Twixt Read online

  Twixt

  by Sarah Diemer

  Copyright 2013 Sarah Diemer

  All rights reserved

  Edited by Jennifer Diemer

  License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Jenn, always.

  And for Maddie

  who loved and believed in it from the very first moment.

  You are a cherished, ink-stained pillar of my life.

  Chapter One: Asleep

  I open my eyes.

  The sky is dirty red, like drying blood. I sit up fast, heart pounding, fingers curling into the brittle leaves beneath my palms, the mud sucking me under a little more. I’m dripping, shaking. The whisper of the stream beside me, water rushing under the hole in the ice, sounds like voices.

  I lift up my hands, stare down at them. For a moment, I marvel: are these my hands? They’re bloody, my fingers. And blue. My dress is black, with more holes than fabric. The laces on my boots are frozen solid, and as I struggle to get up, turn over, kneel on the bank of the stream, blood drips from my face, plunking hollowly upon the snowy mud beneath me.

  A shadow—to my right. I turn, but I’m not fast enough. Something filthy and covered in furs is scrabbling away, leaving wet footprints upon the stone of the escarpment that huddles over this little valley and spit of stream. Its dripping bulk is familiar to me, but it crawls too quickly over the edge and is lost, hidden amongst the skeletal trees beyond, branches scraping together.

  I’m shaking so hard my hands blur.

  I reach up, brush a knuckle over my lips, smearing my mouth with blood. I creep forward and dunk my hands beneath the hole in the ice, let the freezing water sweep over my skin, dragging at my fingers like it wants to take me down and in, devour me.

  “Hello?”

  I scramble back from the edge of the stream, turn so fast that the world spins, and there, behind me, is a girl, a young woman. Pale and thin and stark, she stares down at me. Her dirty blonde hair is hacked short, feathering around her ears like bird down. She’s wearing a shabby brown coat, two sizes too big, tied around her middle with sawn rope. Her face is grubby, but her brown eyes flash as she squats beside me, and though fear runs through me like blood, I’m not afraid of her.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispers, looking me over, reaching out a hand toward me. I flinch away, and she frowns, leans back. “What are you doing here?” she repeats then, voice soft, gentle, curving toward me like a beckoning finger. “It’s almost sunset.”

  “I don’t…” I gasp, start. That voice. That was my voice? I stare down at my hands, white and blue with streaks of red, still trembling.

  “What’s your name?” she whispers.

  I close my eyes, feel the press of mud beneath me, the pulsing ache in my hands, the blood running over my face, dripping off my chin in a heated rhythm.

  “I don’t know.” My voice—not my voice—quivers in the air between us. I stare down at my hands again, desperate, turning them over and over, scratching at my skirt, the sleeves of my blouse, my boots with their frozen knots. “I don’t know,” I say again, desperate. My words echo back to me from the trees as if they shattered against their roots.

  “It’s all right. I promise, it’s all right.” Her voice is soft, smooth-edged, as she reaches out to me, her hands against my arms. There are holes in my sleeves, and her palms press against my bare skin, warm. It’s the warmth that makes me pause, makes my thundering heart quiet for a moment.

  She looks in my eyes, looks hard, staring deeper and deeper. “I’ll explain everything,” she murmurs after a moment, and then she’s standing, helping me to my feet. The mud squelches in protest, and I find that I can hardly rise. Everything seems to be spinning. Blood falls onto the sleeves of the girl’s coat from my chin as I totter. My eyes fixate on the blood, dark and ugly spots that stain.

  “We have to get inside before sunset,” she whispers, glancing up at the sky. “They come at sunset.”

  Her words are so breathy, so quiet, they almost don’t exist.

  "They," I whisper, and something moves through me, a shudder, a shake, and I stare at her, open-mouthed, as she tilts back her head, watches me.

  “Come on,” is all she says, putting her arm around mine, all but dragging me over the half-frozen ground, away from the whispering stream. I glance over my shoulder at the bright-red blood surrounding the hole in the ice.

  “We’ve gotta be fast.” She leans toward me, shaking her head. “I know you must be stiff, but—”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, breathless, as we mount the escarpment and enter the forest. I trip on a frozen gouge in the earth, but she catches my elbow, helps me up. “What’s happening?”

  The light seems to lengthen between the trees, drawing toward us like thin, red bones.

  “We’ll talk about it when we’re inside.” Her voice is still warm, but sharper now. Urgent. And then, as she glances up at the fading light, her eyes widen. “Do you think you can run?”

  I can barely move, boots clumping down at odd, awkward angles. It’s as if I’ve never walked before, though I know I have. I grit my teeth, take a running step and sprawl on the ground, chin banging against another frozen rut of earth. My teeth clatter together, and I shove myself upward as she grabs at my elbow again, hoisting me to my feet gently, steering me between the trees.

  “What comes at sunset?” I ask as she glances at the branches overhead again, cursing under her breath.

  She rakes a hand through her hair, eyes flashing. Her words are heavy with regret: “I guess you’ll see.”

  My heart is beating so hard, it’s all I can hear. The trees sigh around us, shifting, as if they’re waiting. We move faster, faster, and even though I have to watch my feet, I keep taking in little glimpses of what’s in front of us—and far ahead, through the huddled trunks, I think I see a long, dark shadow rising along the ground.

  A wall?

  It’s as sudden as a cut-off breath, the change from the deep, dripping red of sunset to the absoluteness of gray. The color is gone—one blink to the next. I trip again, falter, as I whirl about me, staring at the absence of red, at the heaviness of monochrome that seems to steal up the trunks of the trees like wrinkled hands.

  The girl drags at my arm. “Run,” she says, and then again, voice cracking, “Run.”

  We move between the trees, two shadows, breath coming out in jagged scratches as she helps me up again and again. My limbs move looser now, as if they’re slowly thawing, but the ground is rough and ragged, and the darkness is crawling toward us like the gray now. I can’t move fast enough, but the girl’s patience is absolute, even as she glances over her shoulder, panting, her brown eyes wide and anxious.

  All I can hear is my heartbeat, is our breathing, is the breaking twigs and the oof of my gasp when I go down again.

  But then I hear them.

  A wail—long, thin, piercing, like a flashing silver hook that arcs through the air and into me, cutting bone deep. I jerk around, as if dragged, and I see it in the air between the trees…descending toward us.

  It’s a human skeleton, but it isn’t—the skull has a thin, wicked beak in place of a mouth, and wide, black-feathered wings heave up and down upon the thing's back.

  The creature is huge, three times the size of a person. The sharpness of its beak flashes in the dying light as it unhinges its jaws again and screams. The sound is the world, is everything, as t
he creature pumps its black wings, reaching toward us with bone hands that curve into claws. The sockets where its eyes should be are as hollow as heartbeats, and it comes after me, after us, faster than sound, dragging its wailing behind it.

  The girl yanks my arm, and then somehow, impossibly, we’re running again, the screaming behind us growing louder, larger, with more wails of thin, piercing sharpness. I glance back and feel my heart stop within me: there are four of them now. No, five.

  Fear burns through me, searing my bones and muscles, as ice moves beneath my skin like a wet, crawling thing. They are so close, I can feel the chill of their wings, the gusts of air rushing forward, stealing my balance.

  A whistle, a tear in the air, as one of the things drags its claws down and toward me. It is going to catch me, hook its sharpness through me, and I am all animal, all fear, as I cry out something wordless, moving through the dark, hunted.

  The long shadow rises ahead, near enough now to make out silhouettes of stones. It is a wall, and we’re aiming for it; we're going to run into it, collide with it as it arcs higher and higher, huge and solid. We can’t stop. We’re running too fast to stop, and the things are too close. If we stop… I hear the slice in the air behind me as one of the creatures extends its claws, nearly grazing our heads, and I close my eyes as the wall looms before us, as we run, never slowing, because we can’t—

  Darkness.

  My arm jerks as I’m halted, skidding to a stop, the girl gripping my elbow so hard that it hurts. I can hear her panting beside me, feel the aching surge of my own breath, and there’s only darkness, darkness everywhere. No trees, no sky, nothing.

  I gulp, cry out—

  A flare of light, thin and yellow, in the deep black space.

  The girl lets go of me, and I watch her move her hands through her hair as she leans forward, staring at the light with narrowed eyes.

  We’re in a small room, I see now, with walls towering around us on three sides. On the fourth side, there's a door. A door that’s open, cracked, an eye and wrinkled nose peering through, along with the light.

  “Charlie,” sighs the old woman, pulling the door open fully. She’s layered in sweaters and shawls and skirts, her gray hair sticking up at odd angles. She peers at us, squinting as she looks at me, raising the lantern higher. Inside of the lantern, three golden orbs bump lazily against the glass.

  I stare, swallow.

  “Charlie, what have we here?” The old woman moves closer, shoving the lantern beneath my nose. “Who’s this?”

  The girl—Charlie—slumps against a wall, sliding down as she runs her hands through her hair again, knuckles white. “It’s complicated, Abigail. This is a new Sleeper.”

  The woman takes a step back, draws the lantern away, clutching it to her chest as she stares me up and down, shaking her head slowly.

  “I found her by the stream before sunset. But she has no memories. She must be a Sleeper.”

  “That’s…not possible.” The woman turns from me to glare at the girl, but Charlie shakes her head, too, and lifts an eyebrow. “Before sunset, Charlie?” She sniffs, stares down at my boots, at the tattered edge of my skirt, and then rakes her shrewd gaze over the rest of me—as if I’m a thing, an unusual object whose worth might be guessed at by a glance.

  I raise my chin, and she sighs then, and softens a little, though she’s still frowning, thin lips angling down over jagged, brown teeth. “It gets stranger every day, don’t it, Charlie, my girl? Why not before sunset?” She steps toward me, head to the side, cocked like a bird, as I crush back against the wall, flinching as she reaches a hand up, as if to touch me. She stops, fingers poised in midair, and glances to Charlie, who shrugs.

  Then the old woman backs away, and I let out a shaky breath.

  “My name is Abigail,” she tells me, lowering the lantern and pressing a palm against her chest. Her eyes are wide and wild in the circling light. “Welcome to Mad House.”

  “Don’t, Abigail,” Charlie hisses, rising, rubbing at her shoulder. “Not yet. She was nearly Snatched—”

  "Rubbish." Abigail sniffs, stares up at me with one eye closed, one eye narrowed. “She’s gotta know where she’s found herself—”

  “She’ll know soon enough.” Charlie sighs, glances at me, shaking her head. “Come on,” she says, holding out her hand. “It’s all right. You’re safe here.”

  “Safe?” I whisper. I’m shaking, and the word shivers into the little room.

  “Yes,” says Charlie, nodding, smiling softly, encouraging. “I promise, you’re safe.”

  “For now.” Abigail grins toothily up at me, drawing out the word.

  Charlie rolls her eyes, takes my arm gently, tugs me out of the little room, a closet—how did we get into a closet?—into a high-ceilinged hallway with peeling wallpaper. The thick, red carpet swallows my boots to the ankles. Glittering chandeliers loom above our heads, though no light sparkles within them. The windows are covered with draping curtains, concealing the outdoors, but I still shy away from them as we three pad down the hallway, the lantern in Abigail’s fist casting a trembling bubble of light around us. Here, the light is close and warm, but it does little to comfort me.

  “What were those things? The…monsters?” My voice is a panicked whisper. I grit my teeth together to stop them from chattering.

  Charlie sighs, bows her head. “We call them Snatchers. They come out at night, take new Sleepers, old Sleepers… Whoever they can catch. But don’t worry, because you’re safe now—”

  “Safe?” I say the word again: it tastes desperate, sour. “Where do they take the people they…Snatch…to?”

  Charlie glances sidelong at me, eyes narrowed. “We don’t… We don’t really know. But it doesn’t matter. They didn’t Snatch you. We were faster. Fast enough.” I stare at her until she breaks the gaze, biting her lip. “You’re a new Sleeper, and Twixt is very confusing in the beginning, but I promise that—”

  “No promises, Charlie,” says Abigail, waving her arm at me. “You know how I’m always telling you—‘Charlie,’ I says, ‘you waste your time on the new ones, trying to make 'em more comfortable,’ and you know it’s a sweet thing, but you could be saving your energy for them that needs it, not them that wants coddling.”

  Charlie closes her eyes, rubs at her nose. “And you know how I’m always telling you that you purposefully terrify the new Sleepers with too much information?”

  Abigail laughs, a thin, piercing cackle that makes me shudder. “Coddled Sleepers are Snatched Sleepers. They gotta know what they’re facing, or it’s over. I just tell 'em the truth.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask, breathing out the words. "What's the truth?"

  Abigail stares at me, eyes narrowed. “The truth, girl? The truth is that you’re in Twixt,” she says, holding up one, sharp finger. “And that you’re a Sleeper. And that Snatchers like Sleepers mightily. That daylight is safe, and nighttime is not. That you’ll probably get Snatched long before you Fade, and most of what you have to look forward to is fear.” She’s grinning as she growls out the last word, eyes wide in the skittering half-light of the lantern. “So you best not need coddling, girl, because you’ll last five minutes here if you don't toughen up, and fast.”

  Charlie grips my arm a little tighter, shakes her head. “That’s not all true, Abigail…”

  The old woman sniffs, turns back, continues hobbling down the hall. “Yes, it is, and you know it, Charlie, my girl. And soon enough, she will, too.”

  With a heavy sigh, Charlie leans toward me, eyes lowered, mouth close to my ear. “Ignore her. It’s all right. Tomorrow, you’ll decide if you want to stay in Mad House. You get to choose. You won’t have to put up with her if you don’t want to.”

  “Twixt,” I murmur, swallowing. My mouth forms the word easily. “Twixt," I say again, and shake my head. "What’s Twixt?”

  “Well,” says Charlie, clearing her throat, “it’s where you are. You’re in Mad House. In Abeo City. In Twixt." She
shrugs her shoulders. "It’s where Sleepers go,” she finishes, as if that explains everything.

  “Sleepers.” I bite my lip, walking faster to catch up to the spheres of light Abigail carries in her lantern.

  “You’re Asleep right now,” says Charlie, lengthening her stride, too. She lets go of my arm, and I stumble a little, surprised. But I do seem to be walking better now, more smoothly.

  “I'm Asleep, too," Charlie says. "We all are. We’re waiting to wake up.”

  “This is a dream?” I ask, glancing at the walls that look so solid (but weren't when we somehow passed through them, moving from outdoors to in, through the wall, into the closet), at the carpet that swallows my boots, at the frozen knots of laces scratching my chapped knees, at the dark clothes that shift against my body, the dried blood caked on my hands.

  Charlie regards me strangely, biting her lower lip. “Not exactly a dream…” she begins, but Abigail stops in a doorway, stops so abruptly that I have to trip a little in order to avoid colliding with her small, sneering bulk.

  “In there,” she says, jutting her chin toward the room before us. Inside, there are lanterns and glass jars containing orbs on every available surface, washing the furnishings and the faces of the people with a trembling yellow glow.

  And the people… There must be twenty, at least. They stand around the empty fireplace, sit stiffly on plush couches and chairs, lie sprawled upon the floor. Young and old, men and women, boys and girls, wearing ragged clothes, their heads tufted with ruffled hair. Their expressions are wary, their eyes glassy and wide. They speak in whispers amongst themselves, but the room falls silent as they notice us, turn toward us in the doorway.

  “A new one,” announces Abigail—loudly and without explanation.

  Charlie ushers me in, hand at the small of my back. I make a conscious effort not to stumble, feeling all of those eyes, hardly blinking, trailing my every move.

  A young woman rises to her feet. Her hair is black and short and thin, curving upon her head softly. She’s pretty as she shoves her hands into her hoodie's pockets, as she cocks her head to the side and smiles shyly at me. Others gather in small, tight bunches, staring, but none steps forward or speaks except for this girl, who glances from me to Charlie and back again.