Something shatters, and I drop the phone as I watch in horror – Leo’s hand punches through the glass panes on either side of the door, and he’s reaching around to open the knob. Mom’s scream turns primal, shrill, and she flees from the couch and runs up to her room.
The door creaks open slowly, and he stands in the doorway, dark eyes gleaming. I’m the only thing between him and her. Me, a seventeen-year-old, clutching a heavy porcelain statue behind my back and shaking like a butterfly in a hurricane.
“Step aside, kid. I’m just here for your mother, not you. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
I look up, slowly. All the nights of Mom’s crying, all of her sad smiles, all of the days she couldn’t bring herself to leave her room and face me flash through my mind.
“You already have, ass**le.”
He narrows his eyes, taking a step towards me. It’s a heavy step. My heart sinks with it. What hope do I have against a two-hundred-something pound guy? He carves wood. He hunts deer. He’s dangerous.
“Last chance. Get out of the way.”
“Over my dead body.” I grit my teeth.
He chuckles, sour and sinister. “You got guts. I like that.”
I’m trembling. I’m trembling so hard I can feel my teeth chattering and my fingers twitching. I can’t do this on my own. I can’t fight this demon. I can barely fight my own.
I hear Mom’s wailing from upstairs and grasp the statue more firmly.
But I have to fight. There’s no one who’ll come save me. No one will rescue me. No one saved me when Nameless held me down. No one rescued me in the shower afterward, not Mom, not Dad, not my aunt. I am alone. No one has ever tried to rescue me.
So I have to rescue myself.
Leo lunges for me, and I duck to the side and slam the heavy statue on the back of his neck. He flinches, roaring in pain, and whirls around and grabs me. He lifts me like a paper doll, a bag stuffed with cotton, something light. I’m easy to throw. I’m flying, sailing through the air for seconds, and then sharp pain sends shockwaves of agony tearing at my spine. I’m on my hands and knees, staring at the floor as it wobbles, dims, then comes back bright, then dims again.
Mom. I have to help Mom.
Leo’s heavy footsteps thump towards the stairs.
I try to scream to warn her, but the blackness consumes me.
***
Isis Blake’s house is intimidating.
It shouldn’t be – it’s a tiny one-story that looks like it’s survived at least two house fires and a tornado. The yard is unkempt and the railings and gutters are rusty and clogged with leaves. The paint peels like a bad sunburn, the windows are fogged with age and smoke exposure. The wind chime clinks pathetically against itself.
Is this really where she lives? I check the address Kayla gave me just to be sure. My GPS points straight here. It’s a hole, a hovel. I expected a grander palace, with the way Isis struts about with perfect self-confidence. It’s plain and run-down and exhausted looking, the total opposite of her. It’s a dump.
And yet it’s still intimidating.
It’s because I know she’s inside. Her; the girl who wars with me, the girl who smirks at me, the girl who gave me a kiss that still lingers when I close my eyes.
The girl I injured. Twice. No, three times? How many times have I crossed the line and she just hasn’t said anything?
I get out of the car and walk up to the door. The sound of someone screaming is faint, and disturbing. I look around for the source, but there’s no one on the street. It must be a horror movie blasting loudly in a nearby house. I shake my head. Stop, Jack. No distractions. You’re going to apologize for that bullshit you said the other day, and you’re going to do it right now.
I’m so wrapped up in what to say when I first see her, how to play it off like I’m cool and composed, that I don’t see the glass at first. But when I get to the first step on the porch, I freeze. My shoes crunch glass. The mottled windowpanes for decoration on either side of the door – one of them is smashed.
And the screaming is getting louder. It’s definitely not a movie.
Cold dread grasps at my throat. I open the door and hiss.
“Shit! Isis!”
I collapse at her side. She’s sprawled against the wall, unconscious. I push her hair from her face, check for blood anywhere. There’s a dark red wet spot on the very back of her head, and a splatter of blood on the wall.
“No,” I croak. “No, no, no, you can’t. You can’t!”
I fumble for my phone and dial 911. The operator insists there are already people on their way, and I roar.
“Make them faster! Get an ambulance!”
“Sir, we’ve done all that we can. Help is on the way –”
“Useless cow!” I snarl. “If she dies – so help me if she’s dies –”
The screaming upstairs pitches, glass-shattering in its intensity. I swear and look around for something, anything.
That’s when I see it. A closet half-open, full of sports equipment.
And a baseball bat.
Aluminum.
I grab it and take the stairs two at a time, my fury red-hot lava pulsing through my veins. My mind screams at me to calm down, to wait for the police, but the other part of me that’s lain dormant for so long whispers encouragement. Urges me on. It’s wanted this. It’s missed this.
The man towers over a woman cowering on the bed – Isis’ mother. He’s unbuckling his belt, holding her legs in place.
The smell of the forest comes back to me. The feel of pine needles beneath my feet. Fog encroaches, soft and white on the edges of my vision. Sophia, curled up against a tree trunk, and the shadow men advancing.
I walk behind him. Isis’ mother sees me, her eyes terrified and wide as a dying fish’s over the man’s shoulder. He’s enormous. At least twice my weight and nearly my height. His arms are thick with muscle and sinew and the scars of hard work. Evil work.
Sophia cried, her head in her hands, her wrists thin as a bird’s wing.
“Help me, Jack.”
I was pinned by a man, his hand holding my arms behind me. They were going to make me watch.
“Just stay still, princess. This’ll all be over soon,” One of the advancing shadows cackled. Some swayed drunkenly. Five of them. Five huge men, shoulders broad and grins oily in the forest moonlight.
Isis’ mother looks at me and croaks.
“Help me.”
They started pulling Sophia’s dress off. I bit the man holding me and picked up the bat he dropped. Swung. And swung. And kept swinging through the cries and the blood.
I grip the bat, spread my feet, and pull back.
The first hit gets the side of his head. The ear. His eardrums bursts instantly, blood spraying. Hot droplets land on my face. He turns to look at me, and I smile.
Another swing.
Kneecaps. They tried to grab me, but I was fast, strong, stronger than they thought. Too young to fight back, or so they thought. The first and second had weak skulls. The third pulled out a gun to shoot me and shot the fourth, instead. I smiled and launched myself at the third, slamming the bat over his neck. There was a sickening crack and he went still. The fifth barely had his pants on when I slammed the bat into his side. He staggered, reached for a gun, but I swung again.
The man’s dark eyes widen as the bat connects with his arm. Elbow. I hit three times in quick succession and there’s a cracking noise. He howls, stumbling away from the bed. Isis’ mother crawls under it, sobbing. The man clutches his arm, bent at the elbow in an unnatural direction.