Sisters Of Salt And Iron. Kady CrossЧитать онлайн книгу.
that scraping sound, armed with nothing but a pair of nail scissors. The idiot who decided to help the creepy little bare-footed, black-eyed kid who wore a tattered nightgown and stank of stale well water.
Hey, at least I owned it.
So, we were at Goodwill getting last-minute items for tonight, and also for Halloween night.
“I think you should go as Daenerys Targaryen,” Roxi remarked, holding up a pink stuffed dragon.
“Ugh,” I said, digging through a rack of dresses. “Do you know how many times I’ve been called ‘Khaleesi’ since that show started? Too many.”
“But your hair is perfect for it.” She looked genuinely upset that I didn’t jump on the idea. “And I found a dragon.”
I sighed as she wagged the toy. “Throw it over.”
She grinned and tossed it over the racks. I caught it with one hand. “It smells like puke.”
“It will wash,” she chirped.
Roxi was one of those people who were almost always happy. I could hate her for it, but I think she kept me from being too emo. She was a little shorter than me, with long dark hair, a tan complexion and big brown eyes. She said her mother was Romanian and her dad was half-black. It didn’t matter much to me, but she was gorgeous all the same. My mother was a bitch, and my father was a half-ball-less wonder. I was jealous that her parents even liked her, let alone loved her.
“I think I’m going to go as Cleopatra on actual Halloween night,” she announced, holding up a long white dress that might have been fashionable in the late ’70s. It was hideous by way of fabulous.
Her boyfriend, Gage—cute, dark-eyed, needed a haircut—bounded up beside her. “Does that mean I can be a gladiator?”
The way they smiled at each other made me turn away. PDAs were not a spectator sport as far as I was concerned.
Ben walked over. We’d been dating for almost two months, and I saw him almost every day, but I still smiled whenever I saw his face. Call me biased, but he’s one of the hottest guys in school. Funny, smart—and he knows how to kick ghost-butt. His grandmother was Korean, and she’d taught me how to make pujok—basically a protection sigil against ghosts and evil spirits. I thought she liked me, but sometimes she looked at me like she wasn’t quite sure what I was.
I got that a lot. I’m a teenage girl with stark-white hair whose mental state had been seriously questioned, and who could interact with ghosts the same as the living. I probably wouldn’t like Ben’s granny nearly as much if she just welcomed me with open arms.
“What are you wearing?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
Ben grinned and did a little twirl in front of me. “Do you like it? I might get it.”
“It” was a full-length silver fur coat that was too big for him and too short in the arms. My guy was tall and lanky, and for a former chubby kid, he seemed to have no issues with self-confidence. One of the things I liked about him was that he was comfortable in his own skin and rarely worried about what other people thought of him.
“It’s a little big,” I said. “But it’s a good look.”
“I feel sexy.”
“You smell like mothballs.”
He sniffed his shoulder and made a face. “Yeah. Who even uses those things anymore?”
I shrugged. “People against moths, I guess. I have no idea what to wear to the party.”
“You could go as Elsa,” he suggested, slipping the coat off his shoulders. “You’ve got the hair for it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Me and my damn hair.”
He hung the fur up and stepped closer. He took a piece of my hair and wrapped it around his finger. “I like your damn hair.”
Oh. When he lowered his voice like that and smiled that little smile...
“Get a room,” Mace growled.
I turned around and shot him a grin. Mace was tall with light brown hair and hazel eyes. He was gorgeous, and someone I never thought I’d be friends with, especially after he found me bleeding to death and called 911. But we were friends. In fact, he was one of my best friends, though I doubted he knew it.
He had a fedora on his head. It actually didn’t look too bad. “Who are you supposed to be?” I asked.
He made a face—like he’d bit into something sour. “Sarah wants us to be Bonnie and Clyde.”
“We’ll look fabulicious,” his girlfriend called from four aisles away. “Stop making that face.”
Mace made the face again and went back to pawing through the racks.
Suddenly, Wren popped out from between two dresses in front of me. It was so weird seeing her do that and the clothing not move. She was so real to me that it was easy to forget she was no more substantial than breath in this world.
“Haven’t you figured out what you’re going to be yet?” she demanded. “I’ve had my costume sorted out for weeks.”
I wasn’t feeling quite snarky enough to inform her that no one but me—and possibly Kevin—would be able to see it. “Yay, you.”
Ben glanced at me. “You talking to me?”
I shook my head, glancing around to make sure no one else was paying attention.
He smiled. “Hey, Wren.”
She waved, even though he couldn’t see her. “Hi!”
“You could help me look for a costume,” I told her.
Her eyes lit up. If she clapped her hands I was going to slap her. Instead, she turned around and whipped down the aisle toward evening wear. Mace shivered as she flew by. He turned to me. “Was that...?”
I nodded. “Yup.”
He grinned. “I knew it.”
My chest tightened. I looked from Mace to Ben, to Roxi and Gage, and even to Sarah. Kevin hadn’t come because he was prepping for the party, which was just as well. Each of these living, breathing people made an effort to acknowledge or be kind to Wren. They were thoughtful of her, and that meant more to me than any of them could ever know. After years of being told my sister wasn’t real, that she was only in my mind, it was so freaking good to know that not only were they wrong, but that Wren had become real—in her own way—to others.
I blinked back tears.
“Lark!” Wren cried a few seconds later. “I found it!”
Had she ever. It was a vintage pink slip-dress from the ’70s. Normally such a piece would be fairly expensive, but this one had slight stains on the front and was only five bucks.
I knew exactly what to do with it.
Half an hour later we left the store. Everyone but Ben had a plastic bag full of items. He’d bought a pair of sunglasses and that was it. He still hadn’t told me what he was going as that night, so I decided to keep my costume secret, as well.
I crossed the parking lot, swinging my plastic bag, as I laughed at a joke Gage had made. I turned to say something to him, but he was gone. They were all gone. The cars and the parking lot—the box stores that made up the rest of the plaza—everything was gone, and I was standing on cobblestones in a world where everything was muted and soft. The street I stood on seemed taken right from the pages of a BBC historical production, with gas lamps and horse-drawn carriages rattling along.
A woman in Edwardian clothing stopped on the opposite side of the street and stared at me. She looked scared. I glanced up and saw another woman peeking out a window from behind a curtain. Her mouth was open.
“Lark?”
I