are we going to do?” Shirley wondered aloud.

  “We’re going to keep cool heads,” Daphne replied. “Now, come join us.”

  “We’re not supposed to be down here.”

  “Fine,” Daphne said, exasperated and in no mood for another argument. “You go on back up, and we’ll meet you in the classroom.”

  Shirley looked around the room, seeming unsure. Then she raced back up the wall, disappearing into the ceiling as she had before the Headmistress’s arrival.

  Daphne crossed to where Mary sat on the floor. She looked down, perturbed at her friend. Through the whole ordeal with the Headmistress, Mary had done nothing. She’d just sat there. Such cowardice wasn’t like Mary, and Daphne was greatly disappointed with her.

  “Do you mind telling me why you were acting like a bump on a log while the forest was burning down around us?”

  “I had to,” Mary said quietly. She shifted slightly on the floor, getting her legs under her. She stood, brushing at the back of her nightgown. When she stepped to the side, Daphne saw Mary’s excuse for keeping still.

  On the floor, in the place where Mary’s nightgown had pooled, sat a vermillion bag, the Clutch, and five small bones, still splayed out from their game. The tiny skull resting at the center lay on its side, one eye socket looking upward. It reminded Daphne of a wink.

  She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Mary. “Quick thinking. I’m sorry I questioned you.”

  “The Headmistress just appeared so fast. I didn’t know what to do. The bones were all over the place, and the Clutch, and there just wasn’t time to pick it all up. So I covered them, like a hen protecting her chicks.”

  “You’re wonderful,” Daphne said with a relieved chuckle. “Let’s gather up those chicks and go find ourselves a chicken.”

  They found Shirley in the second-floor classroom. She sat in a shadowy back corner, her hands clutching the desk before her.

  The room was even more dismal and depressing than the dilapidated great room below. Down there was dust and rot and general disarray, but up here…

  Twenty weathered desk chairs sat in the gloomy space, four across and five back. A large oak desk faced the chairs from the front of the room. Against the wall on the left, a broad map hung from ancient pins. The window across the room was broken, webbed with cracks; a fist-sized hole was punched through it, low and to the right. Wind rushed through. Everything here was filthy, but it was not otherwise different from the way it had been, unlike downstairs where vandals had overturned and damaged the furniture. It was the basically untouched appearance that gave the room its particularly horrific quality.

  Once, children sat at these desks. They dreamed in these seats, looking through the window at the great world from which they were delivered. Now, the arched-back chairs were empty and frosted with dust. Gray like granite. They reminded Daphne of tombstones, marking the passing of countless young lives.

  And did I once occupy one of these desks? Daphne wondered. Did I learn here? Did I dream? Why can’t I remember? Why can’t any of us remember?

  “There’s our delicate child,” Mary said, pointing to where Shirley sat at the back of the class.

  “What happened to Anne?” Shirley whispered. “What did the Headmistress do to her?”

  “The Red Room,” Daphne said. There was no point in lying about it. Shirley would pitch a fit, but it couldn’t be helped. None of them was more terrified of the Red Room than Shirley, even though she was the only one never to have spent time there.

  “Oh,” Shirley yelped, clutching herself in fear. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to wait for Anne,” Mary said. “She’ll need us when she emerges from that horrible place.”

  “What if the Headmistress comes back?”

  “You know she has to guard the door,” Daphne said. “She can’t leave until she’s finished with Anne. We have a few hours.”

  Shirley clamped her thumbnail between her teeth and looked around the room, as if expecting a monster to break through the walls. She gnawed on the nail and clutched her chest with the other arm.

  “Should we play?” Mary whispered sheepishly.

  “You mean the bones?” asked Daphne. “It is the perfect time, with the Headmistress occupied.”

  A gust of wind blew through the broken window. The paper map clicked against the wall.

  “We can’t,” Shirley said quickly. “Anne isn’t here.”

  “True enough,” Daphne agreed. “But she just won the game. She’s already told a story, and it’s unlikely she’d get another chance so soon. It couldn’t hurt anything to play once more.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to her,” Shirley said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Well, what would you like to do?” Mary asked. “Should we count raindrops or motes of dust?”

  “Aren’t there other games we could play? The stories we tell are just so awful. Why can’t we play a game that isn’t so awful?”

  “You know this game has a purpose,” Daphne said, “and a real reward should we truly win.”

  “But how do you know?” Shirley asked, her voice very near tears. Her sullen face lowered. She removed her thumb from her teeth and set her hands on the desk. “How do you know we won’t be here forever?”

  Daphne stepped forward and leaned down to put her arm over the seated girl’s shoulders. “You saw what happened to Sylvia. She was with us for a very long time until the night she told that story—her story. Don’t you remember what she said? ‘It’s me. My god, this story is about me.’”

  Mary came forward to stand next to them. Thinking of Sylvia, she recalled bits of a poem by Byron, a poem of beauty, of light and of music. Under less somber circumstances she might have quoted from it. Instead, she put her lips very near Shirley’s ear and said softly, “Don’t you remember how beautiful it was? Don’t you remember how she smiled so, so brightly? And then, her body turned to specks of shining white light, and she was gone.”

  “But we don’t know where she went,” Shirley argued, sniffling.

  “Perhaps,” Mary whispered, “but we know she moved on. I have to believe heaven finally made a plac
e for her.”

  “Anne will be angry with us,” Shirley said.

  “Anne is always angry with us,” Daphne replied, giving Shirley’s shoulders a tight squeeze, knowing she was about to agree to the game. “Next time, we’ll let her roll first, and she can take three turns if she wants.”

  “Maybe we just shouldn’t tell her,” Shirley suggested.

  “A capital idea,” Daphne said with a laugh. “So, you’re in?”

  Shirley let a smile creep over her tear-stained face. “Why? Are you writing a book?”

  The girls laughed. Quickly Daphne pulled away and spun one of the desk chairs to face Shirley’s. Mary turned and gently brought another chair forward until the three desks formed a blunt triangle. She set the Clutch on the desk before her and waited. The familiar excitement of playing the game flooded her.

  “Shall I?” Mary asked, indicating the vermillion bag.

  “Well, Anne opened it last,” Daphne said, “so it is your turn.”

  “But we won’t tell Anne,” Shirley insisted.

  “We won’t say a word,” Mary promised.

  With trembling fingers, Mary touched the smooth fabric. She stroked the velvet material, let her fingertips pause on the hard lumps made by the bones. She parted its mouth and upturned the Clutch. Bones, coppery with age, spilled into her palm. She felt the smooth side of the skull and the sharp points of claws. They tingled, as if eager to be rolled.

  With a gentle shake she let the bones fall on the desk, and knew instantly that she had not won.

  “My turn,” Daphne said. But she too failed to roll the winning combination.

  And so it went, one turn after another. Mary. Daphne. Shirley. Then Mary again. Excitement and disappointment mixed in the girls as each turn produced no winner.

  “Maybe we can’t play with just three,” Shirley said, dejected after her last failed roll. “Maybe it has to be all four of us.”

  “We’ve rolled a lot longer than this with no winner,” Daphne said. “Let’s keep at it. Mary?”