Mark was shaking his head, looking at her in something like pity. "Mare, Mare," he said kindly. "You really are crazy, you know."

  "Yes," Mary-Lynnette said. "It doesn't matter. I'm still going over there tonight."

  "To do what?"

  "To check things out. I just want to see Mrs. B. If I can talk to her, I'll feel better. And if I can find out what's buried in that garden, I'll feel a whole lot better."

  "Maybe they were burying Sasquatch. That government study in the Klamaths never did find him, you know."

  "Mark, you owe me for the Walkman. For whatever happened to the Walkman."

  "Uh ..." Mark sighed, then muttered resignedly. "Okay, I owe you. But I'm telling you right now, I'm not going to talk to those girls."

  "You don't have to talk to them. You don't even have to see them. There's something else I want you to do."

  The sun was just setting. They'd walked this road a hundred times to get to Mary-Lynnette's hill-the only difference tonight was that Mark was carrying a pair of pruning shears and Mary-Lynnette had pulled the Rubylith filter off her flashlight.

  "You don't really think they offed the old lady."

  "No," Mary-Lynnette said candidly. "I just want to put the world back where it belongs."

  "You want what?"

  "You know how you have a view of the way the world is, but every so often you wonder, 'Oh, my God, what if it's really different?' Like, 'What if I'm really adopted and the people I think are my parents aren't my parents at all?' And if it were true, it would change everything, and for a minute you don't know what's real. Well, that's how I feel right now, and I want to get rid of it. I want my old world back."

  "You know what's scary?" Mark said. "I think I understand."

  By the time they got to Burdock Farm, it was full dark. Ahead of them, in the west, the star Arcturus seemed to hang over the farmhouse, glittering faintly red.

  Mary-Lynnette didn't bother trying to deal with the rickety gate. She went to the place behind the blackberry bushes where the picket fence had fallen flat.

  The farmhouse was like her own family's, but with lots of Victorian-style gingerbread added. MaryLynnette thought the spindles and scallops and fretwork gave it a whimsical air-eccentric, like Mrs. Burdock. Just now, as she was looking at one of the second-story windows, the shadow of a moving figure fell on the roller blind.

  Good, Mary-Lynnette thought. At least I know somebody's home.

  Mark began hanging back as they walked down the weedy path to the house.

  "You said I could hide."

  "Okay. Right. Look, why don't you take those shears and sort of go around back-"

  "And look at the Sasquatch grave while I'm there? Maybe do a little digging? I don't think so."

  "Fine," Mary-Lynnette said calmly. "Then hide somewhere out here and hope they don't see you when they come to the door. At least with the shears you have an excuse to be in the back."

  Mark threw her a bitter glance and she knew she'd won. As he started off, Mary-Lynnette said suddenly, "Mark, be careful."

  Mark just waved a dismissive hand at her without turning around.

  When he was out of sight, Mary-Lynnette knocked on the front door. Then she rang the doorbell it wasn't a button but an actual bellpull. She could hear chimes inside, but nobody answered.

  She knocked and rang with greater authority. Every minute she kept expecting the door to open to reveal Mrs. B., petite, gravelly-voiced, blue-haired, dressed in an old cotton housedress. But it didn't happen. Nobody came.

  Mary-Lynnette stopped being polite and began knocking with one hand and ringing with the other. It was somewhere in the middle of this frenzy of knocks and rings that she realized she was frightened.

  Really frightened. Her world view was wobbling. Mrs. Burdock hardly ever left the house. She always answered the door. And Mary-Lynnette had seen with her own eyes that somebody was home here.

  So why weren't they answering?

  Mary-Lynnette's heart was beating very hard. She had an uncomfortable falling sensation in her stomach.

  I should get out of here and call Sheriff Akers. It's his job to know what to do about things like this. But it was hard to work up any feeling of confidence in Todd's father. She took her alarm and frustration out on the door.

  Which opened. Suddenly. Mary-Lynnette's fist hit air and for an instant she felt sheer panic, fear of the unknown.

  "What can I do for you?"

  The voice was soft and beautifully modulated. The girl was just plain beautiful. What Mary-Lynnette hadn't been able to see from the top of her hill was that the brown hair was aglow with rich chestnut highlights, the features were classically molded, the tall figure was graceful and willowy.

  "You're Rowan," she said.

  "How did you know?"

  You couldn't be anything else; I've never seen anybody who looked so much like `a tree spirit. "Your aunt told me about you. I'm Mary-Lynnette Carter, I live just up Kahneta Road. You probably saw my house on your way here."

  Rowan looked noncommittal. She had such a sweet, grave face-,and skin that looked like white orchid petals, Mary-Lynnette thought abstractedly. She said, "So, I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, say hello, see if there's anything you need."

  Rowan looked less grave; she almost smiled and her brown eyes grew warm. "How nice of you. Really. I almost wish we did need something ... but actually we're fine."

  Mary-Lynnette realized that, with the utmost civility and good manners, Rowan was winding up the conversation. Hastily she threw a new subject into the pool. "There are three of you girls, right? Are you going to school here?"

  "My sisters are."

  "That's great. I can help show them around. I'll be a senior this year." Another subject, quick, MaryLynnette thought. "So, how do you like Briar Creek? It's probably quieter than you're used to."

  "Oh, it was pretty quiet where we came from," Rowan said. "But we love it here; it's such a wonderful place. The trees, the little animals . . ." She broke off.

  "Yeah, those cute little animals," Mary-Lynnette said. Get to the point, her inner voices were telling her. Her tongue and the roof of her mouth felt like Velcro. Finally she blurted, "So-so, um, how is your aunt right now?"

  "She's-fine."

  That instant's hesitation was all Mary-Lynnette needed. Her old suspicions, her old panic, surged up immediately. Making her feel bright and cold, like a knife made of ice.

  She found herself saying in a confident, almost chirpy voice, "Well, could I just talk to her for a minute? Would you mind? It's just that I have something sort of important to tell her...." She made a move as if to step over the threshold.

  Rowan kept on blocking the door. "Oh, I'm so sorry. But well, that's not really possible right now."

  "Oh, is it one of her headaches? I've seen her in bed before." Mary-Lynnette gave a little tinkly laugh.

  "No, it's not a headache." Rowan spoke gently, deliberately. "The truth is that she's gone for a few days."

  "Gone?"

  "I know." Rowan made a little grimace acknowledging that this was odd. "She just decided to take a few days off. A little vacation."

  "But-gosh, with you girls just getting here ..." Mary-Lynnette's voice was brittle.

  "Well, you see, she knew we'd take care of the house for her. That's why she waited until we came."

  "But-gosh," Mary-Lynnette said again. She felt a spasm in her throat. "Where-just where did she go?"

  "Up north, somewhere on the coast. I'm not sure of the name of the town."

  "But . . ." Mary-Lynnette's voice trailed off. Back off, her inner voices warned. Now was the time to be polite, to be cautious. Pushing it meant showing this girl that Mary-Lynnette knew something was wrong with this story. And since something was wrong, this girl might be dangerous....

  It was hard to believe that while looking at Rowan's sweet, grave face. She didn't look dangerous. But then Mary-Lynnette noticed something else. Rowan was barefoot. Her feet were as creamy-pale as the rest of her, but sinewy. Something about them, the way they were placed or the clean definition of the toes, made Mary-Lynnette think of those feet running. Of savage, primal speed.

  When she looked up, there was another girl walking up behind Rowan. The one with dark golden hair. Her skin was milky instead of blossomy, and her eyes were yellow.

  "This is Kestrel," Rowan said.

  "Yes," Mary-Lynnette said. She realized she was staring. And realized, the moment after that, that she was scared. Everything about Kestrel made her think of savage, primal movement. The girl walked as if she were flying.

  "What's going on?" Kestrel said.

  "This is Mary-Lynnette," Rowan said, her, voice still pleasant. "She lives down the road. She came to see Aunt Opal."

  "Really just to see if you needed anything," MaryLynnette interjected quickly. "We're sort of your only neighbors." Strategy change, she was thinking. About-face. Looking at Kestrel, she believed in danger. Now all she wanted was to keep these girls from guessing what she knew.

  "You're a friend of Aunt Opal's?" Kestrel asked silkily. Her yellow eyes swept Mary-Lynnette, first up, then down.

  "Yeah, I come over sometimes, help her with the"-oh, God, don't say gardening-"goats. Um, I

  guess she told you that they need to be milked every twelve hours."

  Rowan's expression changed fractionally. MaryLynnette's heart gave a violent thud. Mrs. B. would never, ever leave without giving instructions about the goats.

  "Of course she told us," Rowan said smoothly, just an instant too late.

  Mary-Lynnette's palms were sweating. Kestrel hadn't taken that keen, dispassionate, unblinking gaze off her for a moment. Like the proverbial bird of prey staring down the proverbial rabbit. "Well, it's getting late and I bet you guys have things to do. I should let you go."

  Rowan and Kestrel looked at each other. Then they both looked at Mary-Lynnette, cinnamon-brown eyes and golden eyes fixed intently on her face. Mary-Lynnette had the falling feeling in her stomach again.

  "Oh, don't go yet," Kestrel said silkily. "Why don't you come inside?"

  CHAPTER 5

  Mark was still muttering as he rounded the back corner of the house. What was he even doing here?

  It wasn't easy to get into the garden area from outside. He had to bushwhack through the overgrown rhododendron bushes and blackberry canes that formed a dense hedge all around it. And even when he emerged from a tunnel of leathery green leaves, the scene in front of him didn't immediately register. His momentum kept him going for a few steps before his brain caught up.

  Hey, wait. There's a girl here.

  A pretty girl. An extremely pretty girl. He could see her clearly by the back porch light. She had hiplength white-blond hair, the color that normally only preschoolers have, and it was as fine as a child's hair, too, whipping around her like pale silk when she moved. She was smallish. Little bones. Her hands and feet were delicate.

  She was wearing what looked like an oldfashioned nightshirt and dancing to what sounded like a rent-to-own commercial. There was a battered dock radio on the porch steps. There was also a black kitten that took one look at Mark and darted away into the shadows.

  "Baaad cred-it, nooo cred-it, dooon't wor-ry, weee'll take you...." the radio warbled. The girl danced with her arms above her head-light as thistledown, Mark thought, staring in astonishment. Really, actually that light, and so what if it was a cliche

  As the commercial ended and a country western song began, she did a twirl and saw him. She stopped, frozen, arms still above her head, wrists crossed. Her eyes got big and her mouth sagged open.

  She's scared, Mark thought. Of me. The girl didn't look graceful now; she was scrambling to seize the dock radio, fumbling with it, shaking it. Trying to find an Off switch, Mark realized. Her desperation was contagious. Before he thought, Mark dropped the pruning shears and swooped in to grab the radio from her. He twisted the top dial, cutting the song short. Then he stared at the girl, who stared back with wide silvery-green eyes. They were both breathing quickly, as if they'd just disarmed a bomb.

  "Hey, I hate country western, too," Mark said after a minute, shrugging.

  He'd never talked to a girl this way before. But then he'd never had a girl look scared of him before.

  And so scared-he imagined he could see her heart beating in the pale blue veins beneath the translucent skin of her throat.

  Then, suddenly, she stopped looking terrified. She bit her lip and chortled. Then, still grinning, she blinked and sniffed.

  "I forgot," she said, dabbing at the corner of her eye. "You don't have the same rules we do."

  "Rules about country western music?" Mark hazarded. He liked her voice. It was ordinary, not celestial. It made her seem more human.

  "Rules about any music from outside," she said. "And any TV, too."

  Outside what? Mark thought. He said, "Uh, hi. I'm Mark Carter."

  "I'm Jade Redfern."

  "You're one of Mrs. Burdock's nieces."

  "Yes. We just came last night. We're going to live here."

  Mark snorted and muttered, "You have my condolences."

  "Condolences? Why?" Jade cast a darting glance around the garden.

  "Because living in Briar Creek is just slightly more exciting than living in a cemetery."

  She gave him a long, fascinated look. "You've ... lived in a cemetery?"

  He gave her a long look. "Uh, actually, I just meant it's boring here."

  "Oh." She thought, then smiled. "Well, it's interesting to us," she said. "It's different from where we come from."

  "And just where do you come from?"

  "An island. It's sort of near ..." She considered. "The state of Maine.

  "'The state of Maine."'

  "Yeah."

  "Does this island have a name?"

  She stared at him with wide green eyes. "Well, I can't tell you that."

  "Uh-okay." Was, she making fun of him? But there was nothing like mockery or sly teasing in her face. She looked mysterious ... and innocent. Maybe she had some kind of mental problem. The kids at Dewitt High School would have a field day with that. They weren't very tolerant of differences.

  "Look," he said abruptly. "If there's ever anything I can do for you-you know, if you ever get in trouble or something-then just tell me. Okay?"

  She tilted her head sideways. Her eyelashes actually cast shadows in the porch light, but her expression wasn't coy. It was straightforward and assessing, and she was looking him over carefully, as if she needed to figure him out. She took her time doing it. Then she smiled, making little dimples in her cheeks, and Mark's heart jumped unexpectedly.

  "Okay," she said softly. "Mark. You're not silly, even though you're a boy. You're a good guy, aren't you?"

  "Well . . ." Mark had never been called upon to be a good guy, not in the TV sense. He wasn't sure how he'd measure up if he were. "I, um, hope I

  0am."

  Jade was looking at him steadily. "You know, I just decided. I'm going to like it here." She smiled again, and Mark found it hard to breathe-and then her expression changed.

  Mark heard it, too. A wild crashing in the overgrown tangle of rhododendrons and blackberry bushes at the back of the garden. It was a weird, frenzied sound, but Jade's reaction was out of all proportion. She had frozen, body tense and trembling, eyes fixed on the underbrush. She looked terrified.

  "Hey." Mark spoke gently, then touched her shoulder. "Hey. It's all right. It's probably one of the goats that got loose; goats can jump over any kind of fence." She was shaking her head. "Or a deer. When they're relaxed they sound just like people walking."

  "It's not a deer," she hissed.

  "They come down and eat people's gardens a. night. You probably don't have deer roaming around where you come from-"

  "I can't smell anything," she said in a kind of whispered wail. "It's that stupid pen. Everything smells like goat. "

  She couldn't smell ... ? Mark did the only thing he could think of in response to a statement like that. He put his arms around the girl.

  "Everything's okay," he said softly. He couldn't help but notice that she was cool and warm at the same time, supple, wonderfully alive underneath the nightshirt. "Why don't I take you inside now? You'll be safe there."

  "Leggo," Jade said ungratefully, squirming. "I may have to fight." She wriggled out of his arms and faced the bushes again. "Stay behind me."

  Okay, so she is crazy. I don't care. I think I love her.

  He stood beside her. "Look, I'll fight, too. What do you think it is? Bear, coyote ... ?” "My brother."

  "Your . . ." Dismay pooled in Mark. She'd just stepped over the line of acceptable craziness. "Oh."

  Another thrashing sound from the bushes. It was definitely something big, not a goat. Mark was just wondering vaguely if a Roosevelt elk could have wandered down the hundred or so miles from Waldo Lake, when a scream ripped through the air.

  A human scream-or, worse, almost human. As it died, there was a wail that was definitely inhumanit started out faint, and then suddenly sounded shrill and dose. Mark was stunned. When the drawn-out wail finally stopped, there was a sobbing, moaning sound, then silence.

  Mark got his breath and swore. "What in thewhat was that?"

  "Shh. Keep still." Jade was in a half-crouch, eyes on the bushes.

  "Jade-Jade, listen. We've got to get inside." Desperate, he looped an arm around her waist, trying to pick her up. She was light, but she flowed like water out of his arms. Like a cat that doesn't want to be petted. "Jade, whatever that thing is, we need a gun.

 

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