The Whispering Night (Luminaries #3)

Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

They can’t speak because there are soldiers everywhere—and Jeremiah too, who shouts orders on every other breath. They’re here. Look for signs of magic! Or, Check the trees—they were just here. Or lastly, Get that garage door shut!

But he’s too late on the garage. Winnie and Erica might not be able to talk, but they don’t need to. Their clasped hands are a tether to hint at where each girl might go before they move. Winnie leads them into the garage. Erica leads them to the four-wheeler. Then Winnie briefly pulls away to release the flatbed attached at the back.

It’s loud—so loud—but there’s also enough commotion outside to mask them because more scorpions are coming, enclosed in Hummers and snarling down the narrow road that leads to this garage.

People will wonder where I am. That was the last thing Winnie said to Jeremiah before he ended the interrogation. How hilarious that now he is the one wondering.

Winnie sneaks to the front of the vehicle, feeling her way around Erica—then feeling as Erica slides her arms around her waist and the source presses into her back, blocked by layers of clothes.

“Ready?” It’s the only thing Winnie has said in minutes.

“Ready.”

Two things happen simultaneously: first, Winnie revs the four-wheeler to life in rumbling shockwaves that alert every nearby scorpion that chaos is about to cut through them like a battering ram.

The second thing that happens is Erica laughs. It’s bright and brilliant, and suddenly it’s not just she and Winnie who are hidden, it’s the entire four-wheeler too. Winnie feels the magic shiver over her. Hot mist curls around her. Her locket heats up anew. Then they are an unseeable unit barreling out of the Sunday estate toward a line of Hummers and soldiers and Jeremiah Tuesday spinning around confused.

He roars something, but Winnie is already fixing her attention on the driveway ahead. She speeds off it, avoiding the careering approach of a Hummer. And she stays off-road—that’s what these vehicles are for, after all, and the smooth lawn of the Sunday swans is nothing compared to the forest.

“We’re leaving tread marks!” Erica’s voice stabs into Winnie’s ear. “And I’m… I’m losing the spell!”

“Okay.” Winnie doubts Erica hears her—and it doesn’t really matter. The facts are what they are, and Winnie is going to adapt accordingly. They are almost to the road now; all they need to do is cross it. On the other side, directly opposite, is the Saturday estate. If Winnie can just get them to the maze, she is almost certain she can lose the Tuesdays.

They don’t know the secret ways inside like she does. They don’t know the twists and turns mapped out for Dryden. If Winnie can just get her and Erica that far, then everything will be okay. They’ll lose the Tuesdays. They’ll find Jenna’s source. And then…

And then…

Witch, Wednesday, werewolf.

Trust the Pure Heart.

Hope is the thing with feathers.

Winnie’s inner monologue fritzes and fries, no longer spewing out Compendium facts or Diana insights. Just random snippets from past musings and plans and fixations. Bits of scrap paper that mean nothing on their own, and that cannot be assembled into a coherent whole upon a conspiracy board.

Darkness, darkness, light.

The cause above all else.

MEETING AT THE OLD MUSEUM.

The four-wheeler hits the street. There is no traffic at this hour. The only light is from the streetlamps—and from two Hummers that have managed to turn around and give chase.

Winnie and Erica are halfway across the road when Erica’s spell fails. When Winnie abruptly sees the four-wheeler, her arms, her hands. She thinks she hears Erica wail, Sorry! , but she can’t be sure because more Hummers are turning. More engines are revving. Which is fine. The scorpions won’t reach Winnie and Erica before Winnie and Erica reach the Saturday estate.

The topography changes. Gone is smooth asphalt, replaced by juddering cobbles—with a six-inch curb. Cursed Saturdays and their need for over-the-top fancy. Winnie can’t escape the driveway; these wheels just aren’t going to cut it.

The headlights burn brighter, illuminating every stone in the driveway. Igniting each bush and hedge and perfectly shaped tree, and revealing absolutely no way off this roller-coaster ride.

Black wings streak past, so fast Winnie thinks she imagines them. Except now Erica is shrieking in her ear, “THERE! WINNIE, THERE!” Winnie sees it too: a dip in the curb and a walking path that veers into manicured woods. She doesn’t know that trail, but those trees sure won’t let a Hummer through—and how hard can it be to navigate from there to the maze?

Winnie swerves the four-wheeler right. Cold air slices against her face. Engines boom and howl. For several fractions of a second, headlights sear into the side of her face. She thinks she hears a horn.

Then they are off the driveway and on the path. Headlights fade behind them. Trees launch up around them like bars to keep intruders out. Or bars to keep us caged.

“Can you see the maze?” she shouts over the engine. The four-wheeler’s own small headlights, which were subsumed by the Hummers’, now spray over the narrow path. Very narrow and very clearly meant only for walkers. A bench framed by potted roses streaks past. Then an absurd array of statues shaped like toga-wearing cupids holding golden keys. “Through the trees,” Winnie adds. “Do you see the maze?”

“It’s too dark, but there’s a—” Erica breaks off as Winnie slams on the brakes. The path has ended and a marble gazebo now glows white before them.

Winnie doesn’t bother to cut the engine. She knows where they are now, even if she’s never been here. Erica seems to know too, and as they both scrabble off the four-wheeler, Erica says: “The maze is that way.” She points to a lantern-lined path.

“Yeah,” Winnie agrees, and though her legs are Jell-O from clenching onto the four-wheeler and her ears still quake from the engine, she staggers toward the lanterns.

One by one, the lanterns ignite. Unseen motion sensors trigger them to life, sending orange light outward. It should be beautiful. It should be an elegant display of darkness, darkness, light and everything the Luminaries stand for. Instead, it’s like tens of giant arrows pointing, RIGHT HERE! YOUR TARGETS ARE RIGHT HERE, JEREMIAH!

Winnie and Erica start sprinting again. The lanterns stop blinking into existence. The final steps of the path grind out. Then there is the outer wall of the maze, the green of the yew hedge turned to black at this hour.

Winnie and Erica thunder inside.

Immediately, the world quiets. They are soundproofed by yew trees. The lanterns that flared behind them disappear. There is only darkness again. The air is colder in this place, as if sunlight never quite muscles in to warm the leaves, the gravel, the shadows.

“This way,” Winnie says, whispering even though she doesn’t need to. “Stay close.”

“Duh, Winona.”

Winnie smiles.

In her mind, she can see the maze as a sketch upon the family desk. It’s like it’s right there, like she is a child again and Dad never left. Winnie remembers wondering why the Saturdays needed a maze. Like, sure it seems fun, but who actually uses one?

Dad, it turns out.

Winnie jogs steadily onward, the map in her mind swiveling with each turn. For once, she’s glad she has never had a fancy phone; she’s glad for all the practice she’s had reading maps for corpse duty; and she’s glad that Dryden wouldn’t rest until the maze was exactly as he wanted.

Complete with an ugly fountain made of purple granite.

“There,” Winnie says, and she finally, finally slows.

“Oh.” This is all Erica says, and there’s a resonance to the word. When Winnie looks over, she finds her friend is crying. Not a bitten-back sort of cry, nor an effusive sob. Nor even the silent, stiff cry of someone who is ashamed to be seen.

These are happy tears. The kind you let loose when you finally, finally know you’re free. When finally, finally the weight of an impossible task is lifted off of you.

Winnie swallows. Then fixes her glasses, which are practically falling from her nose at this point. And as her lenses slot into place, Erica crystallizes into the girl she used to be. The one who spent every Friday night with Winnie in an old cabin that smelled like cut grass.

The fountain burbles, oblivious to Tuesdays on the hunt or the source it has been holding for four years: a simple, metallic sphere that spins and rolls atop running water.

“It’s genius.” Erica’s voice is thick with reverence. With joy. She inches closer. “I still have no idea why your dad hid Jenna’s source, but… this was a genius place to do it.”

Winnie doesn’t disagree. Her fingers fumble her locket from her black sweatshirt. “Now what?” Her voice is so quiet, the fountain’s water seems to steal it. The source seems to absorb it.

To think, only four days ago, she and Signora Martedì were standing right here beside the one thing they both wanted to find.

“Now we pull it out… I guess.”

“You guess ?” Winnie’s fingers tighten on the locket.

Erica winces. “I don’t know. Sorry. I just… this is a lot, okay?”

Winnie can definitely agree with that. She can also agree that she and Erica are sitting ducks right now. “Do you know how to pick up the source? Safely, I mean? I saw a diagram once, but…” She trails off.

And Erica gives a hard nod. “I can pull it out. We’re blood relatives, so I can touch Jenna’s source. Besides, it’s been sitting here so long, exposed to the water—I don’t think it has any magic left.” A twisted, sideways smile. “Still, I wouldn’t be a Thursday if I weren’t prepared, just in case.” She withdraws a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. They’re garishly blue in the shadows and make Winnie think of four-petaled poppies. They make her think of what Erica said back in the pump room: You ever want something so bad, and then you finally get it, and it’s just… not the same anymore?

Winnie knew then, and now she knows it all over again—because Erica was right to worry in the pump room. This is the last clue. This is Winnie’s last piece of Dad. So what on earth will she do next?

Erica eases her gloved hands around the ball—which is no larger than a baseball—and lifts up her sweater as if to tuck this source into the swaddle alongside her own. For half a breath, she is Lady Justice again, with her left hand balanced to one side holding Jenna’s source and her right hand towing her sweater aside.

That is when Winnie feels it: her locket, clutched in her hand, turns to fire. The Crow , she thinks. Then there she is, an actual crow swooping down. A harbinger on flapping wings that erupts into a thick mist… before resolving into a human.

Caterina Martedì now stands before Winnie, dressed as she was in the forest before she tried to kill Winnie: scaled armor reminiscent of a hunter, a black mask with an unnatural golden beak.

In a scientific, but currently useless corner of Winnie’s brain, she thinks, Wow, so there are spells that can turn you into animals. I wonder what they’re called. In the more practical, plugged-into-this-moment part, she thinks, Oh shit, this just got so much worse.

For one, a familiar whispering scratch is snarling out from the Crow’s mask.

For two, Erica hasn’t yet tucked Jenna’s source into her swaddle and she is only just lifting her gaze to see what has arrived.

For three, Winnie’s locket is smoking. Like actually smoking, and the heat is so intense she can do nothing but drop the golden circle—and then feel it scorching through terry cloth on her chest.

“Well done, Erica.” Martedì’s voice is wreathed by whispers—and her arms are wreathed in mist. “Hand it to me now, please, and we can go.”

Erica stares, still as a statue. Her sweater remains tugged to one side and her left hand hasn’t released the glittering silver ball. And Winnie realizes in a dawning, surging sort of horror that there is no surprise on Erica’s face.

She knew, Winnie thinks. She knew this was coming .

“Now,” the Crow adds, “before the scorpions arrive, Erica.”

“No.” Erica’s voice shakes. She releases her sweater. Stands taller. And it’s like watching her tug on a mask of her own; she becomes the Ice Queen. She becomes her mother. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“No one changes their mind, Erica. Your sister couldn’t, and you can’t either.” The Crow laughs her cartoon laugh—except this isn’t an animated Saturday-morning kids’ show and Winnie isn’t tied to train tracks.

In other words, Winnie can move. She can stagger around to gape at Erica. “You knew this was coming?” It’s a stupid question because the answer is obvious. But she needs to hear Erica say it.

Erica shakes her head. “Winnie, stay back.”

“Yes, Winnie,” Martedì agrees. “Stay back. Because Erica here knows what she has to do, and I will absolutely kill you if I must.” The mist continues to swirl around the Crow’s arms—yet it now pools downward to her feet, as well. Shapes form, knee-high mounds of fog.

“No,” Erica repeats. “I’ve changed my mind, Signora. I won’t do it.”

Winnie’s head is wagging now. She stumbles back a single, stupefied step. Erica knows who the Crow is; she has known and she was playing Winnie all this time. The Winnie-em theorem. Input x for loyalty, and you will always get y for stupidity.

Jay was right, Winnie thinks. Jay was right, and you didn’t listen to him.

“How,” Winnie tries, but the words won’t come. How could you do this? To me? To Jay?

“I’m sorry, Winnie.” Erica’s gloved hands tighten on her sister’s source. Her muscles are tensing as if she might make a run for it. “It’s not what I wanted to do—”

“Oh, don’t lie to the girl, Erica. It was your idea, pitched to me in the forest with a full moon beaming down. Now hand me the source, and let’s finish what we started. What Jenna started.”

No. Winnie’s head is still shaking, but it’s getting slower. Sluggish. As if her whole body is being weighed down by bricks. No wolf will ever blow her over, because she will be crushed beneath the house before it can.

She should have listened to Jay. She should have listened to the boy she loves.

“Enough of this,” Martedì declares, “we are out of time, Erica, and I don’t want to lose the night.” She smiles at Winnie now, and there’s no ignoring that the mist puddling before her is taking on shapes—canine shapes. And Winnie has a skittery, painful sense that she recognizes one of them. That one of these creatures was a professor with a telescope fixed on shooting stars.

Canēs , Winnie’s mind provides. These are the lowest level in the Diana hierarchy, specialized in hunting nightmares for spells and spreading the Diana cause.

“A for effort, Winnie,” the Crow continues. “You did what I asked quite beautifully. But now… well, I can’t let you get in my way. I’ve had enough of your family interfering. Go .” Her arms sling toward Winnie, and suddenly the mist-born hounds are slathering and snarling right for her.

Yes, Winnie thinks. Go. Without a thought, she twists around. And maybe it’s the Winnie-em theorem just plugging in x for y, or maybe it’s foolish denial—or maybe it’s a foolish hope that her friend didn’t actually want this…

Either way, Winnie grabs Erica by the arm, and for the ten thousandth time that night, she yanks her friend into a run.

But Winnie isn’t fast enough. At least not to outrun the magicked dogs. Paws land on her. She flies face-first toward gravel. Erica screams, a sound to saturate Winnie’s mind. To infuse the entire night like the Lyrids across the April sky. There is no overtone chanting here: there is only one meaning, and it is pain.

Rocks smash into Winnie’s face. Teeth latch onto her neck. Drool slathers, and though she rolls and writhes, these hounds are supernaturally strong. She can’t stop them.

Not until a command cuts into Winnie’s eardrums like a serrated knife. “RUN!” Then suddenly the mist is melting off Winnie. No weight, no snarls.

She lifts her head. Erica has been captured by mist vines; she is being dragged away like a calf by a cowboy. But her mouth is still free, and she screams again: “RUN, WINNIE!”

Then she is gone. The Crow has hauled her around a corner and out of sight.

Winnie gropes to her feet. She is bleeding on her palms. Her ankle barks out pain. But those are problems for future Winnie. Current Winnie has to get Erica, because in the end, her friend changed her mind. Because in the end, her friend got those hounds off of Winnie. And because in the end, her friend is still her friend, and Winnie won’t leave her behind.

She staggers away from the fountain—now just a burble of water, so calm. So cruelly tender as Winnie lugs herself toward where the Crow dragged Erica. Her vision spins, as if her eyes are playing tricks on her. As if mist and shadows swirl like gasoline on water. In the distance, she hears Tuesdays shouting and maybe a voice like Dryden, furious and demanding.

Winnie steers left, but there’s no one there. She shambles onward anyway, pushing herself faster. Searching, searching. She turns right. She turns left. This is the way out, so surely this is the way the Crow came with Erica.

But she sees nothing. She finds nothing.

Until worse—so much worse—a smell like cooked rubber and forest fills Winnie’s nasal cavity. Then a sense of music sweeps over her, except it is no longer Jenna’s haunting melody; in its place is a different song, this one from a night when yes after yes fell from Jay’s tongue.

The more I forget you, the deeper you sink in

Fangs at the neck and red paint on a lost cabin

Winnie stops her forward movement. Stops her frantic search for Erica. Gooseflesh ripples across her skin, almost painful, and her eyes are watering. Her breaths start to shake. While ahead, between yew hedges, movement glitters like a portal is being torn apart.

Then she smells something new and unexpected and so, so awful: bergamot and lime.

Ten dollars to kiss, a bet I can never win

Snow on your lips

It’s feast or it’s full famine

The song quavers here. Stopping as if the Whisperer has forgotten the lyrics, forgotten the tune. Until suddenly it remembers. Until suddenly, it no longer sings but speaks. PURE HEART, it says. I AM READY.

The reaction is instant. An explosion rips free, hard enough to topple stars. Bright enough to mimic dawn. Loud enough to silence the approach of Tuesdays. It flings Winnie backward. She hits the yew hedge, missing a nearby bench by sheer luck.

PURE HEART, it repeats. I AM READY.

Winnie has no choice now: she hauls herself once more to her feet and runs. But now, she runs in the other direction. Back toward the fountain, away from the girl who was taken by a Crow.

And away from the boy trapped and singing inside the Whisperer.