Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [135]
And she’d drawn a circle around the table, as perfect a circle as she could draw in the crystal-powder white of Morton’s iodized table salt.
“Safe from me,” she whispered and hugged the dream catcher close. Half an hour earlier, she’d pulled it off the boards nailed over her old bedroom door. Had carefully unwound each black strand of Byron’s hair and laid them on his chest. Now the dream catcher was fraying, undone, lessened by subtraction and her busy fingers.
“Oh, Spyder. What have you done?” and Spyder looked up: Niki was standing in the doorway, beautiful confusion, rumpled clothes and hair, bags beneath her dark eyes, eyes puffy from sleep or crying or both.
“If I tell you,” Spyder said, “you have to promise—you have to fucking swear to me—that you’re never gonna tell anyone else. No matter what happens, you’ll never tell anyone else a single, solitary word of it.” But Niki didn’t promise, looked back and forth, from the pathetic cocooned shape on the kitchen table to Spyder sitting on the floor, like neither could be real, like there was a choice to make between them.
“I want you to go back to the hospital,” she said, finally, and Spyder said no, laughed and said no again.
“Please, Spyder. You’re frightening me.” Niki took a step closer, moved so slow, one small step and another, and she kneeled, close enough that Spyder could reach out and touch her now, would have if it could have done anything but make things worse; for a second, Spyder thought she smelled jasmine, maybe, but it was only the cleansers or bug spray under the sink.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I don’t want to scare you.”
“Well, you are. You’ve got me scared shitless.”
“I’m sorry. I am sorry.” She laid one hand palm-up on the floor, empty, so Niki could take it if she chose.
“It’s not too late to work this shit out, to get you out of here,” and Niki did take her hand, squeezed it, twined their fingers together, weave of Spyder’s pale, chilled flesh and Niki’s dusky, warm flesh. “I think maybe this house is making you sick, Spyder. Or keeping you from getting any better. Too much bad shit’s happened to you here. It’s no wonder you can’t stop thinking about it.”
It’s not even half that simple, but all Spyder said was, “It’s been too late for a long time,” and Niki frowned, heat lightning flash of anger across her face and sudden anger behind her words. “Don’t give me that crap, goddammit. I don’t want to hear it. All you have to do is get up and let me take you to the hospital.”
Spyder shook her head, let go of Niki’s hand; the separation hurt, physical pain and pain inside that was worse, pulling away from the last bit of warmth in the world.
“Do you still want to hear what I was gonna say or not? I won’t tell you if you don’t.”
“I want to help you, Spyder.”
“Then listen, ’cause I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.”
Spyder saw the moment clear in Niki’s eyes, swollen moment of decision; saw it come like the shadows before a summer thundershower, lingering, sweet rain scent and ozone and the hair on your arms and the back of your neck prickling from the static charge, and then it was gone, and Niki sighed loudly, sat down next to Spyder and held her hand again. Decision made, and Spyder was glad for her touch, but couldn’t look at her face, the fear and regret stamped there, stared over the edge of the sink and out the kitchen window instead, the cold night gathering around the house, taking its place, and when it had settled, when it was comfortable, she started to talk.
Not the night that he cut her face, a month later, maybe, and the cross scar between her eyes is bubblegum pink and fresh. And it made no difference at all, because the angels still haven’t taken them all away, haven’t taken him away,