Dark Companion Read online

  I’d pressed down my fury until it metamorphosed, as soft messy carbonate does, into a diamond so hard it can cut through steel and with such clarity that I could use it as a lens to see the world as it truly was, cruel and capricious.

  It was rage that got me to Birch Grove Academy for Girls and out of Hellsdale. I nestled into my bed, knowing that rage would help me survive here, too.

  The strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers.

  Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre (1847)

  Chapter 3

  I’d never been allowed to sleep in before, so I lingered in bed thinking about what the week would bring. Tonight I was invited to dinner with Mrs. Radcliffe’s family, but other than that, I was free until Monday, which seemed an eternity of time by myself. Something seemed off and, after a moment, I realized that it was the silence. I was used to slammed doors, rumbling buses, shouting, snarling pitties, police sirens, and Mrs. Prichard’s and my roommates’ furious arguments.

  I didn’t have to mop floors, do the laundry, or scour the bathroom. When I remembered that I had my very own bathroom, I got up.

  At the group home, we were allowed five-minute showers every other day. The boys always cut ahead in line, leaving only tepid water and a spray too weak to wash the cheap shampoo out of my hair. Now I filled the bathtub with steaming water and eased in, savoring the almost painful heat. I soaked until my fingers and toes puckered and the water cooled.

  I dried off with a thick, soft towel, and then examined myself in the steamy full-length mirror on the bathroom door. I could never keep myself from rubbing hard at the scar below my left shoulder, wishing I could rub it away. It was oval-shaped with a higher ridge running lengthwise, crossed horizontally with narrow pale marks caused by hasty stitching. I had had it as long as I could remember.

  I touched the tattoo of the H below my left breast. Hosea would have been eighteen now. I remembered him sitting on his bunk bed and scrunching his face while puzzling over the Old Testament, eventually saying, “Why did Leviticus hate pigs so much? I love me some ribs.”

  “Who cares about Levit … whatever his name is? I never even ated ribs. Mrs. Bitchard wouldn’t give me no money for the goddamn Fourth of July barbecue.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful, Little Sis, and talk proper. Say ‘Mrs. Prichard couldn’t afford to give me money for the Fourth of July barbecue.’”

  He’d taken my small hand in his big brown hand. “God gave us brains to think things out. I want to understand Leviticus, even though he thought hatin’ God’s creatures was part of believing. He was confused, I suppose, and maybe God wants us to figure out why he was confused. When we get outa here, I’m going to take you to eat ribs, so many that you fall asleep with your hands on your belly.”

  I smiled at one of my few happy memories.

  He’d been sixteen then and looked grown-up to me. Now that I was sixteen, would anyone think that I looked grown-up? I doubted it.

  My eyes were an unremarkable brown, as was my hair, which fell in waves down my back almost to my waist. My nose was a nose, and my cheeks were cheeks. I thought my best feature was probably my mouth, because my lips were full and my teeth were straight and white. My skin was an unenthusiastic tannish color.

  I shoved my small breasts together, but the resulting cleavage looked like a luxury accessory on an economy car. I twisted around and checked out my butt. It wasn’t completely flat, but it wasn’t curvy, either. I was as I’d always been, plain Jane, the type people thought of as a sexless friend.

  I dressed in clothes that Mrs. Prichard had gotten from the free box at the community center. My jeans were too big, so I folded up the legs and pulled my vinyl belt tight to keep the bottom from drooping. I put on a cotton-blend lime shirt that was only a little faded. As I ate a bowl of granola, I read the Birch Grove Academy Handbook. The schedule for classes was an elaborate grid of short and long blocks, and no two days of the week had classes in the same order. After I skimmed the handbook, I decided to explore the campus.

  It was another overcast day. I walked cautiously on the path through the gloomy birch grove, and the silence and solitude made me uneasy. I kept twisting around, expecting that someone dangerous was hiding in the wavering shadows. I tried to memorize my way in case I got lost, but I couldn’t distinguish one tree from another and the paths were lined with shrubs that obstructed my view. A sudden chittering made me freeze, but it was only a squirrel.

  I went to the main drive and veered onto paths that wove through a rose garden and a terrace with a vine-covered trellis. A stone statue of a nymph stood in a fountain. I cut through a sports field and found myself out back by the birch grove.

  In the center of the grove, I discovered a clearing that was about thirty feet in diameter. Two concentric tiers of white marble benches surrounded a flat empty space with the remnants of a fire in the center. I sat there listening to birds and watching squirrels scamper. A leaf wafted down in the breeze and brushed against my cheek. Then a memory, or rather an impression, flashed in my mind: of leaves, dampness, and joy. It was gone before I could register any details or identify the memory’s origin.

  I realized that I’d been absentmindedly rubbing a bump on the surface of the bench. It was a drop of wax, and other wax droplets marked the marble. Someone must have brought candles out here, maybe for a hook-up or nighttime barbecue.

  The sky above cleared for a moment and sunlight flickered through the moving branches. I thought I saw something, someone, but it was only the shadows of the branches dancing in the breeze.

  I stood and continued staring up, losing myself in the swaying branches that sounded shush shush shush like brushes against the sky. I walked slowly while gazing upward, almost hypnotized, when a loud crunching noise ripped me out of my daydream. I twirled around to see a bicycle hurtling straight at me.

  “Look out!” the rider shouted as he swerved to avoid hitting me. His tires skidded on leaves and loose soil and slid sideways, and he went flying off the bike, tumbling into the underbrush.

  I ran to him. “Are you all right?”

  The rider was sprawled on the ground. He lifted his head and I saw a tangle of long dark curls and a scruff of beard. He wore khaki shorts and a gray t-shirt. A silver chain around his neck dipped beneath the collar of his shirt.

  I studied him while he sat up. He glared at his bike and cursed it. His hair was the bittersweet chocolate shade between brown and black. He had strong features and thick straight eyebrows over wide green eyes with lush black eyelashes. His body was sturdy and muscled, from his broad shoulders to his sun-browned calves.

  “You came out of nowhere,” he said, grimacing as he stood. He was about a head taller than I was, more if I counted the wild curls, which had bits of twigs and leaves from his tumble. He leaned to one side, then swiped the dirt from the torn skin on his leg, exposing long, bloody scratches.

  “Are you hurt? I can get help.”

  “First you try to kill me, now you offer help.”

  “You were the one going too fast!”

  “Going too fast is the whole point. Get my bike for me.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the stranger. “You have a lot of attitude for someone who nearly ran me over.”

  He made a face and I couldn’t tell if he was sneering at me or wincing in pain, but he finally said, “Please get my bike for me.”

  “Okay then.”

  As I picked up his mountain bike, he asked, “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “What business is it of yours?” I held on to the bike, ready to push it down the slope. “I live here. You’re the one who doesn’t belong at a girls’ school.”

  “You’re a
wfully touchy for someone who tried to kill me. Birch Grove is a day school and it’s still on summer break.”

  “That shows how much you know. I moved into the cottage.”

  “So a pixie is living in the fairy-tale cottage.” When he tossed back his head, his curls bounced and his laugh boomed in the quiet grove. “Okay, you live in the cottage, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re up this way. Where were you going?”

  “You ax a lot of questions,” I snapped, and flushed with embarrassment. “I meant, you ask a lot of questions. I was exploring the grounds and thinking of walking up to Mrs. Radcliffe’s house. She’s the headmistress.”

  “Have you met the Radcliffe family yet?”

  “Why do you care?” I stared at him and he stared back. The contrast of his black lashes with his green eyes made them luminous. We stood motionless as the trees rustled and birds called out.

  He broke first. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep answering questions with questions.”

  “I don’t want to get anywhere with you!” I blushed again because it came out wrong, and he grinned lopsidedly. “I mean, I don’t have to answer any of your questions and I don’t know why you’re grilling me.”

  “I’m not grilling you. We’re having a conversation. That’s a friendly exchange of information, you know, saying things and asking and answering questions. ‘How are you doing?’ ‘Fine, I was enjoying my afternoon walk in the woods. How are you doing?’ Don’t you have friendly conversations where you come from?”

  I scowled, but he kept waiting for an answer, so finally I scoffed, “How are you doing?”

  “Well, fine, thanks for asking, except that my knee’s shattered.”

  “If your knee was shattered, you wouldn’t be able to stand. Where I come from, people don’t cry like big babies when they fall down.”

  “Your sympathy is overwhelming.” He tried to swing his leg over the bike and had to grab on to a tree trunk to keep from falling over. “Maybe my kneecap isn’t technically shattered, but I could use some help. Come here. Please.”

  I reluctantly went to his side. He smelled like pine and warm earth. When he leaned on my left shoulder, the heat from his hand went through the thin fabric of my shirt and my scar pulsed like a heartbeat to the pressure of his hand, something that had never happened before. Warmth bloomed through my body like sunshine.

  “Later, pixie.” He pushed off so that I had to take a step back to get my balance.

  “Stop calling me that!” I yelled at his receding back. I peered down at the place he had put his hand and saw a smear of blood and dirt on my t-shirt. “Stupid jerk.”

  Instead of going to Mrs. Radcliffe’s house, I went back to the cottage and took off my shirt to wash it before the stain set. I glanced in the mirror at my bare skin. His blood had soaked through the shirt to my scar; it was mottled rosy red and scarlet like an autumn leaf.

  I scrubbed the blood and dirt off my shirt, but when I went to wash off my shoulder, it was clean and my scar was its normal pale color. The blood must have been a trick of the light, perhaps from the pink towels’ reflection in the mirror. I changed into my nicest pants, maroon corduroys, a blue blouse, and fake leather sandals that were too big. I wished I had a necklace to wear, or makeup.

  When I walked up the hill, I heard the individual notes of birdsong and noticed the serrated edges of the birch leaves. Colors seemed more intense and even the modulated shades of earth were remarkable. I felt as if the grime of my old life had been dulling all my senses and now my perceptions were heightened. I heard running water—from a creek or stream?—in the distance and felt the softness of a fern frond across my hand.

  The Radcliffes’ house was easy to find. The two-story building stood apart from its neighbors and was the same deep coral hue as the school with the same classic style. The main entry to the house was a turnoff from a street that ran above it at the top of the hill. Towering dark green pines surrounded it, and when I walked on their fallen needles, they released fragrant oils.

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my cords before I rang the doorbell. I expected to see Mrs. Radcliffe, but the door was opened by a tall, lean young man so beautiful he took my breath away.

  “You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray … And beauty is a form of genius—is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.”

  Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

  Chapter 4

  He wore a teal polo shirt, and his eyes were the same blue as Mrs. Radcliffe’s. His hair was thick and honey-gold. Although it was the end of summer, his skin was pale and creamy with a hint of pink on his cheeks. His features were fine and perfectly symmetrical in a way that struck me as elegant yet masculine.

  He was like those boys who used to brush me aside as they walked down the halls at City Central because I didn’t even register as being there. But I could tell that he was different from those boys just as the luster of real silk was different from the cheap sheen of my synthetic shirt.

  He smiled broadly, showing dimples. “You must be Jane. I’m Lucian.” He reached out and shook my small, sweaty hand with his firm, dry one, and I felt almost sick with tension.

  “Hello, Lucian,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “Everyone calls me Lucky. Mom’s all excited about having you here. Come on in.”

  He led me through the foyer, where a large vase of burgundy dahlias was set on a circular table, and then past a sumptuous ivory and slate-blue living room. Although the interior of the house was dim, I glimpsed polished wood furniture, luxurious fabrics, and framed paintings. Thick rugs muffled our footsteps.

  “Mom thought you’d be more comfortable in the family room. That’s where we usually hang.” His voice was pleasant and clear.

  I followed him to a broad room with windows facing Birch Grove Academy below. The furnishings were casual and modern, and the dining area opened to a large kitchen, where Mrs. Radcliffe stood over a six-burner stove, checking the contents of a pot. “Jane, good to see you. Lucian, offer Jane a drink.”

  “Water or soda?” he asked.

  I didn’t know if Lucky would judge me on my choice. “Anything is fine.”

  Lucky took a bottle out of the wide glass-fronted refrigerator. “Try this lemon soda. It’s kind of tart. Makes your mouth go smack.”

  “Pour it into a glass for Jane, dear.” Mrs. Radcliffe opened the oven and pulled out a tray of breadstick-type things.

  Lucky tipped the soda into a glass, plunked in ice cubes, and chose a strawberry from a bowl on the counter and dropped it in. “There you go.” He winked at me.

  It was only a friendly wink, and a strawberry was only a piece of fruit. Most girls, pretty girls, were accustomed to attention. But I wasn’t one of those girls, and I had no idea what to make of Lucky’s gestures.

  I couldn’t even meet his eyes when I spoke. “Thank you.”

  “Lucian, please ask your brother to join us.”

  “I’ll try to drag him out of his den.” When Lucky looked directly at me, I felt my heart jump. “Jack’s a caveman, completely unevolved.”

  “No name-calling,” Mrs. Radcliffe said as her son sauntered off.

  I sipped the soda. It was a little sour, yet tasty. “Do you have more children, ma’am?”

  “Only Lucian and Jacob. Of course, I have all my Birch Grove girls, too.” She put the breadstick things on a platter. “Would you mind taking these cheese straws to the table, Jane?”

  I was glad I’d put the platter down before Lucky came back with his brother. The bicyclist, still wearing his dirt-smeared shorts, limped in with a bandage on his leg and a smirk on his face.

  “This is the bad little pixie who crashed my bike.”

  “Jacob!” Mrs. R
adcliffe said. “That is no way to greet our guest.”

  “It’s not my fault she knocked me over.” He grabbed a handful of the cheese straws and popped one in his mouth. “Yow, hot!”

  “I did not knock you over! You were riding recklessly.”

  “She defends herself like a lawyer!” Jacob said. “She’ll probably want to sue me for libel with a talking frog as her witness and a troll king as the judge.”

  Lucky slugged his brother on the shoulder. “Don’t let Jack bother you. He’s an idiot.”

  “I believe I said no name-calling, Lucian, but, honestly, Jacob.” Mrs. Radcliffe inspected her grimy son from head to foot and crossed her arms. “Not everyone is entertained by your teasing.”

  He ate another cheese straw. “These are great, Ma.”

  I tensed, waiting for her to yell at him, but she only brushed his curls off his face.

  “Jane, this young man is Jacob, my oldest son. It’s no secret that a headmistress’s biggest challenge is her family. Jacob, say hello to Jane.”

  “Hello to Jane,” he parroted. He yanked out the pockets of his shorts and held them sideways as he dipped his knees in a curtsy.

  It was stupid, but I almost laughed anyway.

  “Jane can materialize out of nowhere, Mom.” Then he turned to me. “Also, I prefer Jack unless I am in trouble.”

  “You are in trouble, Jacob,” Mrs. Radcliffe said.

  He ignored her and kept talking to me. “Jake is when I’m playing poker. Jackie is only for my grandmother, but you can call me that if you pinch my cheeks and palm me a twenty.”

  “Jacob, please stop being inane and go make yourself presentable,” his mother said. “Jane, would you mind helping with the salad while Lucian sets the table?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

  The headmistress set me in front of a cutting board and I began slicing tomatoes and cucumbers.