White Space

STARING THROUGH THE windows of her eyes, Rima watched as Casey flung himself into the circle—and all that was left of her moaned, No, Casey, no! She couldn’t help him. She wasn’t strong enough to distract the whisper-man for long; it had taken every ounce of her will just to give the lie to the whisper-man’s assurances that it could save her. Now, her own life was fading fast; she could feel her mind thinning the way a cloud dissipated under a bright sun. She couldn’t break free, but she had to do something, something.

She understood now, too, about the dolls this thing had fashioned as receptacles for what it, as Lizzie, called the “you-you.” Six dolls, not eight: there was no Eric-doll, no Casey. Neither had a place in McDermott’s book-worlds, and of the two, Casey was the cleanest, nearly a blank slate, able to absorb whispers and become with ease.

She felt the whisper-man crush Casey to her bleeding body in a tight, suffocating embrace. Casey’s warm breath slashed over her ruined face, and his own was close, just inches away. She sensed the whisper-man’s intent an instant before her own hand tightened around Anita’s boning knife, which the whisper-man had slid into the small of her back, and she thought, No no no no, please don’t, don’t hurt him, don’t!

Too late, and she had no power anyway. A quicksilver flick, and then Casey gasped as the knife sliced through his coat and slid into his left flank, just below his ribs, slipping through skin, dividing muscle. The tip drove to the artery, releasing Casey’s blood in a great, throbbing gush.

No, no, no, CASEY! But Casey was sagging against her now, his life pulsing out in a crimson river.

“OHHH, THAT’S GOOD.” The whisper-man crooned like a lover into Casey’s ear: “THAT’S GOOD, OHHH, THAT FEELS SO GOOD, DOESN’T IT? GIVE YOURSELF TO ME, BREATH OF MY BREATH. TAKE ME, FEED ME, BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, OHHH, FEEL ME.”

There was one chance, and only one—because she knew what the whisper-man had forgotten. But she must wait, wait, wait. She didn’t dare allow herself to think any further than that. If she did, it would know. She latched onto a rhyme, a meaningless tune, because she must hide, hide, quiet, quiet: Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb …

Beyond the circle, she heard Eric and Emma both screaming, but couldn’t see them at all because of all those hundreds and thousands of crows. The birds—beaks stabbing, slicing, ripping—boiled over their bodies. Emma and Eric would be dead, and very soon, if she couldn’t stop this.

Hurry, hurry, hurry. Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, oh, hurry hurry hurry …

“BLOOD OF MY BLOOD,” the whisper-man whispered with the ruin of her mouth, her bloody flesh pressed against Casey’s ear. “BREATH OF MY BREATH, I BIND YOU.”

Hurry hurry hurry …

“I TAKE YOU, OHHH, FEEL ME AS I FILL YOU!” It crushed her mouth to Casey’s, and then Casey was drinking the whisper-man in, binding the darkness to him.

Yes! The blackness slid away; the whisper-man flowed in a deep riptide from her body. There was no blessed wave of relief; she would not live through this. The icy slush that passed for her blood was gone, but now fire licked through her limbs, throbbing with every beat of her dying heart. The pain was a vice, crushing her chest and forcing out her breath. The cord that had held her up for so long snapped, and she began to fall. But as she did, she realized something else that the whisper-man did not know.

There was someone else—something she half knew and recognized—inside Casey.

Help him. She was sinking fast, hurtling toward that final darkness on legs suddenly no more substantial than air. Please, whoever, whatever you are, help Casey fight, help him, help …

She knew when her body thudded to that strange, smooth, and glassy rock, but she registered nothing more than a distant thump. Her mind spun. She couldn’t think, couldn’t put her finger on it. There was something important she had to do … but what? I know this … what is it … it’s import—

Then, she remembered what the whisper-man had forgotten: that a whisper, like blood, leaves a stain.

Wearing her body, the whisper-man had brought down the birds. That stain—this ability—was still there, but faint and growing fainter.

Please, God, just keep me alive a few more seconds.

With the last of her strength, she gathered her will and sent an arrow of thought, flying true.

Go. I command you now. Go.

ERIC To My Heart, Across Times, to the Death