Ash and Darkness (Translucent #3) Page 4

  Something blurry swooped in front of me.

  After four hours of unbroken white, the motion startled me. I flinched back, pulse racing. My hand? Had I seen my hand? Shapes . . . I saw shapes! Lines and shadows. As I stared, wide-eyed, the ghostly contours of a room took shape around me, emerging out of the whiteness. Just like when I’d vanished, but in reverse.

  It was my room.

  My bed hung sideways in space next to me, still translucent, but becoming more solid each second as if coalescing out of smoke. A dark rectangle gaped below me—the door to the hallway.

  The milky haze evaporated off the walls of my room, leaving spots of bright yellow, which expanded and fused together, crawling toward the floor. In the corner a lumpy pile of clothes formed out of the shadows.

  A bristly rug materialized against my cheek. I began to feel gravity again, pressing me against it and pinning my arm underneath me. My hair collapsed across my cheek.

  The last traces of fog cleared, leaving me lying on my side in my bedroom, brilliantly lit up in the pinks and golds of morning sunlight. I propped myself up on my elbow, and at once the blood drained from my head, leaving me dizzy. I waited for the spins to pass, then sat all the way up, blinding myself in a ray of sunshine. Instinctively, I raised my hand to shield my eyes.

  The silhouette of my palm danced in front of the blaze.

  My heart leapt. I dropped my hand and gaped at it—pink skin, palm lines dotted with lint, rosy color rushing to fill the white imprint of the carpet. The sight of my hand almost made me cry. It wasn’t just my hand. Sunlight gleamed off my wrist and forearm . . . which lengthened before my eyes, becoming visible.

  It was peeling off on its own.

  Dark matter was peeling off on its own.

  My elbow took shape out of thin air, then the rest of my arm. From my shoulder it retreated down my torso, peeling off like cling wrap. At last my skin could breathe again.

  The rest unstuck and fell away in a sheet.

  I stood up and stepped clear of the invisible folds of dark matter, approaching the mirror slowly. A girl I hardly recognized came into view. Hardly breathing—in case I vanished again—I brushed my long, dark hair to the side, revealing the purple bruises lining my throat where Ashley had bitten me. Scabs and flaking blood covered the rest of my body. Injuries I hadn’t seen until now.

  I looked into my eyes, and my heart fluttered nervously. I reached up and ran my finger along my cheek, my lips, my jaw—and only then remembered I hadn’t looked my reflection in the eye in four months. Not since Ashley. My gaze averted, but then flicked back, curious. I noticed my eyes were hazel, greener than I remembered. I looked away again, suddenly feeling shy in front of my own reflection.

  I was back, and no longer invisible. That was the important thing. The dark matter had fallen off on its own.

  I pulled on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top, and my gaze slid to my smartphone, resting on my backpack. I clicked the button to wake it, then held it down when nothing happened.

  The screen stayed black. Out of batteries.

  “Mom! Dad!” I called, pocketing the phone on my way into the hallway, “You guys home yet?”

  I found their room empty, their bed neatly made. “Mom, Dad, you guys here?” I shouted, going room to room. “Hellooooo . . . anyone home?”

  No reply.

  I veered toward the living room, expecting to find my dad watching football. But the living room was empty. Huh. I cut through the dining room toward the kitchen, trying to remember what day it was.

  How long had I been gone?

  Everything had gone white sometime Saturday evening, so I guessed it was now Sunday morning, around eight or nine based on the sunlight. Which meant I must have been gone for a lot longer than four hours—more like twelve or fifteen.

  The thought made my skin crawl. What had dark matter done to me while I was gone? Ew.

  But that explained the empty house. My parents weren’t supposed to get back from Catalina Island until this afternoon—part of Megan’s plan to give us enough time to deal with Ashley.

  A neatly pressed tablecloth draped the dining room table, and I rapped my knuckles along its length and skimmed my palm over the neat row of chairs before sauntering into the kitchen—

  I froze.

  Uh, wait a minute.

  I backed up into the dining room.

  Hadn’t I knocked over all the chairs in an attempt to stall Ashley? She’d even thrown one through the window. Now someone had tucked them all back in. And—my gaze slid to the window—someone had fixed the window.

  Had Megan cleaned up after I left? Not likely. We had a maid that came once a month, she must have left literally just before I got back . . . er . . . woke up . . . returned. Whatever you called it.

  But maids didn’t fix windows.

  My gaze lingered on the series of intact panes.

  Megan must have called my parents after I disappeared, and they’d come back early and fixed everything up. That was the only explanation.

  Still, something didn’t sit right.

  Okay, so my parents were home. Which meant they’d seen the mess before I had a chance to clean up or explain myself. Not good.

  “Uh . . . Mom . . . Dad?” A guilty tone entered my voice as I peeked into the breakfast nook. Empty.

  Where were they?

  My tongue scraped across my dry lips. I could explain everything to them later. Water. I needed water. Yeah, a gallon of ice-cold water and a half dozen turkey sandwiches. My fingers cupped the biggest glass in the cupboard and I made a beeline for the kitchen faucet, already salivating at the prospect.

  The tap stuck a little, and my fingers whitened on the stainless steel until it twisted open under my palm with a rusty screech. A gurgle rose up in the pipes. The faucet slurped and then sprayed a loud jet of water, startling me. Just air in the pipes.

  Hissing in fits and starts, water sprayed into my cup and splashed my wrist. But it didn’t settle into a normal stream. The faucet continued to splatter and spit water. I pulled my cup out of the spray, only a quarter full, and cranked off the tap.

  There was something wrong with the water.

  I raised the glass to eye level. A yellowish bubbly foam gathered at the top, and the liquid had a faint brown tint. Could it be rust?

  Unnerved, I tilted the glass to pour it out when something wriggling and white came into view at the bottom.

  An insect larva.

  I shrieked and jumped back. The glass shattered in the sink, splashing a foamy brown smear across the porcelain. The larva slipped down the drain, still wiggling madly.

  Ew, ew, ew—I backed against the opposite counter, hyperventilating. Something must have laid its eggs in the faucet.

  Since when did that happen?

  Screw that. Let my dad fix it. Shuddering, I went for the pantry and tugged a bottle loose from the 24-pack of Arrowhead, peeking warily back at the sink.

  Something here didn’t feel right . . . I’d been on edge ever since I’d gotten back.

  I tilted up the water bottle and chugged the whole thing. My lips puckered at the stale and plasticky taste, and the sudden influx of liquid made me woozy. Though wet, my throat still felt parched. I uncapped a second bottle and tilted it back, but this time the chemically taste almost made me gag.

  I set it down, feeling the liquid slosh in my stomach, oddly unsatisfying. A layer of dust came off on my fingers, which I wiped on my shorts. Were the bottles just old?

  My gaze slid to the refrigerator. Maybe some orange juice to get the taste out of my mouth—later, Leona.

  Right now I had to get in touch with Megan and tell her I was okay, then alert Major Connor to what had happened and dispose of all the dark matter I’d squirreled away over the la
st month and a half.

  Dark matter had to be destroyed.

  It was conscious—and malevolent. It had resurrected a dead girl’s body and turned her into a weapon against me, and for most of a day it had trapped me in an alternate plane of existence. Not only that but it was spreading, infecting people and animals, hopping from host to host and working them like puppets.

  We needed the police. We needed NASA. We needed the Army, the Air Force, the Navy. We needed everybody.

  Every last ounce of dark matter had to be destroyed or we would never be safe.

  I could start with the stuff I’d just been wearing.

  I spun on my heel and marched back to my bedroom where I had shed it like a snake skin. The water swilled around in my insides, each step triggering twinges of cold. Oooh . . . shouldn’t have drunk so much so fast.

  From my bedroom doorway I assessed the dark matter situation. Like an idiot, I’d stripped out of it right in the middle of my bedroom, so I had no idea where it had fallen, what it was touching. It was invisible.

  Easy solution. Only my parents would hate me for it.

  I hooked my finger under the edge of the big rug and heaved it over the tainted area, folding it over like a taco—and revealing the bare subfloor Major Connor had exposed when he’d ripped up the carpet weeks ago. Billowing up eddies of dust, I folded the rug several more times until I had it in an unwieldy armful with the dark matter trapped inside. I carried the bundle outside to the trash cans.

  Done. I clapped the dust off my hands over the bin, sweating in the sun. Not a leaf stirred in the still, late-morning air. Another tremor of unease slid through me. Something off here . . .

  Megan. Call Megan.

  Wheezing a little, I headed back to my bedroom, my tongue running along my dry, rubbery gums. Sticky mucous coated the inside of my mouth. I swallowed, and it was like sandpaper scratching all the way down.

  Still thirsty.

  I eyed the half-empty Arrowhead bottle I’d left on the kitchen counter, but my stomach cramped at the sight, still uncomfortably full of liquid. That was a no.

  With a struggle, I swallowed the chalky taste of dust and went back to search for my cell phone charger, growing more unnerved by the second.

  The charger had fallen behind a pile of my clothes. Like the water bottle, the clothes left my fingers dusty after handling them.

  I plugged the charger into my phone and waited for it to light up. It didn’t.

  I jiggled the connector. Still nothing.

  “C’monnn,” I muttered.

  My gaze flicked to my bedside clock. The display reflected the glare from the window. I shifted my head to get a better view.

  The display was blank.

  I stood and flipped on the light. The ceiling bulb stayed dark.

  Catching on, I moved from room to room, flipping switches and checking all the digital displays I could find—lights, television, Blu-ray player, thermostat, laptops.

  Off. All off.

  I finished my inspection in the kitchen.

  Only then did I notice the eerie silence in the house. No humming refrigerator, no whirring fans, no clicking hard drives—none of the tiny electronic sounds that were normally so constant as background noise.

  So the power was out.

  So what? It didn’t mean anything.

  Power went out all the time.

  My stomach growled irritably, breaking the silence. Though full of water to the point of bursting, it felt like it was caving in on itself. A wave of dizziness passed over me. I needed solid food.

  I grabbed a Luna bar from the pantry.

  I had to talk to Megan. Now. Right now.

  I grabbed my car keys and headed out to my car, wiping the dust off the Luna bar wrapper.

  “Oh come on! Are you serious?” I shouted, cranking the ignition in my Corolla. Nothing happened. The engine remained silent. I set the Luna bar aside, untouched.

  I twisted the key again, and the pressure turned my thumb white on the plastic. The dashboard lights remained dark. The engine didn’t even try to turn over.

  A dead battery?

  I gave up and slapped the steering wheel, sending up two little puffs of dust.

  And what was with all this freaking dust? I took my hands off the steering wheel and glared at the dark streaks across my palms. How the hell did dust get inside a sealed car?

  I sat back and wiped the stuff on my shorts, feeling exhausted. The gallon of water I’d just drunk hadn’t done jack. If anything, my mouth felt more parched.

  Did it have anything to do with the key fob remote being out of batteries? The doors hadn’t unlocked when I’d pushed the button, I’d noticed, and I’d had to open them manually.

  But no, this wasn’t like my parents’ Prius. It was a physical key that turned the ignition, like opening a lock. It didn’t need batteries.

  So the power was out, my cell phone was dead, and my car wouldn’t start. It had to be more than a coincidence. Something definitely weird was going on.

  Where was my dad when you needed him? I looked up and down my street, hoping to catch sight of their Prius. But the street was empty. Just parked cars. No one in sight. Not even a retired couple walking their Shih Tzu.

  Today was Sunday.

  Sunday . . . that would make it—I strained to remember—October 18. Did my parents have anything planned on the 18th? Another UCSB lecture, maybe? I couldn’t remember.

  While mulling over what to do, I reached for the Luna bar and took a bite. The bar tasted chalky and way too sweet. I chewed it slowly, wishing I’d just grabbed an apple instead, and folded the wrapper back up to see what I’d gotten. Honey Salted Peanut.

  Eugh. I’d told my mom only to get LemonZest.

  I set the bar aside and forced myself to swallow the bite. It travelled down my esophagus like a gummy wad of cardboard before landing in my stomach, which clenched painfully around it.

  Feeling woozy, I climbed out of the car and peered up the street again. The trees stood motionless as far as I could see, stark against an empty blue sky. Not a flutter of wind. Not a rustle.

  The silence made me nervous, and I checked over my shoulder.

  No one behind me.

  Megan’s house wasn’t too far. About a mile on the side streets. I could bike it in a few minutes.

  She would know what was going on.

  I wrestled my bike out from behind the garage and took off pedaling up the street, craning my neck as I passed each house. Did they have power? No one kept their lights on in the day, though, so it was impossible to tell.

  Hair whipping my bare shoulders, I flew down the next hill and slowed at San Roque Road, glanced both ways. Not a car in sight. I coasted right through. Weird.

  Usually it was busy.

  No one at the next intersection either, and I didn’t even bother slowing at the stop sign.

  This couldn’t be right. Zero cars? What time was it?

  As I sailed through yet another deserted intersection, my unease only grew. The streets, the silence . . . it all felt wrong.

  Still, I refused to acknowledge it.

  Hardly anyone ever drove back here. It could have just been a slow day. It was all residential. In fact, my mom had specifically taken me down this street to avoid traffic when I first got my learner’s permit.

  Before I could stop myself, the memory triggered a hideous landslide in my mind—first my permit, then my license . . . and then hitting and killing Ashley Lacroix on Foothill Road. At once, a sour feeling spread into my stomach.

  I threw my bike down at Megan’s curb and ran to her front door, more anxious than ever to see her. We’d gone through that nightmare together. She was the only one who understood, the only one who knew.

&
nbsp; I wiped away the strands of hair glued to my sweaty forehead and rang the doorbell.

  Except she wouldn’t have been the only one if I had confessed to Emory like I was supposed to . . . like he deserved.

  Another stab of guilt.

  Instead, I’d lied to him. Like always.

  I’d fallen into his arms and missed my one chance, like always.

  Like the heartless, wicked creature I was.

  I wasn’t going to miss it again.

  As soon as Megan and I dealt with dark matter, I was going straight to Emory’s house, marching right up to his door, and confessing everything. I killed your sister. I did it. I was the one, Emory. Yeah, it was an accident . . . but then I hid the body.

  The doorbell hadn’t even rung. I pressed it again.

  Nothing happened.

  Did doorbells require electricity? I rapped my knuckles on the wood, and waited.

  Please be home, please be home.

  I scanned the street behind me. Her Ford was parked in the shade, right where it should be. So why didn’t she answer?

  I knocked again, louder this time.

  “Megan!” I called, leaning to the side to shout around toward her bedroom window. “Megan, open up! It’s me!”

  No one stirred inside the house.

  “MEGAN!” My voice echoed up and down the eerily quiet street. I spun around, my eyes darting from one lawn to the next. All still. No movement.

  Suddenly, I felt very alone.

  Where was she?

  Maybe away with her parents. You’re freaking out over nothing, Leona.

  I tried the handle. Locked. And covered in so much dust my fingers left smudges. Just like everything else. Seriously, this was really starting to creep me out.

  Only one thing left to do. Sorry, Megan, but this counts as an emergency.

  The third flower pot on the right. I nudged it aside and plucked the hidden key out of the ring of stained tile. With a final glance behind me, I let myself into the house.