Torn

Wicked Dead

Torn By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton

THOMAS PENDLETON DEDICATES THIS

BOOK TO JCP AND ALL THE WICKED

ONES THE WORLD OVER.

STEFAN PETRUCHA DEDICATES THIS

BOOK TO THE DEAD—MARTIN, FELICIA,

AMELIA, MICHAEL, FRANK, MARY,

JOSEPH L., AND THE MANY OTHERS HE

DOES NOT KNOW. HE HOPES YOU’VE

ALL GOT A GREAT GAME GOING

SOMEWHERE.

PROLOGUE

A storm raged over Lockwood Orphanage. Wind pounded through the eaves and played against the rhythm of marching rain. Lightning flashed in the wounded sky, bringing foul milky light to the black windows. All through the night grim weather had battered the roof and the sides of the six-story Georgian, but now the storm was moving inside.

“She’s here.”

Two girls stood in the great room of the orphanage amid a junk shop of tattered furniture. A third girl, lovely and delicate with golden hair dropping in long ringlets to her shoulders, sat demurely, her thin nightgown pooling around her on the cracked wooden floorboards.

All three trembled as the shadowed air around them rolled and swirled. A cloud took shape before them, vague at first, but more defined with each passing moment. A face appeared in the raven mist. It had a narrow nose and thin, mean lips. The cloud rolled out violently, as if exploding, then was drawn back into itself. Suddenly, the mist was gone, leaving a tall form in its place.

A woman.

The Headmistress.

She wore a long gray skirt and a white blouse with billowy loose sleeves that pinched down into broad starched cuffs at her wrists. A black brooch secured the collar of the blouse, which was so tight to her throat it would have strangled another woman. A living woman.

She stood straight-backed with her hands knotted at her waist. Her pitiless eyes searched the room. With a rapid flash of the irises, she took in the tall girl in men’s striped pajamas and the pretty girl in the lovely nightgown sitting on the floor. Finally, her attention came to rest on the black-haired girl wearing a black T-shirt.

“We weren’t doing anything,” Anne said too quickly, crossing her arms over the front of her T-shirt. Though defiant, her voice was laced with fear.

“Indeed,” the Headmistress said. “And yet, you all know the rules. None of you are allowed down here after lights out. But here you are. Down here. Where you’re not supposed to be. So, in fact, you were doing something. Something quite wrong.”

From her place on the floor, Mary lowered her head. She plucked at the hem of her nightgown nervously, then smoothed it.

“We were looking for Shirley,” Daphne said, feeling waves of cold air rushing over her. Standing near the Headmistress always felt like being in an icebox. “We were playing a game upstairs, and she got frightened. You know how sensitive she is. We just came down to find her. We were going right back up.”

The Headmistress nodded her head slowly. She cast a glance at Anne, who looked furious, with her jaw set tight. To Mary, she said, “Is this true?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” Mary said, able to look at the woman for only a second.

“Then why do you appear ever so comfortable, sitting on that floor?”

“I tripped when you arrived.”

“Clumsy, clumsy girl,” the Headmistress said.

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“This is lame. I’m going back up,” Anne said. She uncrossed her arms and began walking toward the great staircase. “Shirley can worry about herself.”

“I think you’ll wait,” the Headmistress said. “I’m not quite convinced of your story’s veracity.”

Anne stopped in her tracks. She spun around, facing the Headmistress.

“Well, let’s find Shirley,” Daphne said, a bit too brightly. “She’ll tell you. It really was just a stupid game.”

“Indeed,” the Headmistress said. “Let’s do ask your little friend.”

With that, the Headmistress cocked her head to the side and opened her mouth wide. A plume of vapor rolled over her lips, and encircled her head like a dark halo. The ring expanded in misty waves. As the ripples met and continued past them, each girl heard the same thing.

Shirley. Come to the great room AT ONCE!

The command was deafening. On the floor, Mary covered her ears, but it did no good. This was not a voice of lung and throat and tongue, but one of spirit. It rattled the very material of her being and spread through the orphanage in waves.