“My custody?” Aunt Diane’s voice rose. “When I agreed to become her legal guardian, Kennedy was an honor student who’d never been in any trouble. I have no idea what she’s gotten herself mixed up in, but I don’t want her bringing whatever it is into my house. And what if she runs away again?”
“I understand your concern, but you are her only relative—”
“Who you can locate,” Aunt Diane snapped. “Have you even tried to find her father?” The fact that my aunt was willing to hand me over to a man I hadn’t seen in twelve years made it clear just how much she didn’t want me. Aunt Diane lowered her voice. “Kennedy’s mother and I were not close. My sister had issues, which she obviously passed on to her daughter, and I feel terrible about it. But I’m not equipped to deal with a troubled teenager.”
On any other night, I would’ve stormed into the hallway and verbally annihilated my aunt for insulting my mom. But she was right about me, even if she didn’t know the real reason why. Letting me live with her would be a death sentence.
“You don’t have to take this on alone,” the social worker said. “There are programs designed for at-risk teens. Group homes, boarding schools…”
The next morning, Aunt Diane offered me a handful of pathetic excuses. “I only want what’s best for you, Kennedy. Winterhaven Academy is a lovely place, and very expensive.” She had rambled on, without waiting for a response. “The doctor said you can leave for school as soon as your legs heal. I’ve already made all the arrangements.”
I stared at the TV mounted on the wall behind her, as a news station showed clips of golden retrievers and Labradoodles tearing one another apart in a dog park. The headline on the ticker read: Two Children Dead After Rabies Outbreak in Local Suburb. A painful reminder that I had no idea what Andras was capable of, or how far his reach extended.
When my aunt finally headed back to Boston that night, I started getting answers.
Electrical storms and torrential rain hit West Virginia nonstop on the first day Andras was free. Lightning had sliced through the darkness outside my window, sending the nurses scurrying through the halls whenever the hospital lost power.
By the second day, rain wasn’t the only thing falling from the sky. News channels across West Virginia and Pennsylvania streamed live video of crows dropping out of the sky like black hail.
On day three, while scientists tested dead birds for disease, violence had spread like a virus. The killing began in Moundsville, West Virginia, only miles from the hospital and West Virginia State Penitentiary, where I had assembled the Shift. The bodies of a local pastor and his wife were discovered hanging from the rafters of their church, the walls plastered with pages from the Book of Enoch; a retired warden from the prison was electrocuted, a toaster and electric razor floating in bathtub next to his body; and a theology professor from the university was stabbed to death in his office, dozens of books from a locked bookcase, stolen.
The violence only increased from there. The next day, outside of Morgantown, West Virginia, a Boy Scout leader drowned his troop and himself. In Pittsburg, a retired firefighter burned down half the houses on his block, and then walked into one of the infernos. Three maximum-security prisons were put on lockdown after riots broke out, and the wardens were murdered, their bodies left hanging from the guard towers.
On the fifth day, girls started disappearing. One girl every day for the last fourteen days: Alexa Sears, Lauren Richman, Kelly Emerson, Rebecca Turner, Cameron Anders, Mary Williams, Sarah Edelman, Julia Smith, Shannon O’Malley, Christine Redding, Karen York, Marie Dennings, Rachel Eames, Roxanne North. Their names were burned into my mind without any help from my eidetic memory.
By the end of the week, I was dressed in the same Winterhaven Academy uniform I was wearing now.
I elbowed my way through the cliques of girls hanging out underneath the massive arched walkway, known as the Commons. Even on January 2nd, the teary-eyed freshmen were still huddled together crying because their parents hadn’t let them to come home for Christmas.
A pack of girls with streaked black eyeliner straddled the wall between two of the pillars—sitting half in and half out of the rain—as they passed a contraband cigarette between them. In direct opposition, the lip-gloss mafia gossiped near the bathrooms, reeking envy and imitation strawberry.
I sidestepped through the cloying scent and pushed open the bathroom door. With another week of winter break looming, I needed to find an alternate route if I wanted to avoid the drama.
Water from my uniform dripped onto the linoleum as I stood in front of the mirror, wringing out my brown hair. I never bothered to carry an umbrella. The rain reminded me of the night in the prison—and of murdered families and charred homes, drowned Boy Scouts and missing girls.
Things I don’t deserve to forget.
As I twisted my shoulder length hair into a ratty ponytail, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. My coffee-colored eyes were lost in the bluish-black shadows around them, and my olive skin looked pale and washed out against the white button down shirt I was wearing.
The last few weeks had taken a serious toll on me. Most days, I was lucky if I remembered to eat, and the nightmares kept me from getting more than a few hours of sleep.
An image flashed through my mind. The girl in the white nightgown—the first spirit I’d ever encountered, and the one that would’ve killed me if Jared and Lukas hadn’t saved me. All I needed were the handprints around my neck, and I could pass for her.