Crush wd-4 Read online

  Crush

  ( Wicked Dead - 4 )

  Stefan Petrucha

  Tonight's tale . . .

  The Roid Patrol regularly menaces Jonathan Barnes in the halls. Mr. Weaver's sarcasm makes English class unbearable. If it weren't for his best friend, David, and his crush, Emma, Jonathan would go insane.

  But now he thinks he has, what with everyone who's ever been mean to him turning up dead. He doesn't know what to think, who to trust — or who's next.

  Wicked Dead

  Crush By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton

  THOMAS PENDLETON DEDICATES THIS

  BOOK TO DALLAS MAYR: THE WICKED

  JACK K.

  STEFAN PETRUCHA DEDICATES THIS

  BOOK TO HIS FELLOW ASTHMA

  SUFFERERS THE WORLD OVER.

  PROLOGUE

  Standing alone in the vast kitchen of Lockwood Orphanage, Daphne looked through the tall windows and watched the last light abandon the tree-scarred sky. A lazy wind whistled through the cracked glass, caressing her cheeks. The tall girl sighed with it, wondering why her skin could feel cold, or it seemed that she could breathe. Wasn’t all that for the living? Just what on earth, she wondered, were the rules?

  Absently she glanced down and saw her reflection in the top of the long steel counter that stood in front of the windows. A sharp but pleasant face greeted her: smooth skin, bright blue eyes, curled auburn hair, her pleasantly sexy bare neck and collarbone peeking out from the unbuttoned collar of her striped men’s pajamas. Just for fun, she made her form fade in and out, testing to see if she could find the precise moment between being there and not.

  What were the rules? Where were the lines? How much had death changed her, outside and in? She needed so badly to know, if only to shake a growing sense of guilt and dread. The guilt was for the way they’d been treating Anne lately, playing the bone game without her, abandoning her to the Headmistress. The dread was over the possibility that the three of them, Shirley, Mary and Daphne, had driven the dark-haired girl so far away they’d never be able to trust her again.

  She tsked. Should a ghost feel guilt? It didn’t seem fair. Hadn’t she already paid for all her poor choices, whatever they were, with her life, whatever it was? If only she could remember who she’d been—but until the luck of the bones revealed her story, she couldn’t begin to guess.

  The room was huge. Remove the counters and the vast tables, and a city bus would fit here easily. There were lots of windows, too, above the tiled walls, set in a foot so the extended sill could hold many a pie or piping-hot dish. Far off, next to the thick oak door that led in, a rubber conveyor belt wove along the wall, once used to carry dirty dishes in from the dining room. A few cracked plates even remained for the rats to poke about.

  Daphne tried to concentrate, to think of what the kitchen might be like had it still been full of life. If she were still alive. She wanted to believe she’d had integrity then, that she’d been smart and fearless, but also kind and loyal. She hadn’t been lately, not really, as a ghost. She’d broken her own agreements without blinking, even enjoyed it.

  “Oh well,” she muttered. “Obey all the rules and you miss all the fun.”

  “You sound like Anne,” Mary said, stepping through the tiled wall near the larder door. She cupped her right hand to her blond curls, idly fingering them as she walked along the floor to stand next to Daphne. “I saw you leave the dorms. Why so early? It’s dangerous to wander before the Headmistress is in her room for the night.”

  “Some things are worth the risk. I needed some time to think,” Daphne said.

  “And did you?” Mary asked pleasantly.

  Daphne hesitated and looked around. “Where are the others?”

  Mary shrugged. “Anne’s retrieving the Clutch and Shirley’s off in the walls somewhere. It’s just us, the old guard.”

  “Well, what I’ve been thinking is that we really need to make it up to Anne.”

  Mary’s pleasant expression vanished. “We gave her three extra turns. Three.”

  Daphne shook her head. “No, I mean really make it up to her. Make her more part of the group.”

  Mary winced. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  Daphne chuckled. “Think about it. It’s self-preservation, really. Our secret’s only as strong as we are.”

  Mary shook her head. “The bones are Anne’s only chance to escape this purgatory, just as much as they are ours. She would never do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “Keep pushing her, and she might,” Daphne said. She nodded toward a huge cast-iron stove sitting against a faraway wall like the carcass of an ebony bear. Among all the black a large lump of warm and furry brown waddled about, sniffing and clawing at the bits of ancient grease that clung to the filthy burners. Mary raised her nose at the sight.

  Daphne smiled. “See that fellow? Give him some food, maybe you can train him to do tricks for you. But make him feel like he’s backed into a corner, and he won’t think about it; he’ll just fight for his life.”

  As she spoke, the rat stopped scavenging to look at them. The girls stared back, curious.

  “Do you suppose it heard us?” Mary wondered.

  Daphne shrugged. “Probably worried we’re competition for its meal, as if we still eat. That’s my point. It doesn’t think, it just acts.”

  When the rodent went back to its work, Mary turned to Daphne. “I agree that Anne and the rat have a great deal in common, but I don’t think being falsely kind would change her nature any more than you can give that rat wings and make it fly. She is what she is, we are what we are.”

  Daphne made a face. “I, for one, like to think I can always be better.”

  Mary was about to respond when a metal cabinet door near their feet burst open. Both the rat and the two girls froze as they watched a series of colanders, pots, and pans tumble out and then scatter on the floor. Amidst the mess sat wide-eyed Shirley, chuckling as she looked at her companions through giddy, half-crazed eyes. “I love this place! Who said being stuck in a kitchen your whole life couldn’t be fun?”

  Daphne leaned toward Mary, so close her lips almost touched her ear. “It’s not like the rest of us are such prizes,” she whispered. “Shirley’s always putting us in danger, but we give her our affection.”

  “That poor girl can’t help herself,” Mary whispered back.

  “And you think Anne can?” Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Mary put her button nose up. “Yes, I suppose deep down that I do. I think Anne chooses to be the way she is. Which is precisely why I find her so intolerable.”

  Shirley’s face twisted briefly into a pout. “What are you two talking about? I’m sorry about the noise, but the whole house seemed so quiet. Dead quiet,” she said. At the word “dead” a girlish giggle erupted from her throat.

  “It’s all right,” Daphne said. “But try to be more careful.”

  “Guess again,” a harsh voice said from the doorway. “It’s not all right. It’s not all right at all. You can still hear the freaking echo going down the hallway. Keep that up and you’ll bring the Headmistress screaming if she’s not on her way already.”

  Scowling as usual, Anne stepped in. The oak-door entrance was so far off, she was still a good ten yards from the counter. Her long black T-shirt wavered slightly as she strutted along. Daphne realized she was staring at the girl, sizing her up. Glancing to her side, she noticed Mary and Shirley were staring too. They were all still raw from last night, when Anne had foolishly threatened to destroy one of the bones.

  After the raven-haired girl covered half the distance between them, she must have noticed their mood, because she slowed and stopped. Anne stiffened and shifted on her hips, actually looking nervous for once. “What? H
ave I got pieces of the Clutch on my teeth or something?”

  “Why? Did you eat it?” Shirley said with a wicked smirk. She rose from the pile of pots on the floor and stood with the others.

  Anne belched loudly, put her hand under her T-shirt, and rubbed her tummy as she came nearer. Shirley’s smirk erupted into a laugh. Daphne was relieved at the gastric sign of friendliness, even if it was blatantly superficial. At least those two shared a sense of humor.

  Any lightness to the mood vanished entirely, though, when Mary asked cattily, “But you did bring it, didn’t you?”

  Clearly annoyed, Anne pulled out the vermilion velvet bag, hooked an index finger beneath the knot in the string, and let it dangle before them. Her stance was defiant, as usual; challenging. It did not set the stage for a quiet evening, and Anne was right about one thing—too much noise was a dangerous thing.

  If I’m going to do anything about this, it’d better be right now, Daphne thought, so she pushed Mary slightly behind her as she stepped away from the counter to meet Anne. As she walked, she grinned in as broad and friendly a manner as she was able.

  “Anne, it’s so good to see you. How are you feeling?” Daphne asked with the deepest possible sincerity.

  Anne responded with a sour expression. “Oh, someone woke up feeling all Mother Teresa today. Well, save it, Saint Daphne. Nothing’s changed, and you’re crazy if you think I’m biting that hook.”

  “That’s what I said,” Mary muttered.

  Daphne sighed. “All right, I admit this isn’t easy, but I do want to try. I know we haven’t always been very supportive of you since your arrival, and it doesn’t really matter why. I’d like that to change, starting now. Can’t we give it a try?”

  Anne pondered the question. “Give me another three turns.”

  “No!” Mary said, shocked.

  Anne snickered. “Then forget it.” She walked past Daphne and plopped the bag on the counter. Small, hard things shifted inside it. “I’m not going to pretend we’re some lame-ass support group that needs each other’s Oprah-love. We’re all here for ourselves. We all want one thing—out. I’m just honest enough to admit it.”

  “Anne, please…,” Daphne began.

  “Don’t bother. I told you it was useless,” Mary said. “She is what she is.”

  “Shove it, Mary,” Anne said, circling to the far side of the silvery table. “I’m sick of you. I mean, how long have you been here anyway, like a century? Two? All that time, and have you figured out anything useful about the Headmistress, or the bones, or even what it means to be a ghost? So who’s the big loser here? Me or you?”

  “That would depend,” Mary said stiffly, “entirely on the game you choose to play.”

  Anne stopped short. Her eyes narrowed, her face changed. Daphne thought she caught a hint of something new there, something wrong. Guilt? Fear? Mary seemed to notice it too, and then Shirley.

  And there they all were, just staring at Anne again.

  Making the problem worse.

  “Whatever,” Anne mumbled. “We going to roll the bones, or do the catty thing all night?”

  They opened the bag and the small reddish-brown things clattered onto the silvery kitchen table, looking a bit like dinner leftovers—skull, pelvis, thigh, claw, and limb, all from some unknown animal, all picked clean, all carved with different symbols on each side.

  “Shirley told the last story, so you’re first, Anne,” Daphne said.

  Maybe if she wins again tonight…

  Anne looked at the others, grimaced, and scooped up the bones. She concentrated as she shook them in both hands, then rolled them onto the counter. There was no match.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the dark-haired girl said quietly.

  “Of course not,” Daphne said, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ll get another turn.”

  Anne ignored her. Mary took the bones up next and seemed to take a moment to pray before she let them roll. Whatever deity she was appealing to apparently said no, though, because she lost as well.

  Absently, Daphne took them into her hands for her own turn, but her eyes remained on Anne. The dark-haired girl had stepped away from the counter, away from all of them, to lean against a far wall and look around. When Anne noticed Daphne’s attention, she glared at her and then went back to scanning the room. She seemed to be checking out all the exits, perhaps imagining in her mind which would be the quickest. But why?

  Probably my imagination, Daphne thought. Why can’t we all get past this? It only makes everything ten times as sad, ten times as frightening.

  Daphne rolled the bones, sending them to the silvery surface with a small crash. They turned, spun, and settled, but she wasn’t looking at the counter—she was still looking at Anne, watching the girl’s tense body language, noting the way she kept shifting her sharp shoulders away from the group and putting her eyes squarely to the door.

  Where do you get the energy to hate everyone so much?

  “Daphne?” Shirley squeaked.

  How alone you must feel.

  “Daphne?” a softer voice came. Mary’s.

  Telling everyone and everything to go to hell, Jonathan.

  Jonathan?

  “Daphne, look at the bones,” Mary said.

  “Eh?”

  She turned and looked down. The three markings matched. She’d won.

  And the story, though she barely realized it, had already begun.

  1

  Go to hell, Jonathan Barnes thought, looking up at the round, sweaty face of his English teacher. Mr. Weaver hovered over him like an angry bear in a cheap blue sweater-vest, ready to take off his head.

  “Answer the question,” Weaver said.

  This sucked. When the teacher first asked his question, four kids had shot their hands up like Weaver was handing out cash. But did he call on Anni Moss or Derek Peterson or one of the geek twins, Matt and Pat? No. He jabbed his fat finger at Jonathan.

  “Mr. Barnes?”

  Jonathan shrugged.

  “Am I supposed to decipher an answer from Maybe not, but Jonathan had a gesture the guy could decipher. It consisted of a single finger. Shouldn’t take the teacher long to break that code.

  “I’ll ask you again,” Weaver said. “What was Iago’s motivation in turning Othello against Desdemona?”

  “I guess he didn’t like him very much,” Jonathan said.

  His classmates laughed. Mr. Weaver lowered his head and shook it slowly.

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Barnes. I’m sure Shakespeare would appreciate your carefully thought-out response. When jotting down his little play, his greatest concern must have been conveying the notion that Iago didn’t like Othello very much. Rarely has a layered piece of classic literature been so brilliantly reduced to the obvious.” Weaver gave him a final look of disgust and turned away. “Can anyone else add to what Mr. Barnes has told us, or should we just accept his wisdom and move on?”

  The same four hands shot up.

  “Yes, Anni?”

  Ass, Jonathan thought, bowing his head, pretending to take notes. Of all his teachers, Gary Weaver was the worst. The guy had loathed him on sight and did everything he could to bust Jonathan’s chops. Even when Jonathan answered questions correctly, Weaver made a wisecrack, like his hatred was an allergic reaction to Jonathan’s presence. He’d been through it before—with teachers, with classmates. After a while, you just got used to the crap and ignored it.

  Jonathan looked up from his notes. Scanning the class, his eyes immediately caught sight of a girl in the second row on the far side of the room by the door. His heart raced a little as he gazed at her profile.

  Sometimes he thought the only reason he came to class at all was to see Emma O’Neil. She had a beautiful heart-shaped face and short dark hair, almost black, that jutted away from her scalp in a perfectly calculated shrub of spikes. She was a popular girl, but not one of the stuck-up super-model wannabes most of the other privileged girls were. No, Emma was something else. Sh
e played piano for the jazz band and worked on the school paper. She didn’t seem interested in dance committees or cheerleading. Emma was too cool for that kind of thing, had too much depth. She even said hi to him sometimes. It was always in passing, always too brief, but Jonathan was grateful. It brought some light to the dark. She made school bearable.

  “Are you getting this down, Mr. Barnes?” Weaver asked, shocking him out of his thoughts. “It will be on the test.”

  Jonathan lowered his head and pretended to read over his notes. It wasn’t like Jonathan didn’t know the answer to Weaver’s question. He knew it, but he wasn’t going to go through another year as a “brain.” That would be like tattooing the word “victim” on his forehead. As it was, he figured he might as well set up appointments for the jocks so none of the “Roid Patrol” missed their chance to throw him against the lockers. Besides, class participation was a minor part of the grading system, and Jonathan always did well on tests. He kept the As to a minimum, for the same reason he didn’t volunteer answers in class, but his grade-point average was good enough to get him into a college far away from Westland High School.

  On his notepad, he wrote: Iago was passed over for promotion; Iago was jealous of Othello because he wanted Desdemona for himself. These were the answers Anni Moss gave, and they seemed to satisfy Mr. Weaver. To these Jonathan added Iago believed his wife cheated on him by sleeping with Othello (that whole thing about “’twixt my sheets—Has done my office.”) And Iago grooves on evil—“If thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport.”

  Jonathan appreciated that last line. He’d underlined it in his text, memorized it. It was kind of cold-blooded, but it totally made sense to him: Some people just got off on throwing a hurt. It didn’t matter who they were hurting. They just grooved on the humiliation they handed out. The Roid Patrol didn’t know him (not really), but that didn’t stop them from throwing him up against the lockers every chance they got. It was a sport, a thrill, a quick fix of happy-giggle-fun for a bunch of brain-dead muscle zombies. Same with Mr. Weaver.