Desires of the Dead
Page 6
Something dead was calling to her.
The noise that chased the vibrations, reaching her at last, was distinctly out of place along the edge of the Puget Sound’s rough winter waters.
In the summertime it might have found an anonymous place among the street performers who set up along the piers to attract tourists. But now, in the dead of winter, the instrumental sound of a harp, like the one Violet imagined angels might play, was at odds with her surroundings. It would have been soothing—the acoustic whispers—had it not been for the fact that it signaled the presence of a body . . . human or otherwise.
Violet was rooting for otherwise.
“Where are we going?” Chelsea asked, piercing Violet’s concentration as she struggled to hold on to the precarious sounds reaching out to her.
Violet hadn’t even realized that she’d been walking away from the waterfront shops. She paused, lifting her hand. “I think I heard something,” she explained absently.
She thought about resisting the urge to follow the sound, just ignoring it, especially here . . . with Chelsea, who knew nothing about her friend’s “gift.” Besides, what did she think she would do once she found the body that beckoned her? There was no place to bury it, and she certainly couldn’t take it with her.
Sometimes when she was near a body, she felt drawn toward it, compelled to find it.
Usually when Violet found an animal, the casualty of a feral predator, she could take care of it herself. She had her own graveyard. Grim, yes, but a necessity for any girl with the ability to locate the dead.
If it turned out to be a person, however, that was another story altogether.
Once an echo called to her, and before the body was suitably buried, no matter how long or short that span might be, Violet remained unsettled. It wasn’t until the body was given a final resting place of its own that the echo would fade, falling into the backdrop of her consciousness, never disappearing altogether but weakening, becoming something less . . . haunting.
On that day, Violet could breathe again.
Instead of trying to resist the pull she felt now, she heard herself saying, “Stay here, Chels. I’ll be right back.” She didn’t wait for her friend to answer as she wandered away.
It took a moment for Violet to locate the direction again, as the sound drew her away from the piers.
It was farther than she’d expected, and she was only moderately aware that the scenery around her was changing dramatically. Beneath her skin, the stringed harp continued to strum.
On the other side of the road, across the street from the waters of the Puget Sound, she walked past the charming antique shops and faded brick facades of old Seattle. She moved toward the shipping docks ahead of her. Tall chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire appeared, in stark contrast to the cobblestone sidewalks and worn timbers of the wharves she left behind. Large cracks split the uneven concrete she trod upon.
Signs hanging from the fencing read: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
Behind the chain-link, huge steel shipping containers were stacked on top of one another, end to end, creating impenetrable fortifications, shielding from view piles of industrial-grade pallets and an army of forklifts. Massive red steel cranes stood high above the containers. Several cargo ships floated in the waters beyond.
Seagulls, some vivid white and some the color of dirty dishwater, landed intermittently on the grounds, scouring for scraps of food.
It was Saturday, and the shipyards were practically deserted, with only a few cars parked in the outer lots. But the large central gate stood open.
Violet slipped inside without notice. She was too preoccupied to care if anyone spotted her. The gentle sound of the harps grew stronger until the vibrations were nearly painful and Violet found herself gritting her teeth. It was compelling, this echo . . . this death. And Violet was so close.
She moved around a towering row of cargo containers that were painted in dull shades of red, blue, and steel gray.
The briny smell of salt water was crisp in the air, and she wondered at how it had gone unnoticed by her before now. Now it seemed so significant. The salt water and the harp. And the body.
She stopped, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone.
The skin at the back of her neck tightened, prickling. Someone was behind her; someone was watching her.
She held her breath, afraid to turn around. And even more afraid not to. She’d felt this before, this sensation of being stalked. Every muscle in her body was strained and tense.
But she had no choice; she had to find out who was there.
One . . . two . . .
Before she reached three, she felt someone grab her arm, gripping her tightly.
Violet jerked, her heart crashing inside her chest.
And Chelsea shrieked, worry clouding her face as Violet turned to stare at her, her eyes wide. Chelsea’s hand shot up to cover her own mouth.
“Chels, what the hell? I thought I told you to wait!” Violet hissed, dragging Chelsea closer to the containers, where no one would be able to see them.
Chelsea reached for Violet’s hand. “What did you think you heard, Vi?”
Violet lifted a cautionary finger to her lips, warning Chelsea to be silent as she moved in front of her, concentrating once more on the sound of the harp. She could hear Chelsea breathing heavily directly behind her, and she wondered if the other girl was afraid. . . . It felt like she was afraid. But Violet didn’t pause to find out.
Violet was confused. She was in the right place; the sound was practically within her now in the same way the reverberating echo was, beating soft strings from inside her chest and spreading out to her head . . . her fingers . . . her toes.
The noise that chased the vibrations, reaching her at last, was distinctly out of place along the edge of the Puget Sound’s rough winter waters.
In the summertime it might have found an anonymous place among the street performers who set up along the piers to attract tourists. But now, in the dead of winter, the instrumental sound of a harp, like the one Violet imagined angels might play, was at odds with her surroundings. It would have been soothing—the acoustic whispers—had it not been for the fact that it signaled the presence of a body . . . human or otherwise.
Violet was rooting for otherwise.
“Where are we going?” Chelsea asked, piercing Violet’s concentration as she struggled to hold on to the precarious sounds reaching out to her.
Violet hadn’t even realized that she’d been walking away from the waterfront shops. She paused, lifting her hand. “I think I heard something,” she explained absently.
She thought about resisting the urge to follow the sound, just ignoring it, especially here . . . with Chelsea, who knew nothing about her friend’s “gift.” Besides, what did she think she would do once she found the body that beckoned her? There was no place to bury it, and she certainly couldn’t take it with her.
Sometimes when she was near a body, she felt drawn toward it, compelled to find it.
Usually when Violet found an animal, the casualty of a feral predator, she could take care of it herself. She had her own graveyard. Grim, yes, but a necessity for any girl with the ability to locate the dead.
If it turned out to be a person, however, that was another story altogether.
Once an echo called to her, and before the body was suitably buried, no matter how long or short that span might be, Violet remained unsettled. It wasn’t until the body was given a final resting place of its own that the echo would fade, falling into the backdrop of her consciousness, never disappearing altogether but weakening, becoming something less . . . haunting.
On that day, Violet could breathe again.
Instead of trying to resist the pull she felt now, she heard herself saying, “Stay here, Chels. I’ll be right back.” She didn’t wait for her friend to answer as she wandered away.
It took a moment for Violet to locate the direction again, as the sound drew her away from the piers.
It was farther than she’d expected, and she was only moderately aware that the scenery around her was changing dramatically. Beneath her skin, the stringed harp continued to strum.
On the other side of the road, across the street from the waters of the Puget Sound, she walked past the charming antique shops and faded brick facades of old Seattle. She moved toward the shipping docks ahead of her. Tall chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire appeared, in stark contrast to the cobblestone sidewalks and worn timbers of the wharves she left behind. Large cracks split the uneven concrete she trod upon.
Signs hanging from the fencing read: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
Behind the chain-link, huge steel shipping containers were stacked on top of one another, end to end, creating impenetrable fortifications, shielding from view piles of industrial-grade pallets and an army of forklifts. Massive red steel cranes stood high above the containers. Several cargo ships floated in the waters beyond.
Seagulls, some vivid white and some the color of dirty dishwater, landed intermittently on the grounds, scouring for scraps of food.
It was Saturday, and the shipyards were practically deserted, with only a few cars parked in the outer lots. But the large central gate stood open.
Violet slipped inside without notice. She was too preoccupied to care if anyone spotted her. The gentle sound of the harps grew stronger until the vibrations were nearly painful and Violet found herself gritting her teeth. It was compelling, this echo . . . this death. And Violet was so close.
She moved around a towering row of cargo containers that were painted in dull shades of red, blue, and steel gray.
The briny smell of salt water was crisp in the air, and she wondered at how it had gone unnoticed by her before now. Now it seemed so significant. The salt water and the harp. And the body.
She stopped, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone.
The skin at the back of her neck tightened, prickling. Someone was behind her; someone was watching her.
She held her breath, afraid to turn around. And even more afraid not to. She’d felt this before, this sensation of being stalked. Every muscle in her body was strained and tense.
But she had no choice; she had to find out who was there.
One . . . two . . .
Before she reached three, she felt someone grab her arm, gripping her tightly.
Violet jerked, her heart crashing inside her chest.
And Chelsea shrieked, worry clouding her face as Violet turned to stare at her, her eyes wide. Chelsea’s hand shot up to cover her own mouth.
“Chels, what the hell? I thought I told you to wait!” Violet hissed, dragging Chelsea closer to the containers, where no one would be able to see them.
Chelsea reached for Violet’s hand. “What did you think you heard, Vi?”
Violet lifted a cautionary finger to her lips, warning Chelsea to be silent as she moved in front of her, concentrating once more on the sound of the harp. She could hear Chelsea breathing heavily directly behind her, and she wondered if the other girl was afraid. . . . It felt like she was afraid. But Violet didn’t pause to find out.
Violet was confused. She was in the right place; the sound was practically within her now in the same way the reverberating echo was, beating soft strings from inside her chest and spreading out to her head . . . her fingers . . . her toes.
