Twenty-Five

It was dark. I had been pacing around the attic, tapping on walls, looking for cracks, for any sliver of light that would show me a weakness in the wood that I might be able to break through. A few slants of dull, yellow light came through the salt-coated windows. Outside, the wind had picked up. A storm was brewing or had already arrived, blowing off the sea. It felt weird to not be able to see the weather, but my body registered it, as if I was a human barometer. The whistle of the wind made the voice sound distant, made me jump.

“Hello, Oli,” I heard.

At first I wasn’t sure who it was.

Before I could turn, he reached for my hand. For one second the warm touch lifted my spirit. But then he leaned closer, and I saw his face, and I felt as if I was grasping a snake—cold-blooded and scaly, with flat, black eyes behind thick lenses.

It was Fitch.

He tried to pull me away from the window, but I resisted. The harder he tugged, the more I leaned back, bracing myself with my feet and strong legs, trying to get away from him.

“You have a choice, Oli,” Fitch said. “Do what I say, or I’ll give you another shot, like the one when you first got here. This time the drug will be stronger. You might not wake up.” As he spoke, he let go of my hand and reached into the pocket of his white coat. He held up the hypodermic needle again, but this time it was loaded.

I glanced around the attic. Hayley and Abigail were watching.

“It won’t last long,” Abigail told me. “He’ll take his tests, measure the results and write them down, and you’ll be done in time for breakfast.”

Breakfast? Was she serious? Who cared about that? Besides, I planned to get us out of here long before sunrise.

Hayley said “fight.” Not out loud, but with her eyes. Her expression was ferocious. I could tell by the tension in her shoulders that she was about to launch herself at Fitch so we could take him down together. Fitch saw it, too.

“Don’t even think about it, Hayley,” he said. “There’s enough here for you, too. Oli, the ball is in your court. Comply, or put yourself and Hayley in danger. I’m sure you realize that I know how to hurt her.”

He’d said the magic words, probably the only thing that could get to me, that he would hurt Hayley. So, slowly, I stood up. There might be no worse feeling in the world than “complying”—to use his word—with your captor, the person you know to the depths of your being is your enemy. The boy who killed your sister. Believe it or not, that terrible feeling of following him to whatever he planned to do overcame the fear of what it would be.

So I trailed Fitch around the attic’s central chimney, through a door in the brick. We were in a small room, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t a chimney at all but just a hollow column—possibly meant to support the Miramar when it was first built, but now used for another purpose.

The space had no windows. When Fitch flipped on bright lights, I could see that it was furnished like a doctor’s exam room. There was a padded table, a stainless steel cart with an array of medical instruments, a container for sterilizing them, and a machine with wires and dials.

Had he stolen all this stuff from his mother?

“You think you’re a real doctor, don’t you?” I said. “You’re not, Fitch. You’re just in a school club where you pretend to be one.”

“Tell yourself that,” he said.

“You’re a rich kid,” I said. “Must be nice to be able to use your allowance to buy your little toys here. Or did you just raid your mother’s office?”

“On the table, Oli,” he said, unperturbed by my questions. “I’m sure you want to get this over with.”

He picked up a stethoscope. That seemed harmless enough, and it made me roll my eyes—a little kid pretending to be a doctor. I reluctantly sat on the edge of the padded table while he took my pulse and listened to my heart. I cringed at his touch. He made notations on a tablet, and I was pretty sure it was the same one he used when we birded together at the banding station.

“You have a fast heartbeat,” he said. “But that’s natural. I’m sure you’re scared, aren’t you?”

I didn’t reply.

“You’re terrified, aren’t you, Oli?”

I had the definite feeling he wanted me to say yes, that terrifying me was half the point—wasn’t that what psychopaths liked? In movies, at least. So even though, yes, fear had begun to build, I stayed silent. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Then he took my blood pressure.

“A little low,” he said. “You might be anemic. That would be interesting. One of my theories is that low BP can contribute to parasomnia.”

“But I don’t have parasomnia,” I said.

“Well, then, you’re a perfect candidate for my control group,” he said. “AB negative blood type without the attendant symptoms of a nocturnal seizure sufferer.”

“How did you find out we’re all AB negative?” I asked, thinking of Eloise, Iris, and Hayley.

“Because you’re all such good citizens,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You participate in blood drives. You know, the ones we have at school every fall. They test and type your blood, Oli.”

“But that’s confidential!” I said.

“I was one of the student volunteers,” he said. “Along with Chris and Matt, don’t you remember? We were the ones who gave you juice and cookies after you and Eloise finished. Because I’m president of Future Doctors, I had more responsibility.”

And my heart sank. Now I recalled Fitch sitting at a table off to the side with a laptop, marking down which students had shown up. He must have found a way to look at the results of the technician’s tests, figure out which of us would be candidates for his experiments.

“But Iris and Hayley don’t even go to Black Hall High,” I said.

“Right. They were a little more challenging. See, my mom works all over the place, including Rhode Island. She has access to so many databases?.?.?.”

“She was their doctor?” I asked.

“No, but she consults at the hospital where their pediatrician has privileges,” he said. “And it’s not hard to hack into my mom’s records. I’ve been doing it forever.” He grinned. “It’s fun.”

“What a great son you are,” I said.

“She uses the same password for everything.” He smiled. “Email, Instagram, magazine subscriptions, her patient records. It’s the name of the Greek god of medicine. Asclepius. Sometimes with a question mark at the end, if the site requires special characters. What about you, Oli? Don’t you use the same password, to make it easier to remember?”

I didn’t answer.

“Well, I do,” he said. “Mine is a little more creative than hers. Sibylline , and their initials. ADC. Athena, Daphne, and Circe. The three sisters. Because that’s what this is all about. Those ancient girls are my inspiration to find a cure for this terrible disorder.”

Why would he tell me his password? It seemed so weird. What if I decided to log into his email or social media once I got my phone back? If I ever got my phone back.

He turned and began to set the dials on the big machine. When he walked around again, I saw that he was holding two yellow plastic circles, one in each hand, with wires leading back to the controls.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Electrodes,” he said. “To measure brain activity. Ideally, you would be asleep when I run the test. That said, I would like to give you a sedative. Not an injection, Oli. Just a little pill that will put you into a dream state. Do you consent?”

“You’re actually asking me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, giving me that wide smile again.

“Then, no. I don’t consent.”

He laughed. “I knew you would say that. You’re predictable. Well, guess what? I don’t want you asleep the first time. Having you awake will establish a baseline. There will be time for dream tests. The next time, and the one after that.”

Let him think there would be a next time. Whatever it took, I was going to get out of here before that could happen.

“Lie back, Oli,” he said, giving me a tap on the shoulder.

I thought about kicking him, shoving him and running, but his words about hurting Hayley rang in my ears. If I was going to attack him, I would need the element of surprise. Just then, alone with him in a bricked-up room, my options were limited.

So I lay back, and the next part was bizarre. Here was this boy from my high school class acting like a mad doctor. It was as if he was playing the lead role in a school play about Dr. Frankenstein. And I was his subject.

He dabbed some gel on my temples. He didn’t even push my hair back; I instinctively reached up, and it felt gooey—just like the sticky stuff Iris had mentioned had been put on her head.

“Keep your hands by your sides,” he ordered.

Then he attached the electrodes. That was painless. He walked over to the machine and examined the dials. He put on ridiculous-looking goggles—orange-tinted, with a strap that went around his head. They had built-in headphones. They also had a mic, like the kind performers wear onstage.

He began talking into the mic.

“Subject is Olivia Parrish. Sixteen years of age. Pulse one hundred, blood pressure one hundred over seventy. Sister of previous subject Eloise Parrish. Both have, well, in the case of Eloise, had , blood type AB negative.”

The word had felt purposeful, and I noticed how he was staring at me with a spark in his eyes, as if he wanted to upset me again. I refused to react.

Mentioning Eloise had the opposite effect than what he intended. It gave me strength. It made me summon her spirit, her goodness. Instead of making me grieve her loss, and what he had put her through, it inspired me. I looked over his shoulder and conjured her beautiful face. Her intelligence, her humor, her kind heart.

Fitch flipped a switch on the machine, and I heard a crackle, like electricity. I felt a slight sensation in my left temple, then my right. It wasn’t painful, but it was unsettling. I closed my eyes and willed the time to pass. Minutes ticked by, with pressure alternating from one side to the other, left-right-left-right, the feeling intensifying to the point it felt more like a jolt, as if he was shocking me.

That’s when I really got scared. Would this affect my brain? Could it change me, damage me for good? I kept thinking of Eloise, and I knew she didn’t want this for me. I reached up to yank the electrodes off.

“Don’t do it, Oli,” Fitch said sharply. “We’re almost finished. If you interfere now, I will give you that drug and restrain you and start over. Now, lie still and let me measure your respiration. Breathe normally. That’s it.”

I tried to control my breath, but I couldn’t. I was too churned up. I could see that Fitch was absorbed in the dials on the machine, taking notes about whatever data they were revealing. That’s when he hit one more switch, and a current ran through me, as if I’d been struck by lightning, and my body shook—a huge shiver that went from my head to my toes. I heard myself whimpering, saying the name Matt out loud.

When it passed, I saw that he was grinning.

“Matt, haha,” he said. “You really wanted him to be your boyfriend, didn’t you?”

I clamped my jaw shut, unwilling to say a word. It hurt too much to think about what I had wanted once-upon-a-time, like yesterday.

“That’s not going to happen. You realize that, right?” Fitch asked.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at him.

“Oh, I upset you? Well, sorry. But it’s healthier to face facts,” he said. “That’s a reality.”

Fitch liked seeing me that way, hurting badly. I believed in that instant that everything he was doing had less to do with research and more to do with harming people—physically and emotionally. He was like that person who pulls the wings off flies just to see them suffer.

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” I asked.

“What, Oli?”

“Eloise dying. You said it was an accident. Abigail says so, too, that you didn’t mean to do it.”

He didn’t respond right away. There was a large black book on a shelf beside the table. He bent over it and began to turn the pages, stopping at one to read. I saw his lips moving, as if he was chanting something. Then he opened a cupboard and took out a saltshaker. He sprinkled something into the palm of his hand, then blew it away. I watched, but didn’t ask what he was doing.

“Abigail is my sister,” he said. “She loves me, just like you loved Eloise. Of course she would say that. She sees the best in me.”

“But she’s wrong, isn’t she?” I asked.

He smiled that frightening smile.

“You murdered my sister on purpose,” I said.

He tilted his head.

“Just like you tried to do with Iris,” I said.

“I don’t like girls who defy me,” he said.

“So I’m right?” I asked. “You deliberately killed Eloise. You knew what you were doing?”

“That’s not what I said, Oli. Listen. Open your ears. I said I don’t like girls who defy me. I might get upset when they do, and that might cause me to make mistakes. I would never purposely hurt anyone, much less kill them.”

“If that’s true,” I asked, trembling, “why did you just tell me your password? Isn’t it because you’re already planning to not let me go?”

“It bothers me that you’re so determined to see the worst in me,” Fitch said. “Because I’m good, Oli. The whole point is that I care. It’s why I do what I do.” Still holding the saltshaker, he tilted it up above so that sparkles rained down on me.

“What is that?” I asked, flinching.

“It’s gold dust,” he said. “Fresh from Minerva’s jewelry bench. It’s a symbol of how precious I think you all are.”

“Like the charm you left when you dumped Iris in the grave?” I asked.

“Yes, solid gold,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes. “That’s what you all are to me. I don’t take any of you for granted.”

“What about the feather?” I asked. “The gray-blue feather? Did you leave that, too?”

He tilted his head and looked surprised. “You noticed,” he said.

“Like the feather you left with Eloise?”

He nodded. “Yes, I collected Eloise’s that morning when we birded in the Braided Woods. I took it from the warbler that you and Matt were holding. It seemed symbolic to me. Flight?.?.?.?from one state of being to another. Eloise, transforming from a regular girl to a hero to the goddess.” He paused. “I wanted that for Iris, too.”

I forced myself to keep my breathing steady, to not scream.

“What is that book?” I asked, but I already knew. He gave me a skewed smile and held the book close to my face, so I could see. The cover was black leather, cracked with age, and embossed with words in a language I couldn’t read.

Daphne’s magic book , Minerva had said. It’s the Sibylline version of Malleus Maleficarum— the Hammer of Witches.

I tried to remain expressionless as I stared straight into Fitch’s eyes and remembered what else Minerva had said: It’s written in the Hammer of Witches that the dust of silver and gold is for anointing the dead?.?.?.

That’s okay, I told myself. I’m not dead yet.