Chapter Forty-seven
Night Moves
Jonah couldn’t say how long he stayed in the gazebo. He remembered slumping onto the bench, pulling his gloves back on, and sitting, head down, listening to the sound of the waves on the beach and the wind in the trees.
He wished he could simply walk into the lake and keep heading north until the gunmetal-gray waves closed over his head and the fireworks exploded in his brain and the voices stopped.
But the instinct for survival had been hardwired into him, along with his deadly touch.
What would Emma do? Would she go to the police? The bodies were long gone, the evidence destroyed, the witnesses dead. She had no love for the authorities, and she had a record . . . of minor offenses, anyway.
Would she go to Gabriel? For all she knew, Gabriel had engineered the mission that had led to her father’s death. Would she actually go to Rowan after she cooled off ? It was hard to imagine she could believe he was the innocent in this.
And Rowan . . . how much had he heard?
It didn’t matter what Emma could prove. What mattered was what she knew to be true . . . that Jonah was a killer. That he’d maybe killed her father. He had no defense. It could be true.
Guilt boiled up inside him as he realized just how alone Emma was. Everything and everyone had been taken from her. There was no one she could trust. Jonah was pretty much in the same situation, but most of it was his own fault.
By the time he left the gazebo, he was shivering in his T-shirt. He looked up at the brightly lit house. What about the second set? What would Emma do? Would she beg off ? In the end he took the coward’s way out and sent a text to both Natalie and Emma.
He could take one of the vans and drive back to school. Lock himself in his room. Cross his heart and hope to die before morning. Without really making a decision, he began to climb the hill toward the house. The trees stirred and the breeze brushed past him, bringing with it the metallic scent of blood.
He heard a twig snap behind him, felt a pinch at his neck, and was unconscious before he hit the ground.
When Jonah awoke, the smell of blood was even stronger than before. He was chilled to the bone, stiff and aching from contact with the cold ground. He was lying awkwardly across a tree root. He heard voices some distance away, people laughing, scuffing through leaves. He turned his head from side to side, spitting out leaf mold from a desert-dry mouth.
He felt sluggish, muddleheaded, so terribly tired. “What’s this?” somebody said. It sounded like he was just a short distance away. “Will!” he shouted. “Come give me a hand. Looks like this guy might’ve had a little too much to drink.”
Will laughed. “Who is it, Fitch? Anybody we know?” Jonah heard footsteps, rapidly approaching.
“Wait a minute,” Fitch said, with a new urgency. “It looks like . . . maybe he’s been stabbed. There’s blood everywhere.”
“It’s Halloween, Fitch, remember?” Will sounded amused. “It must be part of the display. You never know what Seph and Maddie—” His voice cut off abruptly. “I just . . . I just stumbled over . . . somebody else,” he said, sounding uncertain. “It’s a girl. I—I think she’s dead.”
Jonah tried to move, but it was like his wrists and ankles were weighted . . . too heavy to lift. When he lifted his face out of the dirt, his head was spinning, and he nearly puked. He finally managed to lift his head enough to look past the tree toward the house. He could see two costumed figures kneeling on the ground about thirty feet away. His vision swam until all he could see were blotches of color and lurid streaks of light.
“Will,” Fitch said, his voice low and strained. “There’s another body. Over that way.” He pointed.
Jonah struggled to clear his head. Had he been attacked as well? Was he in shock from blood loss, or . . . ? Truth be told, he felt sicker than he’d been since—since right after Thorn Hill. And Emma . . . what about Emma? She’d gone straight back to the house after the argument, hadn’t she? Could Rowan DeVries have returned with reinforcements? His heart froze in his chest. Was Emma lying dead with the others?
“Do you know any of them?” Will was asking. “No, but there’s a lot of people here I don’t know,” Fitch said. “I’m kind of out of touch since I’ve been away at school. And this one . . . he’s wearing a mask. Do you . . . do you think I should take it off, or—”
“Don’t touch anything,” Will snapped, pulling out his cell phone. “We don’t want to compromise the crime scene. Just . . . we better go back to the house until the police get here. I don’t think anybody should be out here alone.” He sat back on his heels, jaw set, peering into the trees. Instinctively, Jonah froze, knowing that movement would draw attention more than anything.
You’re not guilty of anything, he thought. Why are you hiding? That
After a long moment, the two boys stood, turned, and sprinted toward the house.
Jonah rolled over onto his back and propped up against the tree, fighting back another wave of nausea. His hand closed over something metallic. Familiar. He looked down. A dagger with a long, razor-sharp blade, smeared with blood. At first he thought it was a shiv, but no. Just a dagger.
His muddled mind tried to make sense of it. Had he brought a blade along for some reason? No. Why would he?
It seemed to take a superhuman effort to get to his knees. On all fours, he scanned the ground around him. Here was another dagger, similarly bloodied. And bits of leaves and berries, as if someone had put a fistful of plants through a shredder. His skin prickled and burned, like he’d been scalded. There was something about plants—something he should remember. And then it came to him. Nightshade. Deadly nightshade. Belladonna. Had he been left for dead like the other victims of Lilith and her crew? Or had he been set up to take the fall himself ?
Using the tree as a prop, he managed to get to his feet. His hands were smeared with blood to the elbows. His T-shirt and jeans, too. He ran his hands over his body. No obvious wounds. He felt more sick than wounded, but he probably looked like he’d been the guest of honor at a bloodbath.
Or the host.
He swayed, nearly falling before he caught himself. His head felt like it might explode. Was it possible? Could he have totally lost it, out here in the dark? Blanked out and gone on a rampage?
If he hadn’t done it, then who had? Lilith? Or Rowan DeVries, making damned sure that Jonah was caught with blood on his hands this time?
One thing reassured him: none of the victims was dressed in torch-singer black. Emma was not among the dead scattered around him.
Already, he could hear sirens in the distance. He needed to buy some time. He needed to figure this out. And if he went to jail, he’d never, ever come out.
So Jonah did the only thing he could do.
He ran.
