Page 94 of The Whispering Night
That is when Winnie feels it: her locket, clutched in her hand, turns to fire.The Crow, she thinks. Then there she is, an actual crow swooping down. A harbinger on flapping wings that erupts into a thick mist… before resolving into a human.
Caterina Martedì now stands before Winnie, dressed as she was in the forest before she tried to kill Winnie: scaled armor reminiscent of a hunter, a black mask with an unnatural golden beak.
In a scientific, but currently useless corner of Winnie’s brain, she thinks,Wow, so there are spells that can turn you into animals. I wonder what they’re called.In the more practical, plugged-into-this-moment part, she thinks,Oh shit, this just got so much worse.
For one, a familiar whispering scratch is snarling out from the Crow’s mask.
For two, Erica hasn’t yet tucked Jenna’s source into her swaddle and she is only just lifting her gaze to see what has arrived.
For three, Winnie’s locket is smoking. Likeactuallysmoking, and the heat is so intense she can do nothing but drop the golden circle—and then feel it scorching through terry cloth on her chest.
“Well done, Erica.” Martedì’s voice is wreathed by whispers—and her arms are wreathed in mist. “Hand it to me now, please, and we can go.”
Erica stares, still as a statue. Her sweater remains tugged to one side and her left hand hasn’t released the glittering silver ball. And Winnie realizes in a dawning, surging sort of horror that there is no surprise on Erica’s face.
She knew,Winnie thinks.She knew this was coming.
“Now,” the Crow adds, “before the scorpions arrive, Erica.”
“No.” Erica’s voice shakes. She releases her sweater. Stands taller. And it’s like watching her tug on a mask of her own; she becomes the Ice Queen. She becomes her mother. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“No one changes their mind, Erica. Your sister couldn’t, and you can’teither.” The Crow laughs her cartoon laugh—except this isn’t an animated Saturday-morning kids’ show and Winnie isn’t tied to train tracks.
In other words, Winnie can move. She can stagger around to gape at Erica. “You knew this was coming?” It’s a stupid question because the answer is obvious. But she needs to hear Erica say it.
Erica shakes her head. “Winnie, stay back.”
“Yes, Winnie,” Martedì agrees. “Stay back. Because Erica here knows what she has to do, and I will absolutely kill you if I must.” The mist continues to swirl around the Crow’s arms—yet it now pools downward to her feet, as well. Shapes form, knee-high mounds of fog.
“No,” Erica repeats. “I’ve changed my mind, Signora. I won’t do it.”
Winnie’s head is wagging now. She stumbles back a single, stupefied step. Erica knows who the Crow is; shehasknown and she was playing Winnie all this time. The Winnie-em theorem. Inputxforloyalty,and you will always getyforstupidity.
Jay was right,Winnie thinks.Jay was right, and you didn’t listen to him.
“How,” Winnie tries, but the words won’t come.How could you do this? To me? To Jay?
“I’m sorry, Winnie.” Erica’s gloved hands tighten on her sister’s source. Her muscles are tensing as if she might make a run for it. “It’s not what I wanted to do—”
“Oh, don’t lie to the girl, Erica. It was your idea, pitched to me in the forest with a full moon beaming down. Now hand me the source, and let’s finish what we started. What Jenna started.”
No.Winnie’s head is still shaking, but it’s getting slower. Sluggish. As if her whole body is being weighed down by bricks. No wolf will ever blow her over, because she will be crushed beneath the house before it can.
She should have listened to Jay. She should havelistenedto the boy she loves.
“Enough of this,” Martedì declares, “we are out of time, Erica, and I don’t want to lose the night.” She smiles at Winnie now, and there’s no ignoring that the mist puddling before her is taking on shapes—canine shapes. And Winnie has a skittery, painful sense that she recognizes one of them. That one of these creatures was a professor with a telescope fixed on shooting stars.
Canes, Winnie’s mind provides.These are the lowest level in the Dianahierarchy, specialized in hunting nightmares for spells and spreading the Diana cause.
“A for effort, Winnie,” the Crow continues. “You did what I asked quite beautifully. But now… well, I can’t let you get in my way. I’ve had enough of your family interfering.Go.” Her arms sling toward Winnie, and suddenly the mist-born hounds are slathering and snarling right for her.
Yes,Winnie thinks.Go.Without a thought, she twists around. And maybe it’s the Winnie-em theorem just plugging inxfory,or maybe it’s foolish denial—or maybe it’s a foolish hope that her friend didn’t actually want this…
Either way, Winnie grabs Erica by the arm, and for the ten thousandth time that night, she yanks her friend into a run.
But Winnie isn’t fast enough. At least not to outrun the magicked dogs. Paws land on her. She flies face-first toward gravel. Erica screams, a sound to saturate Winnie’s mind. To infuse the entire night like the Lyrids across the April sky. There is no overtone chanting here: there is only one meaning, and it is pain.
Rocks smash into Winnie’s face. Teeth latch onto her neck. Drool slathers, and though she rolls and writhes, these hounds are supernaturally strong. She can’t stop them.
