The Weird Girls Part 5

"Taran?"

My voice cracked as a chill crept its way down my spine like a centipede. "Are you upstairs waking Emme?" I asked for the sake of my sanity. But in reality, I knew she wasn't with Emme. My preternatural hearing didn't pick up any movement on the second floor-nor did it hone in on any voices-just Shayna in the kitchen, whistling as she chopped the ingredients for my omelet.

I inched my way to Taran's walk-in closet, my claws ready to replace my nails. "Shayna!" I called. "Come in here. Something's wrong."

The whistling ceased abruptly as my sweaty palms pushed opened the door of the room-sized closet. My heart stopped when something blocked the door from opening all the way. I didn't force it, choosing to slink through the narrow opening.

I found Taran. Hanging from a noose fashioned from her prized scarves. Her bare feet swayed in a circular motion from where the pieces of silk had been knotted to the railing. A small, overturned vanity chair lay tilted against the boxes of her pricey shoes and the clump of clothes she'd tossed onto the floor to make room for the loop. Her chin slumped against the note pinned to her lacey white nightie. Mea culpa, it read-My fault.

I staggered into the mountainous clothes rack behind me, my heart aching from how hard it pummeled my ribcage. Pain gurgled in my throat. I tried to scream. Nothing came out. I willed my trembling body to act. It betrayed me, keeping me cemented to where I stood helplessly trying to scream.

"Taran," I finally squeaked. "Taran . . . Taran!"

My legs propelled me forward, jumping onto the railing that held her and bringing the whole d.a.m.ned thing down. More clothes and shoe boxes tumbled over me as my claws sliced through the scarves fastened around her neck. I dragged her back into the bathroom and onto the floor. I jerked when I lay her against the cold foundation. Her sickly green pallor told me she was gone even before my quivering fingertips searched for a pulse that no longer beat.

I screamed for Shayna and Emme as I pounded on our sister's chest. "Wake up, Taran! Wake up!" My arms grew weaker and heavier with every thrust. I don't know how long I performed CPR before I realized Shayna wasn't coming. Or Emme.

And that no one answered my calls.

I covered my mouth as I backed away from my dead sister, knocking over the ceramic tiles that sc.r.a.ped against my calves. With legs that more stumbled than walked, and a heart that had no business racing so fast, I lurched my way into the kitchen, where the smell of burning bacon beckoned me forward.

Chapter Nine.

The tears welling in my eyes blurred my vision. At first I thought it was better that way. I didn't want to see what awaited me. I didn't want to feel it, either.

But I saw it. And I felt it. And it hurt so much more than I expected.

The knife Shayna used to dice the red peppers and onions into pretty little cubes stuck out from her sternum. Her left leg bent at a right angle against the bottom of the stove while the other extended to the opposite cabinet. She twitched as if seizing while bacon grease splattered on her face from the burning pan above. Blood squirted from her mouth as she slanted her head in my direction.

Jesus. She was still alive.

I rushed to her, slipping over the sea of scarlet flowing away from her thin frame. "Oh, G.o.d, Shayna!"

I held her body against me, causing the blood beneath her to saturate my hands and thighs as it poured. My sobs rolled out of me in one horrible wretch.

Shayna smiled-smiled, her lips and teeth soiled with her lifeline. Her hand slapped my face weakly. I gripped it against my cheek as if it could somehow keep her in this world. She shook her head. And that's when I realized she didn't want me to save her. She was saying good-bye. She knew nothing could help her now.

Except maybe Emme.

I bolted up the steps with Shayna in my arms, falling on my knees more than once on weedy legs. "Emme! Emme!"

I kicked opened the door and lay Shayna on Emme's snow-white carpet. As I swayed toward her bed, I already knew what to expect. Yet it didn't stop me from throwing back her dainty pink-and-rose-colored quilt.

Emme's face seemed more angelic in death despite her pale lips, despite her slack mouth, despite her clouded eyes. I shook her limp form hard. "Don't you leave! Your sister needs you. Your sister needs you!"

I shook her harder and harder, until my shakes turned into that gentle rocking my mother soothed us with as children. It always comforted Emme. Always. Would it comfort her now? My gulps and wails seemed to come from someone else, too loud, too desperate, too frail to be from me. "Why did you have to die, baby?" I asked as my grief soaked her face. "Don't you know I need you, too?"

The babbling of secretions followed by one long hiss from Shayna's mouth told me she was gone, too. And just like that my heart broke in one, two, three pieces. Symbolizing the loss of the only family I had left.

Numbness masked and eventually dried my sorrow. Slowly I let Emme slide back onto the bed. With the greatest of care, I arranged her perfect blond waves around her sweet face and closed her mouth and eyes. I kissed her forehead, just as I'd done when she was little and missed our mother's touch. I straightened her legs and then positioned Shayna next to her with their hands touching.

They'd want to be together, I thought wearily. I tucked the quilt against their sides, not wanting them to be cold. Maybe Taran would want to be with them, too, I reasoned.

I stumbled down the steps, pa.s.sing by the kitchen phone. I picked up the receiver and punched in some numbers, figuring I should call . . . someone. But the numbers didn't make sense and formed strange symbols I couldn't make out.

"I should do laundry," I decided as an afterthought.

I gathered the dirty towels from every bathroom, confused why I felt so cold and why my hands continued to tremble. I thought I heard someone ask me a question, but that didn't make sense.

They were all dead.

I dumped everything in the washer and turned the k.n.o.b to start it. Time to clean the kitchen. I better clean the kitchen. The kitchen needs to be cleaned.

The part of me clinging to my sanity tried to slap me out of my shock. But the slap wasn't hard enough to register, and I no longer cared . . . about anything.

The right side of my ribs banged into the countertop as I fumbled around the kitchen. The table appeared to hold the biggest mess, well, next to all the blood. Papers and receipts covered most of the surface, but it was the scroll the witches had left us that caught my attention.

I lifted the rolled up pieces to my nose and took a whiff, filtering through the other aromas fused into the thick paper until I found Larissa's scent. My nose remembered it the moment my delicate senses reached it. She reeked of licorice and sunflowers, of all things. A unique blend. Too unique. Easy to find.

I tucked the parchment beneath my arm and I shoved my bare feet into a pair of sneakers Shayna had abandoned near the foyer. A laugh I hadn't expected broke through my hoa.r.s.e throat, mixing with the sniffles that continued to irritate my nose. Shayna wouldn't need her ratty canvas shoes anymore, would she?

I sighed, staring back at the mess in my house. But it would have to wait. It wasn't time to clean, or scrub, or tidy up.

It was time to hunt.

Chapter Ten.

Protection. The last challenge. The one I catastrophically misinterpreted.

This whole d.a.m.n thing had been about me, at least at first. Beast. I was one. Self. I fought me. Protection . . . I didn't need to protect me. I needed to protect them. And I failed. G.o.d, had I failed.

My sweat-soaked palms slicked the steering wheel. I struggled to keep our Subaru on the road. My nerves wouldn't allow me to focus, and my tigress could already taste Larissa's blood.

I wiped my clammy cheeks and concentrated on the stretch of highway ahead. The last time I'd spoken to Danny, he'd mentioned that members of the clan supposedly gathered around Meeks Bay to practice making it rain this time of year. I hadn't construed it as useful information then, but now it seemed helpful-valuable even. Perhaps one of the witches would lead me to Larissa if I asked politely.

Or not so politely.

If I thought about it, Meeks Bay provided the perfect location for a bewitching rendezvous during the winter months. In the summer, hordes of campers would rent out the surrounding cabins or spend the day lounging on the beach. In February, tourists were too busy skiing their way down the mountains of Squaw Valley. It should be deserted for the most part in winter. Good. I didn't need an audience, not for what I planned to do.

The afternoon clouds shadowed the lake as I drove along 89, while birds hurried to return to their shelters as the heavy snowfall began. I wondered if Saint Peter would reunite me with my sisters tonight, or if he would find me unworthy of entrance into heaven. "Thou shall not kill, remember?" a voice reminded me. But did G.o.d make exceptions for those so sick with grief they could barely stay within the yellow lines?

I guess I'll find out.

I pulled into The Wild Willow, Meeks Bay's resort and the sole camp rental facility in the area. The two-story clapboard building had closed down for the winter, but for the moment, it remained my only lead. I drove through the lot and over the wide snowy lawn, steering the Legacy behind a thick cl.u.s.ter of trees. I cut the engine and waited, not bothering to leave the heat on. It didn't take long for the falling snow to cover my tracks, or my windshield. But I didn't need to see, only hear. Hear for any sounds of voices, or steps, or breaths.

m.u.f.fled yells of my sisters jolted my already fragile nerves. And at one point I thought I felt Emme's touch. I closed my eyes and allowed one more tear to fall before I reached for my predator's hunger. My stomach growled. I needed to eat. I wondered briefly how Larissa would taste.

I didn't know how Larissa had managed to take my sisters from me, but the longer I sat against the chilly leather seat, the more I realized how much I'd miss them. It had only been the four of us for so long. And while I knew their future spouses and families would eventually sever our close-knit bond, I hadn't prepared myself to lose them so soon. I'd thought for sure we had a few good years left. Now, we didn't have anything.

Blackness claimed the inside of the car. In the darkness, my sisters' cries pleaded with me to return home. But all that awaited me were their corpses. I didn't want to view their dead bodies again so soon.

Or ever.

I heard a set of tires crunch through the snow near the front of the building, followed quickly by another set. The voices were mere whispers and far from where I hid. Still I heard them.

Someone opened a car door. "Don't worry. You can't see our cars from the road."

Doors slammed shut. "It's freezing," a different person said.

"Quit complaining," another snapped. "And hurry up. We have to replace the other group before Larissa gets p.i.s.sed."

Bingo.

I waited until the footsteps all but faded from my sensitive ears before stepping out. Snow fell onto my hair and bare arms and my warm breath filled the night. I jerked, as if jolted, and scanned the area, searching for the witches. Nothing there. The group was getting further away. I needed to move. Now.

My tigress kept our steps light. I veered around the corner where three Jettas had parked in an old stable area serving as a carport. The witches were right; no way would their cars be visible from the road. But I wasn't hunting Jettas. I was hunting their drivers.

I stayed low, following the fresh footsteps across the street. When I neared the trail leading to rented cottages, I slipped into the woods. I barely sensed the snow drifting into my shoes and soaking my tank top. I ignored the goose b.u.mps spreading up my arms and the inadvertent shakes of my body. Instead, I focused on the aromas of mint, rosemary, saffron, and nutmeg the witches emitted like a spice rack. The four witches I followed had abandoned their Gap clothes and replaced them with red medieval capes. They resembled liquid fire as the wind fluttered their capes against the white wilderness.

None appeared to notice me. They kept their heads down against the increasing wind, and their conversation revolved around the miserable weather. I kept my distance, ducking low into the brush where the trees thinned out. They couldn't sense my magic from this far away. At least, that's what I counted on.

I'd taken several careful paces when I thought I heard Taran swearing from somewhere far behind me. I glanced back. Only the outstretched limbs of barren trees greeted me. Not the arms of my sisters. Of course not the arms of my sisters. My tigress chuffed, imploring me to concentrate on the task. I veered back and continued my chase.

After about fifteen minutes of trudging through and griping about the snow, the witches came upon an old mountain cabin shaped like a giant wooden triangle. There were three levels; the top had two windows and was swathed in complete darkness-likely a small loft. Only one lamp lit the second floor. Candles flickered on the first, but the drapes kept me from seeing more than a few figures pacing. They didn't, however, keep me from hearing the muted chants of the coven.

"Find her," one woman called.

"Find her," the group repeated.

"Guide her."

"Guide her."

"Blind her."

"Blind her."

"See through only us. We implore you."

"See through only us. We implore you."

One of the witches knocked on the door. "Dearest of sisters, the coven of four seeks entrance."

The spiky-haired witch who'd written the F-you scroll answered the door. "Good noon, sisters. Thank you for coming. Please hurry, our other sisters grow weary."

They entered without looking back. That was their first mistake. I prowled toward the front only to smack face first into an invisible shield, several yards from the front steps.

s.h.i.t.

I pressed against it. It felt as slick as gla.s.s, but as thick as the kind that separates tellers from would-be bank robbers. My hands slid to the bottom and my claws dug deep into the snow. Whatever defense they used seemed to extend into the ground. But how far down?

One way to find out.

I shifted as far deep as I could and then across. I didn't know if the safeguard they used could slice me, dice me, burn me, or melt me. But I planned to die anyway, so it didn't make much difference. I surfaced just in front of the warped wooden steps, trying to slow my gasps so they weren't so audible. In the end, my efforts didn't help.

"What was that?" someone new asked.

I leapt onto the steps, impatient with the need to act. I punched my fists through the door, yanked it off its hinges, and launched it into the force field with the strength of my grief. The oak door wedged into the shield. From the base, a long crack shot high into the sky like a reverse bolt of red lightning. Three women screamed and collapsed to the floor. I supposed their magic had fed the shield. They should have done a better job.

I jumped over them as I stalked my way inside.

Chapter Eleven.

The stunned faces of ten witches greeted me. With the exception of a few chairs and a table, the large opened room sat bare. A pentacle had been carved into the wide planked floorboards. Five witches sat at each point with their staffs and talismans between them. In the center of the star lay four pictures of me and my three dead sisters. A kitchen knife crossed over Shayna's photo, and a small bottle of what reeked of nightshade rested over Emme's. Taran's, of course, came complete with a noose made from ribbon. The eyes in my photo had been blacked out with a marker. Strands of my left-over hair bound each one.

They'd used the bloodline I shared with my sisters to reach them. That's how they'd killed them. I'd been part of their weapon. The knowledge fueled my fury like a gasoline-powered inferno. They should have hidden that little tidbit from me. Now I knew. Now they'd pay.

The four witches I'd followed and the spiky-haired witch watched slack-jawed as I marched into the pentacle. The edges popped and sizzled when I stepped through. It seemed my physical presence broke their spell.

I bent and lifted each photo. The murder weapons slipped off as I raised the images to my face. It appeared they'd spent the days before the attacks following us, or hired a human to do it. Otherwise I would have sensed their magic.

Shayna's picture showed her laughing. She'd always had the best smile and personality. Emme's depicted her shyness, by showing her head slightly lowered. Taran scowled in her picture as she a.n.a.lyzed a box of cereal. I remembered that day. We'd gone to the market. She'd complained how expensive food was in the Tahoe region. The one of me had Emme's head resting against my shoulder. I couldn't see her face, but her light strands were unmistakable. She readily demonstrated affection that way. Would I ever feel her head against me again?

No.