The Blade of Shattered Hope (Page 11)

His instincts came to life, telling him to get out of there. He—

“Atticus. Higginbottom.”

Tick turned sharply toward the sound, stumbling backward until he hit the stairs. His knees buckled, and he sat down on the third step. He sucked in a breath, feeling as if something had been shoved down his throat, clogging it. The barely female voice that had spoken his name had been monstrous. Dry. Raspy. Painful. As if every syllable sent waves of flame through its owner’s body. And it was slightly . . . muffled.

He couldn’t see anyone in the basement. He swept his head back and forth but saw nothing. No one. His hands gripped the lip of the step beneath his legs.

“Two words,” said the horrible voice. “A name. How different my life would be if I’d never heard them uttered.”

Tick concentrated on a certain spot, a dark shadow behind a pile of boxes he hadn’t noticed before. Probably another project his dad should have organized and put away months ago. But there was enough room back there for someone to stand. To hide.

“Who’s there?” Tick asked, relieved his voice came out with no cracks. Relieved he could talk at all.

“An old friend,” came the reply, the harsh voice softening to a bare whisper, like the crackling of dead leaves in the distance. “Someone who wanted to be your friend.”

Tick knew his mouth was open. He knew his eyes were wide, full of terror. Every inch of him screamed that he should run. He should book it up the stairs and yell for his parents to call the police.

It was her. It was her.

He couldn’t move his eyes away from the tall length of shadow. Something moved in the darkness. A human figure formed, then stepped into the light. A robe of dull yellow covered every inch of her body, the hood pulled up and over her head, almost hiding the face.

Except there was no face. At least, not a human face. The figure wore a red mask of metal, its features pulled into a smile that somehow looked more frightening than a scowl of anger.

“Mistress Jane,” Tick whispered, his senses having turned numb. He knew it was her before she nodded ever so slightly to confirm what he’d said. So he hadn’t killed her after all.

But that mask. And her voice. What had he done to her?

He waited for her to speak, to explain why she’d come. But she only stood there, completely still, her hands hidden within the folds of her robe. The red mask was impossibly shiny, almost as if it were molten metal. Liquid. Wet.

One of the eyebrows twitched, moving half an inch up then back down again. As he stared, the smile on the mask slowly melted into a frown, into a grimace. The eyebrows slanted with unspoken rage.

How did she do that? Tick could feel blood rushing in his temples, in his neck. What was she going to do to him?

Still, she said nothing. She didn’t move.

Tick couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Jane . . . Mistress Jane . . .” He was stuttering, searching for words. If his hands hadn’t been firmly holding onto the stair beneath him, they’d have been trembling uncontrollably. “I promise I didn’t mean to do whatever I did to you. I lost control—I don’t even know what I lost control of. My mind wasn’t working right. I don’t know what happened.”

He paused, hoping for a change on that mask. If anything, it looked angrier.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. “I could tell by the way you

. . . screamed, that, um . . .” He looked down at the floor. “I know I hurt you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

When he lifted his eyes again, he almost cried out. She was three steps closer to him, the mask as scary as ever, the rage evident on the sparkling, deep red surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely getting it out.

“Stop talking,” Jane said, her raspy voice muffled but strong, creating a dry whisper of an echo in the room. “Don’t say another word until I give you permission. Do you understand?”

“Ye—” Tick stopped himself. He nodded.

Mistress Jane stood still, her robe unruffled. She reminded Tick of a statue. A very angry statue with a red face. “I don’t want to hear your apologies. Your excuses. Don’t insult my pain by refusing to take responsibility for your actions. You know the nature of Chi’karda. You know the nature of your heart. You did this to me by your own choice. It couldn’t have happened against your will. Your conscious . . . current . . . evident will.” She spat out the last few syllables.

Tick felt awful. It wasn’t so much the words she’d used. He felt the meaning of them more in the tone of her voice. Worse, he felt the truth of it. Shame and guilt blossomed like diseased flowers in his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

“I—” he began.

“I DIDN’T ASK YOU TO SPEAK!” she screamed, her body shaking beneath the robe, the first movement Tick had seen in several minutes. Terror pinched Tick’s nerves.

Then, as if it came from another world, one in which he used to live but could barely remember, he heard footsteps upstairs. Urgent footsteps. The basement door opened above them.

No! he thought, even as he turned to look up the stairs, ready to tell his parents to run.

But when he saw who stood in the doorway, confusion and surprise almost burned away his fear. He blinked, forcing himself to swallow.

It was Sofia.

Chapter 8

Quite the Crowd

Shocked to see her, Tick stood up and fully turned around, facing the stairs, his eyes riveted on one of his best friends. He could almost forget he had the most dangerous woman in the Realities standing behind him.

“Sofia?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Is she down there?” she responded in a whisper, gesturing with a nod.

Tick was completely baffled. “How do you . . .” He didn’t know how to finish or what to ask first. What was going on?

“Is she down there?” Sofia repeated, her emphasis leaving no doubt who she meant.

Tick jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Yes!” he snapped in a loud rasp. “She’s standing right behind me!”

“Bring them down,” Mistress Jane said. “They’re late.”

Tick wilted, hoping against hope that maybe the woman would have gone away when she realized they had company. How had she gotten to Tick’s house in the first place? Only inanimate objects should be winkable to his house and its relatively low amounts of Chi’karda. And what happened to that pulsing thing? He felt completely unsettled, like the old dream where he walked into class at school dressed in nothing but his underwear.