Twenty Five
It was still dark when they woke her up.
Shade had shed her clothing, slid into some of her softest, warmest pyjamas, and crawled into bed the minute Spot had left. But she had lain awake, staring at the wall for the next three or four hours, running the conversation over in her mind, trying to pick out any possible hints or clues that what Spot had said was either true or false. The anguish he had let out at Misprint's death seemed to be real enough, but Shade had no idea of how good he was at playing the part of the tragic hero, the mourning lover. She didn't trust him, but suddenly found herself wishing she did.
Whenever her thoughts reached that nerve, she rolled over to face a different direction, as though she could leave them behind. But sooner or later they caught up to her. She wished she could trust him. Could she really? If he was that in love with Misprint, would he lie to her about it? Did he keep coming back because he loved her, or because there was no one else willing enough to let him in? The questions rotated in her mind, one after the other, getting more and more blurry as the night wore on and she struggled to forget and go to sleep.
That's all I want for now, she thought in exhaustion, as the lemon cool rays of dawn began to brush the horizon. To forget…
And she got her wish. For a little while, at least.
Two hours later, the lock to her room silently clicked open, the handle turned, and the door swung open easily as the window had last night. She stirred slightly in her sleep, eyelids tightening, too far away from the real world to be pulled back by such a noise. But the heavy footsteps padding across the carpet and the rough, steel-like hand on her upper arm, shaking her awake, was more than enough.
"Here she is."
Her eyes flickered open, as the smell of cigarettes and aspirin washed over her skin and pillow. Her nose wrinkled automatically, and she struggled to free her arm from the uncomfortable grip of the intruder.
"What's going on?" She asked sleepily, craning her head backward to try and see. Detective Locklair was leaning over her, face haggard with stubble and wrinkles, eyes glinting malevolently. There was a shorter, chubbier policeman behind him, holding something in his hand that Shade couldn't quite see. Ms. Mayen was standing behind him at the door, one hand on her hip, looking mixed between victorious and worried, as she watched the way he was shaking the young girl. "Detective? What's the matter?" Her insides immediately hollowed out in hope, even though she knew what she had to ask was pointless. "Did you find something?" She managed to pry her arm away, and sat up. "Did you find anything on Fai…"
"Stand up," He said shortly. She wrinkled her brows, and felt a glimmer of confusion in her stomach.
"What?"
"Do what I say."
She glanced at the shorter policeman, and then slowly swung her legs out of bed and let her feet drop onto the carpet. She looked over at Ms. Mayen as she pushed herself to her feet, but the woman's face was sending out too many mixed messages to comprehend. She looked up at the Detective again.
"Is it about Faith?" She asked again, as the shorter one moved around behind her. "Did you find anything? Is she alright? I mean…"
Before she could even finish the sentence, her wrists were gently forced together, and enclosed in the hard, cold steel of handcuffs, with a resounding click that seemed to slam shut a door in her mind.
Her face went blank, and her mouth gaped open in surprise. Detective Locklair nodded once to the shorter policeman who, looking rueful, moved back around the girl and shuffled over to the boxes with Faith's name on them. Shade watched him go, unable to speak, unable to move, hardly able to breathe. It felt as though a valve in her throat had slammed shut, and she was slowly running out of oxygen, slowly sinking underneath the surface of a numb ocean of fear that enveloped her…she slipped under with the final clicking sounds of the shorter cop taking a few, quick pictures of the boxes, the bloodstains on the carpet, and then one of Misprint's empty bed.
"That'll do." The detective said shortly, grabbing Shade's shoulder and roughly spinning her around. He put one hand on her wrists, as though to add support to the handcuffs, and another on her shoulder. All of a sudden, Shade found herself presented with the same speech that she had seen on countless TV shows and Action Movies. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to hire an attorney…
"Wait…" Shade choked, feeling the words come from a place deeper than her throat, from the bottom of the ocean, from the recesses of her stomach. They were too quiet to be heard when they reached her lips. "What is this?"
"Be careful with her," Ms. Mayen said stiffly, the phrase sounding strange in her clipped, brittle tones.
"Thank you, ma'am." The detective said, clearly showing that he wasn't listening at all. Shade felt the insides of her stomach churn, faster and faster, as though she was at the fair and the roller coaster had just done a particularly intense dive. The feeling of the dorm room and the feeling of the hallways were stripped away by the handcuffs and the man behind her. She expected, any moment, to be led out to a cop car with flashing sirens and a camera crew swarming around her like flies. She'd have a microphone shoved in her face and questions fired at her like bullets, piercing and tearing and hurting…
"What did I do?" She finally choked, as he forced her roughly along the blank hallways. A few faces peered out of the doorways around her, watching her being slowly led down the corridor.
"You're being charged," Detective Locklair said grimly. "With the murder of Faith McAlester."
Racetrack heard his alarm go off, but he hardly moved, staring at his wall. He hadn't been able to get to sleep; there was a strange buzzing in his head that kept him awake. His head had been buzzing ever since he heard that Faith had died.
The strangest thing was that he couldn't believe she had died. She was there, there was nothing wrong. He still felt the same as before, as though he believed a part of her was inside of him, and had not yet flickered out. He knew he wasn't part of this prophecy that he had gathered information about, and he definitely didn't believe he was some sort of psychic but…when he felt this way, could she really be dead?
Dutchy quelled any glimmers of his own clairvoyance by flicking off his alarm for him and saying in a low voice that they were planning a small memorial service for Faith in Shade's room. It was just going to be those who actually knew about her death, no outside friends or acquaintances.
"She didn't have any outside friends or acquaintances." Racetrack replied, his voice softened by the pillow. "It was just me, her, and Shade."
"Yeah." Dutchy replied, the word sounding more like filler than agreement. "Well…then come by, okay?"
"Yeah." Racetrack said back, sounding more and more like a recording of himself than himself. He couldn't get over the way that everyone was calling her Faith now, instead of Misprint, as though the nickname separated itself from her at her death. Shouldn't she be called by the name that everyone remembered her by? If he died, would they call him Anthony? Would they call Shade Alyson?
Maybe it was all the lying to the police and teachers that had got them into the habit of using real names instead of the nicknames they had thought up a few years back. As though they were a cast off game, the kind you threw in closets and forgot about until a few years later, when you fished them out and reminisced about the good old days. But, Racetrack steadily realized, that he would never look back on these days and call them good. The good old days ended the year before.
He listened to Dutchy quietly move around their dorm with the agility of a cat, pulling his blouse over his head and doing up his tie, straightening his glasses and combing out his hair. How could he be so easy going, and so calm, when one of his friends had just been killed? Probably in the most horrible ways you could imagine? How could he do that? How had it happened?
"You comin' down?" Dutchy asked him warily, afraid to urge the boy into emotions he didn't want to deal with. Racetrack shook his head, barely moving his eyes from the spot on the wall. He needed some time to think things over, to be alone, to run her face over in his mind to make sure he would never, ever forget her. "I think you should…" Dutchy said delicately, raising his eyebrows behind his glasses. "The teachers might think…"
"I'm sick." Racetrack said decisively. "I want to stay in bed."
Dutchy stared at him for a moment more, his eyes tracing the curve of his cheek which still had the baby fat clinging to it, tracing the ruffled back of his head and the way his fingers were clenching at the covers as though afraid to let go.
"'Kay." Dutchy said finally, softly, as he grabbed his back pack and slung it over his shoulder. "Hey…if you ever want to talk things over…"
"I don't." Racetrack said, a little too harshly, but enough to get the point across. Dutchy stitched his lips together, straightened his glasses once more, and left the room as quietly as he could, as though any smaller noise could set the boy off. Racetrack listened to him go, running the conversation over in his mind, before burying his face in the pillow and wishing that he could fall asleep.
Dutchy skirted around a few of the boys who were trudging down through the hallways, shifting his backpack higher up onto his shoulders and wishing that he, too, could have stayed behind in bed and curled up like a little boy again. It had been a long time since he had been babied by anyone, including himself. But he knew that the one day he missed would probably be the day that Specs had some ground breaking information, or that a vampire gang started massacring students. Being a slayer, he couldn't afford to miss a school day because he felt down.
Misprint hadn't been his best friend, it was true. But it was a shock to find out that someone you worked alongside with had been killed, even in their profession. The only one who truly didn't seem surprised was Jack, but that was admissible, considering none of them knew what Jack was up to since the winter. He had gone from a solemn, deadly serious seventeen year old who was intent on wreaking revenge on his one sworn enemy, to an arrogant, emotionless rebel who barely stuck to the rules any more. Not to mention never made the effort to go see his girlfriend any more. Dutchy couldn't figure it out, but he always got the strangest vibes off Jack when they were together. And not just the usual uncomfortable vibes, but the feeling that he was standing next to something that was completely foreign and unknown in his co-slayers body.
He just didn't know how to introduce it to the rest of the slayers without sounding crazy.
He exited into the lower hallway and pushed the door open. A cool wave of sweet, spring smelling air hit him, and he sighed. The weather was getting warmer; the school year was almost over. When was Specs going to pull them from this city?
"Dutchy!"
He glanced up to see Specs running towards him, almost as though he had an answer to Dutchy's internal question. Every time Specs introduced a new piece of information, Dutchy would always hope it concerned something in another state, so he could finally get out of New York City. He found himself beginning to hate it's arrogant rebelliousness, it's tortured looking bums and druggies, it's pretentious clubs that lined the streets. Who needed New York anyhow?
"What's up?" He asked, shifting his back pack higher on to his shoulders. Specs shoved his glasses up his nose to stop them from toppling off his face completely. Close up, he was pale, and agitated.
"Shade's gone. She's been arrested. They've taken her down to the station for questioning."
Dutchy blinked, feeling his mind reel in shock, watching the way that Specs' eyes flicked around, checking for eavesdroppers. The two of them quickly fell into step together, as Dutchy's tried to start thinking, to get his mind working the way it usually did. All he could think of was Shade being led down to some godforsaken police station on the edges of Manhattan somewhere.
"How did this happen?" He asked tensely, in a low voice, as the crowd around them grew denser, girls mixing in with the boys as they trooped into the dining hall for breakfast.
"We didn't piece our stories together well enough." Specs said regretfully. "Gemini spilled about the argument on Stephen's funeral…and the party…she didn't mean to cause any harm, it just looks too suspicious. And too weird. If the lover of your best friend suddenly dies in a mysterious and gruesome accident, you don't throw a party."
"Christ." Dutchy swore, shoving his hands violently into the pockets of his suit pants. It attracted a few stares, and he automatically lowered his voice and lifted his chin up slightly, trying to clear his face of any emotion.
"They think she's jealous of Misprint's relationship with Stephen," Specs continued, speaking quickly in a low voice. "It really shows that she didn't care about Stephen at all…and that there are bloodstains on the carpet from when Misprint and Spot got in that fight. Not to mention the fact that she packed up all of Misprint's stuff when she was supposed to just be missing, and not dead."
"Shit." Dutchy spat.
"That, paired with the fact that she's often out at night with no explanation and no alibi…well…I tried asking questions, y'know. Trying to play it up like there was no possible way she did it, but…they're not giving us anything, Dutchy. They won't even tell me how big of a suspect she is, how long she's going to be questioned for or…if they're even gonna send her back…"
"You think she's gonna tell about…well, us?" Dutchy asked, feeling his stomach perform a flip at the thought of being found out. Specs sighed.
"I don't think she'd do that. But I also didn't think she'd throw that party."
"You don't trust her?" Dutchy persisted, glancing at Specs. Specs sighed again and removed his glasses, polishing them slowly on his sleeve. Once the wire and glass was pulled from his face, the lines of exhaustion and age really began to show through in the dark circles under his eyes, and the strained set of his eyebrows.
"I do trust her." He said. "But I wouldn't trust my best friend under the questioning of Detective Locklair. That man has a flair for twisting words around until they don't mean anything."
"But he couldn't possible twist her sentences into anything about vampires or demons, could he? I mean…even if she gave off hints, would he believe her? He wouldn't. No one would. They'd just think she's crazy…"
"And lock her up." Specs finished for him, sliding his glasses back on. "This…well, it sounds stupid, but I think she has a purpose. Strike that, I know she has a purpose."
"What purpose?" Dutchy asked.
"I don't know." Specs replied. "It's more of a gut instinct than some sort of conclusion. She's a big part of the prophecy, or this coming apocalypse that's starting in the East, and I want to know how. And, above all, I don't want her locked up."
Dutchy frowned, trying to see to the root of the boys words. But as always, Specs had just explained as much as he had to, and had then kept the rest for himself to analyze. Dutchy couldn't even begin to guess the rest of what was on his mind.
"What should we do?" Dutchy finally questioned. "There are people who know that we hang out with her. What should we say?"
"Play dumb," Specs said decisively, without a hint of hesitation. "Spread the word to the others. The last thing we need is for one of us to be held under suspicion."
The lone bulb in the room was bare and cast shallow light over the interior. In movies they always make these rooms out be confining and a little grungy. Apparently that was all wrong. It was clean and smelled faintly of antiseptic and old cigarette smoke. Locklair was smoking across from her, the smoke tracing a dismal ladder to the ceiling of white tiles and water stains. He eyed her with those cold grey cop eyes of his. Shade's hands were wrapped around a Styrofoam mug of coffee. It wasn't real coffee, not in the slightest, it was thick and bitter and foul. But it still proved to Shade that there was no coffee that was truly undrinkable. It was just a matter of how much you wanted to drink it and how much sugar or cream had to be added. Shade's hands were slightly warmer for it all but her insides were ice cold.
To put it plainly she was afraid. Terrified. There was not a vampire on the planet that frightened her the way this room did. She was just a kid, just a girl and she was facing murder charges. She hunched her shoulders and wrapped her hands tighter around the cup. Her pajamas would always stink of this room she decided. She drew a shuddering breath and swore to herself that she would not cry.
Her body was stiff all over. She had been led to a bare grey room, with a single chair in it, and told to sit and wait until they were ready for her. That, alone, would have been enough to break her had she not held onto the single thought that she was sane and innocent. The room was anti-septic, pale, humming, strange to the touch. She felt as though she was in a different world entirely.
She spent hours in that very room, each one seemingly an eternity. All the while, she wanted to pound against the walls and scream. She was my best friend. My best friend! How dare you think I even tried to hurt her?
"Where is Faith, Miss Mayer?" Locklair asked, taking a heavy drag on his cigarette. The little white wrapped tobacco lay between his lips and the burning cherry of a tip bobbed with each word he spoke. Shade watched it to avoid having to see how truly empty his eyes were. At least the evils she fought weren't human. Here was a man who each and every day saw the devil in every man. Her hair fell in front of her face and she made no move to brush it away.
"I don't know detective," She replied coolly. She was proud, her voice was clear and strong, not that of a girl being charged with the murder of her best friend. This room proved that she was gone. All the hope and faith she had been saving up for Misprint finally dissipated. But maybe it was just that hope can't survive in a room so void of any life. She licked her lips and leaned forwards on the table, staring up at him through a veil of her hair "If I knew I would tell you, I would go there and get her myself but I don't know and there is nothing I can tell you."
"Then why," he asked coolly, grinding out his cigarette butt only to light up a new one. Shade watched his zippo flare into flame and thought of Misprint. Shade choked back a sob and Locklair's partner, one Mr. Mattias Ohlund, almost moved to help her. Fat tears splashed onto the hard, worn surface of the table and Shade swore they weren't hers "did you pack up her things?"
"She's been gone so long," She whispered through hot tears. They burned scalding tracks down her cheeks. She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand and chastised herself for being weak. Ohlund was fiddling with the brim of his hat, it reminded her of Race when she or Misi got into trouble. The thought brought the urge to cry again. Shade bit her lip to hold back the tears. What would Race do if his best friends were gone; One to the grave and one to jail for murder. She sniffled pathetically and felt like slapping herself, she settled for pinching the back of her hand, physical pain is better than emotional pain any day. "I lost hope that she'd ever come back. It was too hard to see her things."
"And why is that?" He asked, as if he was talking about the weather not Misprint's death, possible murder. Shade wanted to hate him, she wanted to dig out his eyes with her finger nails. Wonder if Jack would get his big O watching that? She mused but was too busy hating herself for fighting with Misprint to really think about it.
"Because, detective Locklair, she was my best friend we hadn't been apart for more than a few days for the last nine years of our lives," She looked down at the table. Someone had carved their tag into the wood. Skits in big blocky letters. She traced the tip of her finger over those letters. Her fingers were losing the calluses she'd so proudly built up. She hadn't carried a stake in God knew how long "We met in the first grade. She wouldn't ask Race for the purple crayon because she had a crush on him. I asked him for her. We've been friends ever since."
"So why'd you kill her?" He asked, trying his best good ol' boy smile. He wanted to play her friend. She wanted to make him scream. How could he so calmly ask her that? How dare he.
"I did not kill Faith McAlester," She pushed to her feet and Locklair was up with his hand on his gun by the time she stood. He would have made a good slayer, good reflexes and he was watching the room. His back was to Ohlund though, he either trusted his partner with his life or he didn't think he was a threat. Shade was betting he didn't trust a lot of people. She thought Locklair was making a mistake, Ohlund was more dangerous than he looked, she wouldn't have left him at her back. Shade didn't trust a lot of people either, "Get this right, I didn't kill Faith, I don't know where she is and I hope to hell that she isn't dead because if she is something inside of me is going to curl up and die."
"Why don't you sit down Alyson?" Ohlund suggested as he came around to lay a hand on her shoulder. She let him push her back into her chair, but her eyes never left Locklair's. If Ohlund wanted to pretend he was just a nice guy trying to help and get her to confess something he was out of luck "Just tell us what you know."
"Her best friend died brutally and then she vanished," Shade's voice cracked with emotion and she hated herself for it. She scratched at the table absently with sharp nails "I don't know where she is and I don't know why anyone would want to hurt her. She was just a kid like me."
"Why the nicknames then? You in one a' them girl gangs?" Locklair asked crossing his arms over his chest. He hadn't sat back down. Apparently the good detective didn't trust her. Good. He was getting smarter. Shade sighed and folded her hands on the table, resting her chin on the back of her hands.
"Racetrack took up a summer job in grade nine at the Sheepshead Races, it stuck. Misprint can't spell worth beans. I just liked Shade and I get my way. We were the fucking three musketeers," She rolled her eyes up to meet the senior detective's steely gaze "One for all and all for one. And, detective, the three musketeers would never kill each other."
"Take her to a holding cell Ohlund," Locklair left the room. Shade looked up at the younger man. He searched her face for a moment and sighed heavily.
"Let's go miss Mayer, I don't have to cuff you do I?" Shade shook her head and let him lead her out the door.
"I still say we gotta bust her out." Blink said for the third time.
Specs sighed in aggravation and pressed his fingers to his temples, as though the action would calm the rapids of thoughts that crashed through his head. Gemini rolled her eyes, this time with genuine irritation as opposed to a loving sort of affection. The ten of them were gathered into Jack's dorm room, each and every one of their tempers on edge and ready to snap.
"That's not gonna help," Specs told him again. "Even if we were to succeed in blasting her out of a holding cell without anyone else noticing where she had gone and who had taken her, she'd just be reported missing again. Which would arouse even more suspicion. Even if we were to get her out, what do you s'pose we'd do with her, huh? Take her back here and forget it ever happened? This place is the first place the police will look!"
"Then let's not take her back here!" Chaos said firmly, from her perch on the desk. The ever antsy girl wasn't even sitting, she was balanced in a cat-like crouch. "Let's get out of here, Specs, we've hung around this hell hole for far too long."
"It isn't just a matter of us, anymore." Specs told the slayers. "We've picked up a four new children of the prophecy in this one freaking school, we can't just…"
"Three." Racetrack said quietly. Specs furrowed his brows and glanced over at the boy, who had been sitting silently on the edge of Jack's bed. "We've…you guys have picked up three."
There was a silence that pressed heavily down on the teenagers, and Specs cleared his throat rather loudly, as though to brush the awkwardness from the air.
"Three new children of the prophecy in one school. To just leave…without a trace…it's impossible. It would generate too much suspicion..."
"Hell, you've done it before!" Bumlets protested.
"I can't leave!" Mondie shot back, her hand finding it's way to Mush's, her fingers deftly entwining in his. "There's too much here…"
"You've been chosen as a child of the prophecy, Amanda." Chaos replied acidly. "You don't really have much of a choice."
"I'm not leaving right away." Mondie repeated. "I gotta finish school here. Hell, I haven't even graduated yet, I want to go to college, and…"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." Specs said edgily, unwilling to get on the topic of the future. He always felt that the full responsibility of what they were had never quite sunk in on Gemini and Mondie. The extent of their knowledge on the subject had been "cool new powers." "But for now, we have to focus on the problem of Shade, and what kind of cover story we can come up with."
"Remember what happened the last time we tried to come up with a cover story?" Jack interrupted, his lips twisting into a smirk.
"I'm doing the best I can, Jack." Specs admitted. "But I can't do everything for you guys."
Gemini lowered her head and studied the grey patterned carpet. The idea of Specs being only human had never occurred to her. Whenever something new cropped up in her life nowadays, the ultimate solution was to go to Specs, who was always quick with his lap top to snap up information on the subject. She felt a weight of helplessness press down onto her shoulders, as she realized the seriousness of their predicament.
"Surely they can't convict her." Mondie tried again, glancing from one face to another. "I mean…she really didn't do it. Didn't she? I mean…"
"Law doesn't work that way, Monds." Bumlets said, raising his head and giving her a swift glance. "The odds are stacked against her."
"I'm telling you." Blink argued, ready to repeat his argument. "Just bust her out. Gemini is the most powerful Wicca in the world. Can't she do something?"
"Would you give it a rest?" Gemini snapped at him, feeling almost as though she was drowning. "Break her out? Have Specs whisk us away across the country? Me included? Is that what you want, Blink?"
Blink looked immediately chagrined, and opened his mouth to take it back, but Chaos interrupted them.
"Will you four cut it the fuck out? Don't pretend that your cute little high school relationships are going to last forever. You wanna sacrifice thousands of human lives across the country so you can make out in each others dorm rooms for a few hours every week? Of all the selfish…"
"Calm down, Chaos." Dutchy cut her off.
"Don't tell me to calm down…"
"We're all…"
"Please," Specs said, gripping his knee caps. "The point is…"
"God dammit I need to get the hell out of here." Jack groaned, rolling onto his back and sliding his hands under his head. "How long can you people sit in the same room and talk and talk and talk…"
"Jack, this is serious." Racetrack found himself snapping. "Shade is in jail and Misprint is…"
"Dead. We've covered this." Jack interrupted.
"Fuck you." Chaos growled. "Just shut the fuck up, Jack."
"Don't tell me to shut the fuck up…"
"I'll tell whoever I want to shut the fuck up. I don't know why you've suddenly become a grand sweeping asshole lately, but…"
"Please," Specs yelled. "Everyone just be quiet."
Racetrack glared at Jack in the silence that ensued, feeling his stomach twist and churn like a cloth. The boys lifted chin and greased back hair seemed so casual and apathetic, it made his blood speed in his veins.
"Jesus Christ." He said in a slow, soft voice laden with hot emotion. "Am I the only one who cares?"
"Cares 'bout what?" Jack asked.
"Misprint." Racetrack replied in a voice a lot higher than he intended it to be. "She's dead, she burned, and everyone here just shrugs it off like it happens every day!"
"It does." Chaos snapped. "And as long as you insist on getting involved, you might as well get used to it."
"Not to me, it doesn't!" Racetrack yelled. "This has never happened…she was…you guys knew her! And now it's like you've forgotten she ever existed! I can't."
"Racetrack, we…" Specs began. He always felt awkward when dealing with emotion, and tried to make himself square his shoulders and look the boy in the eye. "We haven't forgotten about Misprint, but we need to think about Shade. We need to think about what's happening now."
"Fuck." Racetrack swore, and rolled his eyes upwards. With a few, deft, angry strides he crossed the room, jerked the door open, and slammed it behind him with a force that was loud enough to make Jack feel the vibrations on his bed. He fought down the smirk on his face and tried to look as concerned as the rest of them, bar Chaos, who was scowling and pulling at the clumps of tangles in her hair.
"Jesus." Specs said, closing his eyes. He could feel his throat tight with choked comments and retorts, could feel his hair nearly on end from the tension in his scalp. There was a moment of silence as they watched him, and it occurred to every one of them that this might just be the day that Specs finally snapped. He took a deep breath in, felt his lungs sear inside of him, and opened his eyes to see every face turned to his.
"The girls better get back to their dorms." He said quietly, and as evenly as he could. The sun had sunk behind the skyline, leaving the window dark and foreboding. "You took a great enough risk in even coming here."
Chaos immediately slid down from her perch and made her way to the window. Mush looked up at Mondie with uncertain eyes, a gaze that made her stomach twist inside her. She realized that, despite all he attempted to be involved with, he was just a little boy that would need looking after. Something she may not be able to do. She leaned in and planted a quick kiss on his forehead, before standing and following Gemini, who had given Blink naught but a forced smile.
Chaos wrenched the window up, and they watched as each girl disappeared through it, one by one. Specs stood, feeling his joints creak. He felt so very old. He grabbed the few papers he had brought over to Jacks room, stood, and began straightening them on the desk. He could still feel the questions haunting the air, and he turned over his shoulder, his voice shaking.
"You guys wanna discuss any ideas you may have? Or do you just wanna argue some more?"
It was the first time any of them had heard Specs hint at spite. Mush and Blink exchanged a quick glance, before getting up, followed by Dutchy and Bumlets. Jack didn't move a muscle, staring up at his ceiling in forced complacency. Specs waited for the rest of the boys to leave, closing the door behind them, before he turned back to Jack and watched him. Jack was aware of his stare, and shifted somewhat uncomfortably. He hated one on one situations, because it only took a few moments of closeness or a slip of the tongue to give away his secret.
"Was there something between you and Shade?" Specs asked.
Jack furrowed his brows and tried to look confused, as though the question had caught him off guard. Tried to look as though there was no reason in the world there should be something between him and Shade.
"Whaddaya mean?" He replied. Specs cocked his head almost indistinguishably to the side.
"I mean did you two have a…a falling out?"
"You mean did we fight?" Jack said, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice.
"Yeah."
"Naw." Jack said, jerking his shoulders up and down, making the bed shake slightly. "Whyd'ja ask?"
Specs had to bite his tongue. Jack's careless attitude was intimidating, and if he were to mention the apparent coldness that Jack was beginning to show towards the girl whom everyone knew he had a thing for, it would only anger him. So instead, he shrugged.
"Dunno. See you later."
He pulled the door open, and began walking towards his dorm room, slowly. For the first time in a while, he didn't feel like running to catch up with the guys.
Jack bounced off his bed and strode towards the window, eager to get out into the night.
Spot couldn't think. He couldn't. His fingers were pressed against the soft concave of his temples, massaging, twisting, snaking upwards and clenching at his hair until the sharp pain made his eyes tighten. They dragged down his face and clutched at his shoulders, rubbed together, pulled and pressed and prodded and left red marks on his arms from where they had rubbed too hard. He couldn't remember where he had been for the past day, couldn't remember how he had climbed out of the dorm room window, how he was still numb and dull when he hadn't eaten for what seemed like ages. He felt as though he was falling apart at the edges, frantically trying to pull the seams back together with clumsy fingers, helpless and frightened.
He had been having these spells for weeks, spells in which the cool, sinister, smirking countenance of his old self wrestled with the weaker, ashamed blood that flowed through his veins. He knew the emotions were fading, dying out in his mind, leaving him torn between two courses, two intentions. Every moment, the two voices in his head wrestled, fought, threw him back and forth, battered him down like a child. He felt as though he wanted to rip his mind from its foundations and cleanse it, fix it, take back his unplanned, unusually heroic rescue of one of his most persistent enemies.
She found fire source in a body that was no longer alive. No, no, no…he clenched his hair harder, hearing a few strands rip from his scalp. In a body that was…basically ashes. It was insane. Too insane. Too perfect. He felt a wicked, consuming fire lick up his limbs, through his stomach and ribs, through his throat, into his mind. A pair of blue eyes shone from in the darkness of his thoughts, and a shaft of light was thrown across the face. The same face that had bled under his fingers, that had paled at the sight of his form, that had screamed in horror and moaned in longing, the same face that had crumpled in fear under those first, careful, cruel ministrations. The blue eyes flashed with a mischievous love for life that he had never bothered to try and bring out each night, and the lips twisted into a subtle smirk.
Misprint…Fucking bitch deserved what she got…Went up in her own flames…fucking prude…bruised and bloody…with her high squealing voice and skinny, toothpick legs. Like a twelve year old. A little kid.
He felt suddenly dizzy, and staggered sideways, pressing his hand against a shabby fence that surrounded property, which had been on sale for a near ten years. It creaked under his weight, and he could feel the whole world tilting underneath his feet. I should have told her something before it was too late, I shouldn't have fucked around…waiting…sending messengers…waiting outside her window…She died hating me. She better have fucking died with my name on her lips, she was mine. She was mine…
Misprint's face blended, wavered, and suddenly darkened. Bruises were blossoming on her skin, tearing open, wet with blood and tears and sweat. Flames seemed to crackle all around him, as though it was he who was burning to death. Slowly, her face blended into Shade's, the hair falling loosely around her shoulders, her eyebrows furrowed in distrust. Spot shook his head frantically as the conversation began to play its way out in his head. He didn't want to hear her speak those words, the words that seemed to have stopped his heart up, dying again. If you think you have the fucking right to show up here again after what you did to her, you've got to be fucking insane. What the fuck are you doing here, anyways?
"Shut up, shut up, shut up…" He murmured, digging his fingers against his scalp. Every thought of Misprint made him feel as though he was getting a hatchet to the stomach, splintering upwards through his dried, dusty body and making him crumble and crackle into nothing on the pavement. Every time he saw her face, he could see her burning, still and dark, with flames leaping and dancing in the background. Burned dry, just like him. He was burning too, but with something much deeper and hotter than fire. Something that surrounded the place where she used to be, and throbbed, missing and empty.
If anything else had tried to touch her, she would have incinerated it in a second. But she… She wouldn't even touch you. She'd let you do anything you wanted to her and she wouldn't raise a finger to stop you. Her fingers, her legs, her eyes, her hair, her neck, her shoulders…Spot felt himself sear inside with images of her.
You never loved her, you loved her body. You're mourning the loss of a willing body. I'm mourning the loss of her laughter. Don't be fucking stupid, you've never heard her laugh. We got Gemini to do a search…Just more work, isn't it Spot? Finding some other pretty young thing and breaking her to your will? It's more than just that, it has to be more than just…she's fucking dead, Spot, you fucking killed her…Don't lie to me Shade, I don't want to be lied to any more. Please…tell me she's not dead…please don't lie to me…
He could hear footsteps out of the vague corners of his mind that were still calm and serene, as the battle raged in every nerve underneath his skin. His fingertips were tingling and his chest was tight, sickness and sobs, death and delirium. He fumbled at his pockets for a cigarette, and he realized with a strange, slow jolt in his stomach, that his fingers were trembling. So hard, they could barely open the packet, barely flick at the lighter. He tried vaguely to remember a time when his fingers had shaken that badly, but he couldn't. For the first time, he realized that he couldn't remember anything past the twenties, and he knew he had been gone much longer than that. Much longer.
Slipping away…he lit the cigarette, barely managing without burning his fingertips, and crammed the lighter and packet into his pocket. He felt the flaming tightness in his chest spread to his throat, and he took a deep drag, feeling as though he was going to throw up. He couldn't remember anything anymore. Only Misprint.
I'm glad she's gone, he felt himself think. Bad news. Skinny legged crooked toothed bug eyed bad news. How did I ever let myself get stuck on that bitch? Let her burn. Let her burn to ashes, let her burn until she's nothing but a black scorch mark on a cement floor. I don't fucking care.
He felt his eyes burn, his jaw ache, his fingers tighten and tingle and turn pale in the icy night. In one wrenching gesture, he pulled the cigarette from out his mouth and threw it on the pavement, feeling the dull slap of the paper hitting the cement echo in his veins, making them twist and blister. He wrenched his shoulder sideways and leaned against the wall, covering his face with his rough, burnt hands, and sliding slowly to the ground until his knees pressed up against his chest, crushing his ribs against the brick, proving once again that his heart was still and cold in his body.
Shade was given to the attendant. A heavy-set woman with a bland, empty face that looked as though it had been put on along with her makeup that morning. Pasted into place.
"The cells are around the back." The attendant told her. Shade found herself shaking, her narrow wrists and fingers trembling and hitting her sides. She tried to force life into her legs, perhaps it would sear away the numbness that had crept up on them when she wasn't paying attention.
"Cells?" She asked in a raspy voice.
"Yeah. Unless you wanna sleep out here." The older woman replied, rolling her eyes. Shade felt as though she would crumple, like a thin origami piece, a paper doll with a tacked on face. Slowly, feeling as though every movement cost her a lifetime, she pushed herself up from the chair and followed the heavyset woman, feeling her eyes blur and her face go blank.
She pushed her way through a door, another door, another door, all with heavy metal knobs and wire barring the windows. The last one had no window at all, and the woman had to unlock it before it would swing open.
"I don't have to sleep in a cell." Shade found herself saying, as the woman put both hands on her shoulders and led her in. Her wrists had been rubbed raw and sore by the handcuffs, she just noticed the bloody ache. "I can go home. Innocent until proven guilty."
"'Fraid not, kid," The attendant replied, giving her a push to make her legs go faster. "While no one's going to send you to jail, we have to compensate for the possibility that you are…well…"
"A murderer?" The word tasted like oil in her mouth.
"Guilty." The woman amended. Shade felt sick.
She realized, with a jolt, that what she was walking past were none other than cells. Cells like she had seen in the movies, where prisoners with gaunt, ragged faces glared and mocked. These ones weren't quite as bad as the prison blocks she had imagined, but they looked just as lonely and threatening. Small white squares with bunks, chairs, and graffiti scrawled along the walls. She thought briefly of the graffiti conversation back in the Rec Room, and it seemed as though it could have happened in another life, another world. These messages were not about who loved who.
She couldn't help but cast her eyes at the people imprisoned within the cells. She expected faces that hadn't been shaved for weeks, emancipated, skeletal bodies, thick heavyset men with clubs and weapons. Criminals. Every cell seemed to hold a different life, and it made her feel queasy to realize that out of all of them, she was the one with the heaviest sentence. Some of the men were covered in bruises, some had torn, battered clothing, some were sleeping alone while the rest laughed and made jokes that only they understood. Some regarded her with sly looks, and whistled once or twice. Shade felt herself shaking again, and tried to force herself to be calm. There was a thin, hollow looking man passed out on a bunk, his toothless, sagging mouth open in a gape, a thin line of saliva hanging from his lower lip. His hair was matted and scraggly, and his skin looked as though it was about to melt off. In the next cell, there were a few teenage boys, tall and gawky and nervous looking, one with a jutting upper jaw and large, dark eyes. They were fidgety and reckless looking, the kind you would see at skate parks, passing back Cokes and marijuana. One boy sat in the corner, huddled, with his knees up to his thin chest. A blazing red Mohawk with dark, almost black roots jutted from his skull, which was covered in the scruffy peach fuzz of a few days without a shave. His face was dark with stubble, and his eyes seemed to hollow out burning holes in the floor. He was scratching at his bare arms without even looking, like clockwork, back and forth. His fingernails were caked with blood. Shade looked away.
"'Oy! Nathan! Quit that!" The woman yelled, banging on the bars, making one of the boys flinch. Nathan didn't stop. The scratching sounds followed them all the way down the corridor.
The attendant reached the end of the hall, and unlocked the second door, before pushing her through. These were the womens cells, where she would be staying. They passed a few empty ones, and Shade stopped once or twice, but the attendant kept shoving her relentlessly forwards. She was to have a cell at the far end, she was told, the ones reserved for perpetrators of heavier crimes.
Heavier crimes, Shade thought, feeling her mind fuzz. Her face, she found, was heating up at the idea of being led past the girls to the end of the hallway. They'd think she had murdered someone. She hadn't! How could she prove to them that she hadn't? She almost wanted to turn and explain to the judging, haunting eyes that watched her being shoved past.
The girls. Thin, nervous, wrecks of girls that chewed at their fingernails or pulled at the tangles in their hair. Girls that insisted on trying to put on their makeup, smudging it and smearing it and making themselves look even more tired than they were. Heavy set girls with doughy, threatening faces and too much metallic lipstick. Girls with long, curly hair and girls with short, spiky hair. Girls with dark hair and blue eyes that looked familiar. Skinny girls with baggy jeans.
Misprint. Almost uncontrollably, the tears threatened again. She took a deep, shaky breath, feeling the lump in her throat swell and threaten to burst. She would not break down and cry in front of these girls.
"What are they in for?" She asked the attendant in a whisper, trying to take her mind off her friend. The attendant shrugged.
"Petty stuff. Drug possession, substance abuse, shoplifting, underage drinking, the like…"
Shade nodded stiffly.
"Hey you!" A girl with a thick waist called, marching up to the front of her cell and grabbing the bars. "You called my lawyer like you said you was?"
"The officers handling your case are taking care of it." The woman told her shortly.
"Damn, I don't trust no officers! You tell 'em that he had better be here by tomorrow! You hear?"
The attendant didn't answer.
They finally reached a cell at the end of the block. It was completely empty, and completely blocked off from any of the others in every way possible. The thin grating that connected the other cells was replaced by a thick, steel wall, and the doors were doubly locked. Shade felt her stomach twist, felt like yanking herself away and running. She felt suffocated, needed air.
"Here we go." The attendant said, not even trying to tack on a cheerful smile. She moved forwards and unlocked the cell with two different keys, before letting the doors swing open, and ushered the girl into her cell. The doors clanged shut.
Shade felt her whole body tremble as the final click of the locks sounded and the bars vibrated a moment before rattling still and cold. Screams bubbled up in her throat, and she wanted to part her lips and let them stream through. She wanted to grab the bars and shake them, snap them, and make them twist beneath her fingers. She wanted to punch a hole through the thick, steel walls and let the air flow through. Wasn't there a window? Didn't these places have to have proper ventilation?
"Breakfast is at 6:30." The attendant said briskly, sliding the keys back onto her belt. "Recreational time is between 7:30 and 11:30. Lunch is at noon. There is an exercise period in fresh air from 2:00 to 4:00, dinner is at 5:30. Lights out at 11:00."
Shade watched her, the information spinning through the air and rebounding off her, she took none of it in. Instead, she cleared her throat, and realized how thirsty she was. Realized how little she had eaten the entire day.
"Please," she rasped. "What…what time is it?"
The attendant had opened a panel in the wall, and placed her hand on a large red switch.
"Eleven." She replied. With a deft flick of her wrist, the lights flickered, and then let darkness sweep down the hall, consuming every one of them.
Spot heard the footsteps long before he registered them. Slumping and dragging, as though the person was stumbling through the streets, stumbling through a lifetime. He drew in a breath, feeling it rasp against his throat. He was thirsty. He placed a hand to his lips and trailed his fingers along the scars and cracks that covered them, dried them. He ached. Suddenly, without warning, he pushed himself to his feet, catching his balance with the ease of his old self.
Look at you, he thought, rubbing his hands together and hearing the skin scrape. You're a fucking mess, all because of one girl. One human.
He paced back and forth, hands suddenly still, chest tight with hunger and emotion. He realized there was someone in the alley beside him, someone small, someone defenceless. His mind quickened, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, he felt a flash of hunger sweep across him. His throat ached, dry and parched. How long had it been since he had fed? He couldn't even remember. He couldn't remember anything.
He paused, feeling a curl of his old self touch his lips, making them twist into a slight sneer. He could hear the person breathing, long, low, raspy breaths, desperate breaths. More like gasps for air then breaths. He felt himself turn and move towards the mouth of the alley, peering down into the darkness that contaminated it as easily as the rats and filth. Peered at his prey.
One fucking human, his mind kept repeating, an echo in a tunnel, a scratched record. One fucking human. One fucking human. A fucking mess over one fucking human. That you loved. You loved her. You loved her…the figure was hunched over by a garbage can, the slim cut of the back curved over in a painful arch, the shadows of hands ashen and tight against the lid. Ragged clumps of hair lined the silhouette of the face, barbed wire, crushed glass, dark against the dimness of the next street. Even in the smog of the night, he could taste the blood that blew at him on the fingers of the wind, could feel the bruises against his mouth. He hadn't been able to feed, hadn't been able to bear the screams of his prey and the pleas for mercy. But now…he could feel a sick, cancerous desire take over his mind, and the parched walls of his throat were almost too unbearable to endure.
The figure began coughing, a sick, rasping choking sound that grated against his ears and made his make teeth ache. The thing bent down further, narrow shoulders tensing and jerking with every pull, neck strained and bloody. Everything was bloody. The human was covered in stains and scars and blood, enough to make his fingers itch and tighten. The head twitched, and a shadow shifted, revealing a high, curved cheek and smudges of eye makeup. Undoubtedly female, but stained and scarred. He found himself thinking of Misprint, but not of her face. Of her body, and how beautiful she had been with the dark red blood staining her skin, and the thick red burns. You loved her. Faith. Misprint. Which one had he called her? He couldn't remember. He found himself throbbing with the desire to touch her, to run his fingers up her arms and legs, to kiss her, to taste her. The desire threaded itself with his anger. With his hunger. The figure choked once more, and a dark stain blossomed on the lid, spreading its thick fingers along the ridges. She was coughing up blood.
Street kids were easy prey. Weak, rotten, defenceless. Nuke or speed pumping through their bloodstream, leaving them oblivious, whisking him away for a day or two after he fed. There was no one around…he wouldn't have to bother enticing them into some dark corner…no need to lie, beguile, press, seduce…Feeling dizzy with need, he moved forward.
She remained hunched over the can, even after the bout of choking had subsided, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs and desperate gasps, sucking in all the air she could. He could hear her throat peeling with thirst, could hear the whistle of her breath through missing teeth, the cracks on her lips, the stains on her face. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes fastened on the girl, moving so silently that the soles of his shoes barely brushed the broken pavement.
But suddenly, she seemed to sense him. The sharp outline of her thin shoulders stiffened, and her body grew quite still, almost as though in anticipation. He quickened his pace, thoughts of Misprint pin-wheeling through his mind, making his eyes sting, making his chest tighten. He wasn't aware of the night any more, or his hunger. He was only aware of Misprint and her body, her blood. Everything about her had been so breakable, skinny, hard bitten twigs that you could break over your thigh. The girl was skinny…skinnier than Misprint. Much skinnier. A skeleton in an alleyway, tightened skin and broken veins, puffy eyes and a mouth filled with blood.
Her head lifted, a slant of light falling across her eyes. Blue. Her eyes were blue.
Spot froze up inside as a powerful surge of emotion and desire overtook him, shooting through his veins like a drug. She stared at him, unblinking, blankly. The dark smudges on her face almost looked like tear streaks of eyeliner, and he heard the words without hearing them, saw her face without seeing her.
Leave me unholy and dirty and beautiful be, Unholy and dirty and beautiful…At one point, as she whirled around in the middle of her dance, she caught the image of a figure at the side of the club staring at her, with eyes that flamed, melting the colours of the spotlights, then cutting through the ashes to burn through her stomach…"You wanna get outta heah?" he had asked. She was already rather drunk on the music and light, and only blinked at him… She laughed softly as he pushed her up against the wall, helping her regain her balance and her mind from the club... His hands were on her arms and his feet planted firmly in front of hers, pushing them back against the brick. They were farther apart than they had been in the club, but the distance, now, was a lot less comfortable for her. He smirked at her, the hair from that hung before his face brushing hers slightly…The night we met…
Colours seemed to flash before his eyes, music pounding in his ears.
"What's your name?" He asked softly, tipping his head one way. She swallowed.
"Faith." She whispered.
The face contorted, and the girl was overtaken with tremors that seemed to run up and down her body. With a soft moan, she wrenched herself away and stumbled, uncertain on wobbly legs, crashing into another can and toppling it over, feet kicking garbage this way and that as she struggled to get away. Spot lunged forwards, and with a cat like ease, sped towards her, hair blowing back from his face, eyes flashing.
He suddenly leaned in and hovered near her neck, as though he was going to kiss her, but remained an inch away from the skin. She stared tersely at the other end of the alley. He breathed in deeply, let his face travel from her neck, to her collarbone, up her throat, to her lips, as though he was smelling the very scent of her skin and blood.
"Please…" The girl murmured, in a voice that sparked a sick nausea in the pit of his stomach. She grabbed at the walls, grabbed at the cans, the boxes, frantically tried to pull herself away before he reached her. A sick sneer twisted his face, and he pressed forwards, reaching out to encircle one of the matchstick wrists with his fingers, eager to see how much of a fight she would put up.
"Whaddaya doin'?" She asked fearfully.
"Shh…" He opened his eyes and pressed a finger against her glossed mouth. His finger then moved to her eyelids, which he slowly pushed down, until she shut her eyes.
"No!" She let out a loud yell as he grabbed at her hand, immediately breaking into a fit of choking once more, making her curl over, knees crumpling underneath her, and body weakening.
His face tilted towards hers, and suddenly, his cool lips hit hers gently, driving out everything in her mind. She instinctively drew in breath, and let the kisses come.
Shade wasn't certain if she was asleep for those few hours. She wasn't even certain if she was awake. All she could remember were hellish visions of demons with thin, clawed fingers plucking at her, and pulling her apart until she was just a skeleton. She jerked her head up, and felt the sting of their claws still burning on her arms. She looked down, focusing through the thick darkness, and saw pale red marks on her forearms. She had been clawing at them herself.
The cement bunks weren't torturous, but they were a far cry from the bed in her dorm room, which suddenly seemed deliciously soft by comparison. She found herself tossing and turning, the thick, cold smell of steel and cement gathering in the corners of her mind and making her feel thick and viscous. Her eyes were heavy and gritty, as though she had been lying face down in the sand, and her lips felt cracked and dry, parched and clumsy. And her hands trembled, at all times.
She had put on a show of bravado. She had carried it through with Detective Locklair, it reminded her of the games they would play in gym class. Badminton. Whacking the shit out of that birdie, never letting it drop…she mused absently to herself at one time during the night. One insane, delirious time. Whacking the shit out of those questions…never dropping a cue…never missing a word…but inside she was trembling. Falling apart. Coming unglued at the edges and crumbling, long strings of paste still draped over her parts. All she wanted was sleep, something to drink, Misprint, Jack…
Thoughts of the boy made images of her old life suddenly crowd back to her, pushing and edging in her mind, each one seeming more important than the last. Jack. His face appeared behind her eyelids, his characteristics falling into place. The adorable grin of his when his tongue poked through his teeth…the endearing way a few strands of hair escaped the gel and fell gently across his face…the deep hazel gold of his eyes, flecked with ashen grey…the strong camber of his shoulders and arms. Everything had been so good in the beginning. So typical. The girl with the crush on the new kid. She found herself missing those times, when they weren't worried about whether they'd live to see the next morning.
She felt something wet trail down her face, and her initial thought was that of disgust, as she realized that the cells were leaking. She raised her fingers and gently touched the liquid with the tip of her finger, and traced its path, up the side of her face, over the curvature of her cheek, and against her eyelashes, which were damp and salty.
She was crying.
As soon as the thought hit her, the real tears came. Waves of them, pulsing in her throat and pushing out her eyelids, escaping her body, trailing onto the flimsy pillow beneath her. She stuffed her fingers inside her mouth, trying to muffle the sound of them, but they rocked her back and forth, making her body jerk up and down, making her chest ache with the weight of them. She inhaled, feeling it come in swells, feeling her teeth bite into her fingers as her jaw tried to close automatically. She felt ashamed of her tears and her weaknesses, she was Alyson Mayer. That girl that wasn't a slayer, but who could slay anyways. The girl who approached every situation with distant cynicism and a reckless flair. The girl who was never afraid to take a shot at someone, never afraid to take a risk.
Look at me, she thought to herself, mind screaming with sadness. Locked up in a holding cell because I murdered my best friend. I didn't. I couldn't have, I swear I didn't…
The sobs came harder, louder, and she had to roll over onto her side and curl the pillow up against her face. She didn't want to let any of the other girls hear her weakness, her shame. The cries were ugly and salty, an ocean crashing against a beach in a storm. She needed arms to comfort her, fingers to wipe her tears away, lips to kiss her swollen eyelids. She needed someone to need her.
"Jack…" She whispered into her pillow. "Where the fuck did we go wrong? Things started out so great…so typical. I want those times back, I want…I want you back. I want Misprint back…Misprint…" Her voice was interrupted by another sob, one that nearly choked her as it lodging itself in her throat. "God, I wish you were here. I wish you were here…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It all started at the club, didn't it? Everything started at that one…that one fucking club…the one you danced at and the one where I saw Jack and got drunk and they played David Usher and the barmaid said it was free…You're my best friend, Misprint. Even with the slayers and with Jack and Stephen I always was…I always thought…I don't know what I thought…"
She realized she was babbling. Babbling to no one. She held her breath and tried counting, to see how long she could. Tried to suppress the sobs, push them back under, until she could breath without the tightening in her chest. It seemed to take eternity, pressing back the sadness, trying to find some sort of logical device to hold onto, to keep her sane throughout the night. She didn't want to be taken to the interrogation room a babbling, screaming mess. They'd think she was insane.
She rolled onto her back again and took slow breaths through her mouth, feeling her chest jerk up and down, but easier, less frequently. After a few moments, the pain in her throat seemed to diminish slightly, and breathing wasn't a difficult task anymore. Her body slowly began to relax as best as it could on the old mattress, under the scratchy blanket. But the heavy depression still filled her mind with grief.
She didn't know if she slept again, didn't know if she remained staring at the grey, rubbly bunk above her. Everything was the same, contours and lines sketched themselves underneath her eyelids in glowing neon. Every time she closed her eyes, they stung with the salt of her tears.
"I need you here, Misprint." She whispered to the ceiling. "I miss you."
A few hours, a few minutes, she wasn't certain. All she was aware of was the click of a door, the shuffling footsteps, the sleepy murmurs of the girls in the other cells who had been woken by the interruption. Her mind was slow and heavy, filled with dreams she thought were ideas, ideas she was certain were dreams. It was only until the footsteps became louder that she became aware of them. Immediately, her mind began to rotate, grinding away what seemed like centuries of dust from the last few hours. She rolled over onto her side and shut her eyes, feigning sleep. She had a vague idea at the back of her mind that if you were asleep, you wouldn't get in trouble.
The footsteps came closer, and closer, and a slow, warm pit of anxiety churned in her stomach. What if it was someone coming for her? What if it was Locklair with irrefutable evidence? What if it was Jack? The last thought made the warm pit turn to ice, made her palms sweat. Please, let it be Jack…she prayed. Please let him step through the gates and take me in his arms and kiss my tears and say everything will be alright…I want him to be here…
The footsteps reached the end of the hall.
Her mind spun, and she fought to stay still. Me, that's me, they came for me. Who is it? There was a slight pause, the sound of someone fumbling around in the darkness, and then a tinny sounding click. The creak of something swinging open. Her doors? No, her doors were too heavy, too solid. This was something light…
Suddenly, with a loud clank, light streamed into the hallway.
There was a brief moment of silence, before the sleepy moans and yells came, before the girls in the next cell began yelling and threatening all sorts of things if they weren't given a few more minutes…just five more minutes…just two…just one…
Shade stiffened, felt herself tremble, and tried to feign waking up. She stretched, wondering why she had never done so before when her joints were screaming with pain. She laid herself full out on her side and felt a new sort of strength sweep through her, it felt good. She meant to roll out of bed and try and gain her footing, but the attendant interrupted her before she even moved.
"Alyson Mayer?"
She felt her insides twist and coil, and slowly shuffled around on her bunk until she was facing the woman, who looked exactly the same as she did the evening before. She was sliding the ring of keys off her belt and inserted one into the first lock, jingling it a few moments before it relented and clicked open. Shade sat up eagerly, nearly whacking her head on the bunk above her, swinging her feet off the ledge and dangling them a few inches above the ground.
"What is it?" She asked, in a voice that was parched with nightmares and dust. The woman failed to answer until she had unlocked the second padlock. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, every click of the lock seemed like a loud bang, every motion was an eternity. The lock clanked open, and the creaky gates swung forward of their own accord. The noise made her ears ache, made her scalp itch. But it released a pit of something into her stomach, something that wriggled and made her feel like she was going to throw up.
"You're coming with me." The attendant said, her words veiling any hint of what was to come. "Officer Locklair wants to see you."
"Officer Locklair?" She croaked, sounding as though she had never heard the name before in her life. The girls quieted in their other cells, as they realized whose cell had been opened, what was going on. Shade seemed unable to slide off her bunk. She stared at the attendant blearily for a moment, before parting her lips.
"What time is it?" She asked. The attendant shot her a strange look, and glanced irritably at her watch.
"Three."
Three in the morning! The only thing Shade could think was that the attendant must never sleep, to be able to appear like that in all hours of the night. She remained on her bunk, toes scraping the cement floor once in a while, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. The attendant took the gate and pressed it open further, as though it would get the message across.
"Come on," she repeated again, cocking her head towards the other end of the corridor. "Your presence is required immediately."
"Why?" Shade asked, finally managing to push herself off her bed. The groans and murmurs echoing down the hall told her that the girls had already lost interest, probably at hearing the time. She heard a few insults and threats called out, before they subsided and only sleepy whispers could be heard. She paused before leaving, feeling somehow that she ought to prepare. If they were calling her out of her cell at three in the morning, then it must be serious. She was still in her pyjamas, which were damp around the sleeves from when she had dried her tears. She knew she must look a mess, with puffy sad eyes and thick, bloated lips that would be unable to get a sentence out without fumbling.
"They told me that new evidence has been introduced, and it must be dealt with as soon as possible." She said, shrugging. Shade nodded, not wanting to provoke her by questioning further, and stepped out of the cell.
The simple act of doing that was the best thing that had happened to her in a while. She felt almost dead from a less than twelve hours in a cell, and tried to imagine what it would be like to spend days, weeks, or months in one. The thought made her stiffen with fear.
"Come on." The attendant said, shoving her forwards slightly, letting the doors close behind her.
The walk down the corridor seemed longer than usual, like in the horror movies when the quicker you move, the farther away the door gets. Shade was certain they had passed that cell before…she was certain that she could make out the lettering on the door before…she was certain that they should be there by now. They pushed through the door and entered the boys wing, which was echoing with grunts and low pitched whimpers. Shade crossed her arms over her chest as she walked past the cells, and couldn't help but risk a glance into the one that Nathan had been in. He was still there, his dark form huddled in a corner, except this time he was faced towards the wall, his thin cotton wife-beater riding up his back, exposing two thin, curved scars snaking up underneath the fabric, carved just above the waistline of his pants. It made her feel sick inside, and she almost wanted to talk to him. But what could she say? I don't know you, but I've seen you twice, and I think you're kinda cute, and kinda sad, and you shouldn't do that to yourself…
Suddenly, her throat seemed to fill with cotton. The door was right in front of her. Through this door, through another set of doors, through another…she couldn't remember how many. She let herself become numb, let her mind fester away into the corners of her head as the attendant led her through the doors, led her out into the office. It was dark, with only a few desk lamps shining here and there, casting dark yellow shadows on everything else.
"Sit," the attendant said, motioning to the chair in the corner. Shade did.
After a few moments, the door to the room opened. A thin band of disgustingly bright light slanted out, making Shade squint. The attendants words came back to her. They told me that new evidence has been introduced, and it must be dealt with as soon as possible. She felt herself beginning to tremble once more, and tried frantically to stop the tremors. What new evidence? And more importantly, what kind? Would it clear her name or condemn her? The palms of her hands became slick with perspiration, the roof of her mouth dry.
"We're ready for her." A low voice said. It may have been Ohlund, it may not have been, she couldn't remember what he sounded like. Couldn't remember what he looked like. All she could remember was Locklairs looming face, his smell, the feeling that squirmed in the pit of her stomach whenever he looked at her. She imagined his voice throwing accusations at her, evidence, facts, conclusions…what could she say? She wasn't prepared. What could she say?
"Come on, hon." The attendant said, motioning towards the brilliant room. It was the first time she had used a term of affection towards the girl. What could that mean? Shade nodded, and stood, wondering what would happen if she chose instead to dart out the door and take to the street like a wild cat, clawing her way out of a prison? Her muscles tensed, ready to sprint away, but the stern face of the attendant left her feeling weak and motiveless. Feeling as though she was on her way to her death sentence, she walked forwards. Did they allow capital punishment in New York? She couldn't remember. It made her feel as though her skin was on fire.
The door was pushed open for her and, almost like a dream, she stepped slowly forwards. Her eyes burned as she neared the door, pupils shrinking against the harsh rays of light.
"Come on, now." She looked up. No, it wasn't Ohlund. It was a large black man with a bristly, trimmed moustache, his eyes solemn and deep. "Just through this way."
She tried to open her mouth to affirm something, anything, but her lips seemed to be stitched together. With the most reluctance she could ever remember feeling, she stepped through the door and into the sterilized whiteness of the room.
She felt almost blinded, and fought to regain her vision. There was a table in the center of the room, a few policeman were gathered around it, legs stretched out, faces blue with stubble, styrofoam cups clutched in their hands. They were all facing towards the eastern wall. She glanced at it, and saw with surprise, that there was a large, rectangular window set in it, as though it faced a fantastic view of the skyline or the park.
"What…" She managed to choke out. "Where is…"
The policeman motioned to the window. She furrowed her brows, and glanced at it once, trying to see what was so important. This time, something caught her eye. A small figure sitting in the next room, motionless behind a table. Her curiosity aroused, she moved forwards until she was standing directly in front of the window, and peered into the next room. And what she saw made her legs feel as though they were going to collapse underneath her, letting her smash against the thinly carpeted floor.
The harsh light seemed to outline every feature. Under the scorch marks, the scars, the bruises, the gaping wounds, there was no mistaking her.
Her stomach twisted so hard, she felt like throwing up.
"Misprint?" She whispered.
SHAZAM!!!
NEW SHIT! It's been forever since you guys have read over a real honest-to-goodness update, and we're sorry. This relocation has been ridiculous, but we want to thank everyone who's stuck with us. All four or five of you.
Considering the amount of reviews we've received, we're combining all the shout outs into one big SUPER SHOUT OUT!
Shout out: You guys kick major ass. Let's face it, it sucks reading over a story you've already read and leaving reviews anyways. But we thank you so much for it. We promise that from now on it's only new stuff, and in abundance. This is the part where we start learning about plot twists and why things are the way they are, and a bunch of lovely little things like that. No more unanswered questions! Yayyyy! We love you so much, you're the cream in our coffee, the milk in our tea, the maple syrup on our pancakes, the foie gras in our Kitchen Stadium. And we wouldn't have done it without you. Awww…