Sarah Benadine is Dead

Chapter XIII, Part II

Looking back, Shannon Malone would have called it inevitable. That seems as good a term as any. Fate and destiny and fear and sheer stupidity would have worked as well, but inevitable seems to fit the best. It was always going to come to this.

In a way, Shannon did not realize what she was going to do until the last possible minute. Most of her, the conscious, waking parts that controlled her thoughts and feelings, had had no idea what she was planning. But part of her, some locked away recess of her mind, had known since she'd gone to see Allison in the infirmary. For that reason, when she'd sat up in bed at twenty minutes to midnight after hours of tossing and turning, she was able to identify some sense of expectancy.

You better get going.

She listened intently to her sister's breathing for a few seconds, discerning whether she was still asleep. Faye did not so much as shift. She was sleeping soundly. Shannon pushed off of her bed, doing her best to keep the mattress springs from creaking, and crept silently to the door. She kept her eyes glued to her sister, who had the bed closest to the door, as she walked. Faye's back was to her; Shannon could not see her face, something that made her a little nervous. When she got to the door she had one hand on the doorknob before she stopped cold, turned around, and padded back to her bed. Once again being as quiet as she could manage, she took the small wooden cross that hung at the head of her bed off the wall. Her parents had placed one above each of their children's beds, and Shannon was particularly grateful for it now. She thought of Signora Moretti when the chickens had been brought into the dining hall, now so many months ago. She thought of Signora Moretti's cross pendant.

Bizarrely, she wondered what the Italian word for vampire was.

Shannon scampered back over to the door into the hallway, studying the wood and hesitating. There was no turning back from this.

Then again, perhaps that point had been crossed a long time ago.

Shannon reached for the doorknob and something grabbed her arm. Shannon barely suppressed her scream. Looking down, she saw it was only Faye, suddenly awake, blue eyes—mirrors of Shannon's own—staring up at her.

"Where are you going?" Faye asked, her voice thick and tired.

"Bathroom," Shannon said, trying to keep her voice level and praying it didn't come out as a question. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears; she wouldn't have been surprised if Faye could hear it. Faye stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, making Shannon's palms sweat. Shannon prayed she didn't notice the cross—the cross in the hand Faye held. Faye's dazed expression seemed to be sweeping in and out of clarity, like suddenly she would bolt upward, wide awake.

"Right," Faye said finally, letting go of Shannon's arm. She pulled her covers up higher, snuggled into her pillow, and was asleep again within seconds. Shannon stared at her, hand clutching the doorknob in a steely fist, and let out a shaky breath. She was losing time, she knew. She didn't have much of that to go around.

Quiet as a mouse, she opened the door and tiptoed out into the hallway. She approached the stairs cautiously, knowing a good many of them could produce some choice squeaks if stepped on the wrong way. She supposed she wouldn't be able to avoid all of them, but if she went about it in the right way she might be able to cut down on the extent of the noise.

Before she could over-think it, she began to make her way down the steps. Every slight creak made her wince. She held her wooden cross tight between slick fingers. The moonlight streamed in through the windows on the ground floor, tree limbs casting shadow puppets in the glow. As she descended, she told herself the darkness did not bother her, the night was perfectly safe. Repeated like a mantra, these things she could almost believe.