Eternity

Someone just like her.

“They put their darkness in her,” Nora said, as if she was reading Em’s mind. “Just like they’ve put their darkness in you.” For once, she didn’t look terrified or disgusted when she stared at Em. It was pity Em saw in Nora’s eyes.

They see Edie in me, Em realized. I am a reminder of their long-lost friend. I am the carrier of that.

“But after she died . . . they just . . . left?” Skylar asked. Clearly she was thinking of the next logical question: How can we get rid of them?

Hannah spread her hands. “That was the last we heard of them. I guess they were . . . satisfied when Edie died. We thought they were gone for good, until . . . ”

The sentence didn’t need to be finished, but Em did it for her: “Until now,” she said. “Until me.” No one bothered to respond; they all knew the answer.

Em lungs felt like a pressure cooker that was about to explode. Was the only solution for her to do as Drea’s mom had done, and do the Furies’ dirty work for them? Is that what had happened to Sasha and to Chase—had they leaped from the Piss Pass, driven to suicide by Ty, Meg, and Ali?

Possibly. But then why had the Furies had stuck around, instead of fleeing as they had in the wake of Edie’s death?

“There must be a way to stop them,” she said, as much to convince herself as the people at the table.

Nora set her mouth into a grim line. “Of course, we all have our theories,” she said, staring into the space behind Em, where the overgrown flora suffocated itself beneath heavily glazed panes. “I carry my snake pin. Never been without it since what happened to Edie. Some say that rituals of purity and sacrifice will mollify them, and Hannah once read there was a way to undo the curse if you’ve been poisoned by them—an antidote of some sort.” She shook her head. Now Em could read the pity in her eyes again—the resignation, too. “But we tried all we could. I fear no mortal can stop them. ?And their game never really ends, you know. ?The Furies always win.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Only you would wear a suit to Fun Zone,” Ned said as his ball ricocheted off the fencing behind them. Foul.

“It’s not a suit,” JD said, taking a few strong practice swings as he got into position. “It’s my dad’s blazer with pants that aren’t ripped jeans. And stop trying to throw me off my game.”

It was Saturday morning and they were at the indoor batting cage in the middle of a much-larger sports arcade near Ascension, a place made for kids’ birthday parties and rowdy teenage boys. JD and Ned weren’t the usual clientele—a few too many honors classes (not to mention years) under their belts—but it was a spring tradition for them to come here every year before opening day of baseball season.

JD was grateful for the chance to blow off some steam. The interaction with Skylar’s sister in the graveyard was etched in his mind, mingling with unavoidable image of Crow stalking Em, and of that snake pin buried in the mud. . . . And then there was Ty. Ty texting him, teasing him; Ty’s laugh echoing in his mind. Like she’d implanted herself there.

He couldn’t shake a bad feeling. He’d woken up from a nightmare only to forget the details but be haunted by the sense, all day, of darkness.

“Don’t forget that Keith wants us to come over tonight to pick our fantasy rosters,” Ned said, squatting in the corner of the cage and tearing into a bag of sour-cream-and-onion potato chips. Dressed in a T-shirt and army-green cargo pants, Ned looked ripped from the pages of an online gaming brochure. As for JD . . . well, it wasn’t clear what type of catalog he was modeling for. His pinstripe pants, buckled boots, plain white T-shirt, and glasses . . . None of it suggested Sports Guy.

The first pitch from the machine came barreling toward JD and he let it go by. He liked to get used to the space, to the feel of the bat, to the speed of the pitch, before taking his first swing. “You’d be having a better time if you hadn’t gotten off to such a crappy start,” he said, and Ned grunted in assent.

“You gonna wait all day there, buddy?” Ned called out as JD let another one fly by his head.

“It’s called patience,” JD said, tightening his grip on the bat.

“It’s called being a—” Ned cut himself off as JD swung at the next pitch. Made contact. The ball soared straight toward the back wall, getting stuck in the netting that lined the rear of the cage. “Okay, beginner’s luck,” he said. “Nice one.”

JD smiled, feeling the dancing sensation in his stomach that came whenever he did something well. Like when he aced a test, or figured out a complicated circuit. Like every time he beat Em at Scrabble.

“You call it beginner’s luck; I call it having a good eye,” he said, grabbing for the chips. “You’re up.”

On his next turn, Ned managed to hit another foul ball that shot straight up in the air above them. He had to scramble out of the way when it came back down. “I knew you had it in you, Nedzo. Next Coke’s on me.”

They went back and forth like that for a while, getting into a comfortable rhythm with the machine-thrown pitches and the weight of the bat in their hands. When he made contact, the wooden crack of the bat was the sweetest sound there was; it cut through the all the noise going on in his brain. The questions, the anxiety—they softened, faded somewhere into the background until he was ready to handle them again.

JD started to feel a little better. A little back-to-normal. He allowed himself to revel in the simplicity of it. The tiny routines he developed every time he approached the plate—brushing the bat against the floor before hoisting it over his shoulder, squinching his face, and adjusting his glasses.

“We should have gone out for baseball,” Ned said after his first decent hit of the day.

“Yeah, we would have fit right in with that crowd,” JD answered, rolling his eyes. But it got him thinking again. “Hey, dude, you ever hear anything about Chase Singer?”

“What do you mean? That he’s dead?” Ned took a swig from his soda bottle.

JD winced. Ned didn’t mean to be a dick, he just had all the subtlety of a Mack truck. “Obviously,” JD said, tapping the bat mindlessly against the metal cage. “I meant about his death. About when they found him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ned said. “Impossible to ignore that stuff. Like how people thought he was gay because he had that flower in his mouth or whatever? Come on. People in this town are so freaking homophobic. They see a dude and a red flower and all they think is . . . ”

But JD didn’t hear the rest. Red flower. His pulse quickened. All the mystery-girl stuff, and Ty’s red flower, and the detail about Chase’s body, and everything. His suspicion that Ty was somehow connected to Chase’s death was getting stronger by the minute.

Beep-beep-beep. His text alert sounded, and JD went to grab his phone from the pocket of his blazer. As he did, something fell to the Astroturf with a thud. He looked down to see a silver Zippo, engraved with pine trees on one side and To WF, with love on the other. It belonged to Drea’s dad, and it looked nice, expensive. He must have accidentally pocketed it after lighting Mr. Feiffer’s cigarette at Drea’s funeral.

What are you up to today?

Ty. Of course.

He should have been psyched that she was into him—she was definitely the hottest girl who’d ever even looked at him—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about her was off.

She wasn’t Em. How similar they looked only made it more obvious how different they really were.

JD pocketed his phone without responding, then turned the lighter over in his hand, flicking it open and lighting the flame once, twice. He recalled Mr. Feiffer and how distraught he’d been at the memorial service. How alone he must feel. He shoved it back into his pocket.

To return the lighter would mean going to Drea’s house—potentially walking into an emotional minefield. Not to mention standing face-to-face with an unhinged, grieving man. But it would also mean doing something kind for the father of his dead friend.

He decided he’d pay a visit to Walt Feiffer after Ned dropped him off.

“You giving up?” Ned jabbed JD with the bat, looking at him expectantly.