Secrets of Skin and Stone

Trigger Warning:

This novel contains fictional depictions of self-harm. All attempts were made by the author, who has a personal history of self-harm, to portray cutting as realistic, but not gratuitious. These scenes are crucial to the characterization of the mental disorder represented.

To my daughter, who gave me the strength to shine light into my shadows.

Chapter One

Gris

The last stretch on the motorcycle always seems the longest. Even the cooling breeze, rich with the scent of grassy fields and cedars, wasn’t keeping me awake. I was dog tired. I stopped to stare at the sign leading to the town I’d be spending my next few weeks in. After taking off my helmet, I peered at the quaint sign with its fancy, uptight font. Hidden Creek, Population: 1136.

I snorted a laugh. How often did this spit-on-the-map Alabama town have to update that sign? Probably not often. Well, it’d have 1137 residents for as long as I was here—which was hopefully not long.

Stretching, I listened to the soft sounds I’d missed due to the roar of my bike. The hum of insects. Something scurried through the underbrush nearby. The light wind slithered across the grass with a hissing sound. My hair felt molded to my head from the long ride.

I inhaled, taking in the clean air. I could appreciate the rural appeal, without wanting to put down roots. These 1136 people had been born here, grown up from those roots, and they’d die here.

Still, it did smell nice.

I shoved my helmet back on. Almost there.

How many fiends could be hiding in Hidden Creek? This was a crap job—a gimme. I’d do it, if that’s what it’d take to prove to my dad I was ready to go solo at eighteen. You’d think there’d be enough need for my skills that I could at least get a decent assignment for my first on my own.

My relatives were probably making up stories about the town’s fiend infestation so they sounded important. It was telling that they always visited us in the city, rather than the other way around.

The ride to my aunt and uncle’s place took me through patches of neighborhoods leading to what I supposed was the town center. After spending so much time in cities like Atlanta, Savannah, Charlotte, and Tallahassee, this itty-bitty town was more constrictive than my riding leathers. The outskirts were scattered fields with obligatory trucks parked in the driveways of darkened farmhouses. What did these people do that they were all in bed by eleven at night? The town was nothing but porch lights and the scent of dinners I was too late for. Maybe my aunt would cook for me sometimes.

Two dogs ran to the edge of their fenced yards and barked at me as I passed. Inside the nearby house, a light flicked on. I was disturbing the peace already. My motorcycle was loud—that was part of why I liked it. But I didn’t much care for everyone in town knowing Gris Caso was around. Drawing on my powers, I hushed the sound from splitting the night.

I passed into a less desirable part of town, if the abandoned, falling-down structures and overgrown fields were anything to go by. An ancient tractor was rusting to death and being overwhelmed by tall blades of grass. Beside it, a molding scarecrow looked down in judgement on the blight it was.

A tingling sensation running along my shoulder blades was my first indication that the area wasn’t as still and deserted as I’d thought. The hair on the back of my neck stood up straight, despite its sweat-soaked condition.

The heaviness in the air and the screech of fiends were like a wall I plowed into. Holy hell. I skidded to a stop beside an old mill. Its weathered, gray boards were most likely a termite haven and even the attempts at graffiti seemed half hearted. It was eerie, even without its wispy occupants’ screeching, providing a horror film backdrop.

Fiends. The damn place was full of them. Squinting, I tried to get a sense of how many were in there. Too many.

Okay. Maybe this job wouldn’t be such an insult. Something must have happened there to gather so many of them.

Fiends were nasty creatures, half monster and half spectral. They were drawn to sites of violence and fear, to humans having nightmares, and to those practicing dark arts. They looked like insubstantial versions of Watchers—they could have been my ghost and it was creepy as hell. They didn’t have wings, but their frame was similar. They clawed their way out of the shadows at night and crept and slunk around. If normal people could see them, they’d never sleep. Fiends’ jaws would drop as they shrieked, and their shiny teeth were hideously long. That was even before you got to their talons. And while they could shrink down, it still seemed like there were a lot of them in that mill.

This was Hidden Creek. There shouldn’t be more than a dozen in the whole town.

My back itched from the urge to shift into my gargoyle form. Fiends and Watchers were natural enemies. I was halfway off my bike before I shook off the urge and climbed back on.

Be smart, Gris. You’ll live longer.

I’d find out the mill’s history and then tackle it—when I was more prepared and after I’d slept. I’d learned the family trade from my father, and his strict set of guidelines hinged on knowing what he was walking into. Research. Hell, I did so much research on crime I was likely on watch lists.

Keeping my motorcycle hushed, I continued on. The draw of the fiends was intense enough that I clenched my teeth while tightening my fists on my bike’s handgrips. Not right now. After about a mile, the pull was a background hum and the fiends’ shrieks no louder than a distant bug-zapper.

I’d memorized the weird directions my aunt had given me. Small towns had odd points of reference: when you see the green broken-down combine in a field, take the next left, or Turn at the stop sign with the bullet holes in the shape of a peace sign.

My cousin was sitting on the front steps of his parents’ house when I rode up. He was tossing a wrench in one hand with a lazy sort of grace that ran in the family.

Problems? Danny asked after I cut the bike’s engine. You’re awfully late. Thought you’d be here hours ago.

Late start and I hit traffic coming out of Atlanta. I parked the bike on the road.

Leaving behind the wrench, my cousin got to his feet, holding up a jingling set of keys. Here they are. I wouldn’t expect much. Mama went over and cleaned it up some, but it still looks like it was beaten with the ugly stick.

Across the street from their house was my new abode. The Ritz, it was not. My cousin’s folks had bought the property with the intention of bulldozing the house, but they’d never gotten around to it. The house couldn’t have more than three or four rooms. It looked blue, but even my Watcher’s vision wasn’t good enough to make out color at this time of night.

Why hadn’t they turned on a porch light?

My aunt and uncle probably figured they were doing me a favor letting me stay in the house, but I was taking care of the town’s fiend population without the usual paycheck coming my way.

My next job, I’d be on my own and earning a paycheck.

Here, Grisham, Danny said, catch! He threw the keys wide so I dove and caught them with the tip of my finger. My cousin laughed.

Thanks. I didn’t call him on using my full name though he knew it annoyed me.

Sure thing. Be sure to lock up. Wouldn’t want the fiends to bite.

Shaking my head, I turned away. The house didn’t look any better up close. I walked through the front gate and let it slam closed behind me. A wide yawn made my jaw crack. I was going to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow…at midnight. Midnight! That early was unheard of for me. Watchers owned the night, but it had been a long ride. I’d stubbornly insisted on riding my bike rather than bringing my truck.

After walking my bike to the carport at the side of the house, I dragged what little I’d brought from the saddlebags. I pulled off my boots and left them and my riding leathers beside the bike. A decade of shifting into form every night meant I was more accustomed to walking around barefoot than not. The yard’s overgrown grass tickled my feet as I strode through it to the porch. The stairs creaked loudly with each of my steps, but they didn’t break.

The only warning I had was a hiss of wind as the shadow took form and slammed against me. My bag fell to the planks as I crashed into a rickety porch swing. One chain snapped out of the porch’s roof, and the swing clattered against the boards. I shifted to form, my wings tearing through the shirt I was wearing. I dove at the fiend, meeting the screeching beast with my own roar. Its clawed hand caught the porch swing, yanking it clean out of the roof. We spun, banging into the railing and knocking a spindle loose. I grabbed the wooden rail and swung it like a bat, but it sailed through the fiend as if it were as ephemeral as a ghost. I tossed it aside and crouched down. I’ve had a long night, so let’s get this over with. This is my family’s place, and you’ve already gone and broken their porch swing.

It shrieked at me.

Oh, you think you’ve got problems? I was thinking this town would be a piece of cake. What’s with all your buddies at the mill, huh? I thought my great-uncle was blowing things out of proportion.

The fiend made its move, going in high and casting its elongated body toward me. I reached out and grabbed its heart. The fiend disintegrated all around me, the scent of sulfur settling on me like perfume. Great. Fantastic.

I leaned up against the porch railing, breathing heavily. What was up with Hidden Creek? I could taste blood. Damn thing had busted my lip. I’d been sloppy. The porch swing had been in decent shape, too, but now it was kindling. Maybe I could rebuild it if I was around long enough.

With an exhausted sigh, I looked up, staring at the stars. At least I could see those clearer out here. Finally, an upside to this town. If I dragged the fight outside, I could see actual stars when I got knocked on my ass.

Far across the field, a dog barked, and I peered at the white farmhouse up the road. A lone light was on. Somebody was up late. Hopefully, this neighbor’s dog was all bark and no bite. Dogs could sense fiends and got all uptight about them. If there were more fiends in this area, and I wanted a peaceful night’s sleep, I’d have to deal with those around that neighbor’s house first thing. I didn’t want to get bitten by their mutt for my trouble.

I had enough things with sharp teeth in my life.

After wiping my dirty bare feet on the straw welcome mat, I pushed into the house and sighed. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. The linoleum was far older than I was and proved that the seventies weren’t dead. The ceiling had a few suspicious cracks that might not keep out the rain if it poured. Inhaling, I caught the scent of bleach and pine cleaning solution…and me. I reeked.

First, a shower. Then, a good twelve hours of sleep. Tomorrow, I’d find out what was dragging fiends to that mill. What…or who. The thought of somebody gathering fiends unsettled me. My fingertips itched to do the searches on my laptop, exploring the possibilities. I rolled the tension from shoulders and stretched. Not good. Drawing in fiends could turn nasty real fast. I’d seen it, and it made jobs like this worlds more complicated.

Chapter Two

Piper

I walked out my front door, rubbing at the itch on my arms that came with it. Stepping outside was the hard part. It got easier after that. Usually. Not today. The itch only increased.

Jester? I shouted. A sour taste settled in my mouth, and my stomach ached.

The guilt came fast on the heels of everything else. Guilt was my closest friend. I’d yelled at my dog sometime after midnight. I’d been trying to get enough sleep before my ACT test, and he’d been barking his fool head off. When he’d finally stopped, it’d been a blessing. Now, I was back from the testing center, and Jester hadn’t shown up for breakfast.

Even if dogs could feel sulky about being yelled at, Jester wasn’t that dog. He was stupidly cheerful. He spent most days chasing either his tail or butterflies.

I shouldn’t have yelled at him.

Stepping off the porch, I shaded my eyes and looked around. Jester!

He always, always came when I called, ever assuming I had food for him.

Jester!

Our yard wasn’t so big, only a couple acres. We might even have one of the smallest plots of land in Hidden Creek. But if Jester’d decided to explore the whole town, well, I’d be spending the rest of the day searching for him. I headed toward the shed where Daddy kept the tractor. Maybe he was hiding.

Rubbing the itch from my arms, I stopped and turned. Somebody’s eyes were on me, staring at me. Waiting. Watching.

Hello?

No answer. ’Course there was no answer. There wasn’t anybody out there.

An ugly stain crept across the grass right in front of the cheery, yellow outbuilding. I stopped to blink down at it. It lurked a few feet from my white, white sneakers. My toes curled inside my shoes at the thought of that red staining my shoes, getting everywhere. The grass was painted reddish brown. My heart quickened, the thumping beat in my ears. My breath rasped in and out of my throat. I’d seen enough of my own blood to recognize the sight of it.

I rounded the corner and there was Jester, cut open. Everywhere, that reddish brown blood, coating fur and flesh. I’d stepped in it. I’d stepped in the blood. It was staining the tips of my shoes. My white, white shoes were covered in red, red blood.

The screaming started. It went on and on as I stood there and stared at my dog—the blood all over the ground.

Red stain on white shoes.

Red blood on white fur.

So much. So much blood. Tightness pulled at my chest as black dots shot across my vision. The earth rushed up and I fell to my hands and knees.

So much blood.

Mama’s footfalls behind me broke through the screaming. She grabbed me ’round the waist, hauling me backward, dragging my shoes away from the staining red-brown blood, while she shouted for my brother. Dale! Dale! Don’t come out here! Don’t come! Call your daddy. Just get him on the phone! Piper, it’s gonna be fine. It’s fine. Piper, stop your screaming. Hush now! Hush!

I shut my mouth. The shrieking stopped. I gulped in deep breaths and the spots dancing in front of my eyes slowed.

Mama pulled me back to the house. From head to toe, I was numb, other than my throat, which burned. It stung like my throat had bled, too.

When we reached the porch, Mama shoved me at my brother who was holding the phone to his ear. Dale, take her. Mama leaned over the side of the porch and retched into the rosebushes.

I sucked in deep breaths as I built my wall in my mind, barricading that memory in.

Jester. Jester.

There’d been so much blood.

One brick. Another. A row separated me from Jester—or what once was Jester. I couldn’t see him from here—that was another row of bricks. Another brick and another brick.

A dark thought wriggled out of my brain: what had happened after I’d yelled at him? Had I gone back to sleep? All of the awful images of death, both accidental and purposeful rushed forward as if I’d called them. Had I done this? Somehow? Being able to kill and killing weren’t the same thing. Being angry and wanting the barking to stop wasn’t the same as ending it. I’d never killed anything—even though I could if I wanted to. I couldn’t have done this. Could I?

No.

No. Never at my worst. They were just thoughts. Dark thoughts. But just thoughts.

I stared down at my hands. There was blood on them from when I’d fallen. Not much, but some. It hadn’t been there before.

Dale shouted questions at Mama.

Water splashed on my hands. Tears streamed along my palms, catching in the creases as I stood there, staring. My numb thoughts were at odds with my stinging throat and the clenching, knifing pain in my stomach.

Jester. My dog. Jester, I whispered. More tears filled my hands. They ran through the bits of blood, turning my palms into a pink sea. I cupped them so it wouldn’t get all over the porch.

I needed to wash my hands. I had to.

I was in the bathroom washing them when Jem walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

It was so loud, she said.

I grabbed a nearby towel and wiped my eyes. It was nothing, baby doll. Go back to your nap. The wall between me and what was once my dog was thick enough, now, that I could say that with only a small skip in my words.

Jem’s lower lip stuck out in a pout. She was about to dig in and be stubborn. Even at three years old, she shared a stubborn streak with the rest of the family.

If, um, if you go back to your room, I bet Mama will give you a cookie when you pretend to wake up.

Jem smiled and scampered back to her room. Once upon a time, a cookie would’ve bought my happiness, too.

I went to my room and locked the door. I could hear the mumble of Mama’s and Dale’s voices coming from the front room. Mama kept saying, It was just an animal attack. You got me? An animal killed Jester.

Animals didn’t kill like that. They didn’t. They didn’t cut something open cleanly and just leave it. Daddy would tell her. Daddy might take a bit to get home from work—his Saturday schedule was unpredictable.

I pulled out the razor blade from the book in my bedside table.

That was the funny thing about blood. Sometimes, it made things worse. Sometimes, it made things better.

I checked again to be sure I’d locked the door, even though I knew I had. There were things that I didn’t care to explain to anybody, let alone to my family—especially not to my family. Mama had her version of OCD, and I had this one. It wasn’t clean. It didn’t help me sort things like socks. It was in my head and heart, and it howled.

The blade was sharp, and I disinfected it regularly. I cut high across my shoulder. It hurt, and it felt right at the same time. Pain I could control. When everything else in my life flowed in opposite directions, and the itching threatened to eat me alive, I could still control the pain from the cuts.

It was my fault Jester was dead. I hadn’t gotten up to check on him. And I’d yelled at him. The cut was a small payment toward a debt that loomed over me.

Daddy’s car pulled up outside with a crunch of tires on our pebble driveway. Normally, he pulled in slowly so the pebbles didn’t spray everywhere, but not today. He must’ve already been on the way home from Memphis if he got here this fast.

Mama knocked on my door a few minutes later. Pips, Daddy’s fixin’ to bury Jester. Did you want anything buried with him? His toys? Anything? Her voice was watery and sobby.

My wall was thick. I’d built it thick. How about…everything?

Everything? Mama repeated.

I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. There wasn’t a reason to keep anything. It’d grow all moldy and vile. If all his toys were buried, I wouldn’t have to look at them and be reminded there was no dog using them anymore. The guilt would still be there, no matter what, but maybe I’d forget now and again.

Fine, she said eventually. Her footsteps retreated down the hall.

The light from the window slid across the floor as the sun moved through the sky. Outside, a shovel slid in and out of the earth with a shoosh, shoosh—like the ground was hushing the memory of my dog. The ground between Jester and me was another layer on my wall. When the noise stopped—when I was sure what had once been my dog was deep underground, I got up off my bed.

There’d been no sirens. In our family, we didn’t talk about things we didn’t want to believe had happened. It was like with the toys. They were gone. Jester was gone.

The itching, which the cut had pushed off, was coming back. The air around me was tight and dusty. The whispers came. In my head. The whispers screamed and filled my mind like a crowded room. I’ll never be clean again. I’ll never be good enough. My fault. My fault.

I changed clothes. Those clothes had touched death, and the red shirt reminded me of all that blood everywhere. Normally, I wore dark colors, or red in case my cuts bled, but I slipped on the farthest thing I owned from blood-red—a blue-checkered sundress. The thick straps might show my cuts if I wasn’t careful, but I was nothing if not careful. Tragedies didn’t happen to the things I loved ’cause I was so careful. Things didn’t get broken, but Jester was good and broken—broken to bits.

It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me.

So, who was