Blackwood by Gwenda Bond Page A

Sidekick, blushing when she considered the porch. Phillips had been about to kiss her. And then the porch light, and his dad…
      She groaned and pulled the covers over her head. How would she face Sara? Who had let her stay in this nice house, who offered her turkey sandwiches and bubble bath?
      When she closed her eyes, her father's too-pale face swam before her. So instead she studied the ceiling, painted the pale blue of a spring sky. She remembered Phillips' reassurance that her mom wasn't watching, but the truth was: she wanted her watching.
      Miranda rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, waiting until her father's face faded and left only darkness.

The Island
     
 
    The waves heaved against the shore in muted attack. Sand refused to shift and trees held still and inland streams flowed slow, soft. The island listened for the crash and roar of the coming storm. Craved the sound, the fury.
       The island did not care for its spirits being held quiet.
       Spirits that clamored, desperate to speak, more desperate to be heard. The boy had finally come home after too many years away. But the devil's hands have hushed and smothered them. Only those preparing to cross the border speak, and only to each other. The living cannot hear those awaiting resurrection. The living never have.
       The dead hear every twisted syllable.
       The waves and the sand and the trees listened. The island listened, and waited.
       He has fashioned his will into a reality intricate as blood and iron and words. Soon, he will unlock the passage.
       Soon, the spirits will not be silent.

10
    Biscuits and Roses
     
 
    Despite the need to get moving and find a way out of the whole 'being doomed' situation, Miranda lingered as long as she possibly could in the guest room the next morning.
      She let Sidekick out the door, knowing someone would give him backyard access, and finally managed that bath. Pacing around the guest room afterward, she picked a random book out from the shelf in the corner and started reading. The book was titled The Haunting of Hill House and unsurprisingly involved an old house that was supposed to be full of angry ghosts. When the sense of dread in the book began to mix with the one already hovering around her like an aura, she tossed it aside and checked the clock.
      10am.
       Sigh. She straightened her T-shirt, and left the room.
      She almost missed the single flower waiting on the floor outside the bedroom door – a perfectly formed rose made of… duct tape. Intricate silver folds shot up in a spray of triangular points to form the bloom, tear-shaped leaves dropping from the thick stem.
      Picking the unreal flower up, she twirled it, feeling a lot better about facing Sara's disapproval if Phillips wasn't going to be guy-like and ignore the night before's almost . That was what she'd feared, mainly because the only guys she knew were jerks (witness Bone).
      She slipped the rose stem through a loop on her jeans. The motion reminded her of sliding a hammer into place on her tool-belt. Concern spiked through her for the people at the show – even His Royal Majesty and demon Caroline. And, of course, Polly. Missing Polly.
      The smell of frying food tempted Miranda the rest of the way down the stairs and to the kitchen. Sara stood at the stove, transferring crisp slices of bacon onto a plate covered with a paper towel. Sidekick waited next to her, tail thudding against the cabinet, observing her every move with great hope. A heap of scrambled eggs waited on another plate.
      Miranda hovered at the entry. "Should I set the table?"
      Sara's head whipped toward her, startled, and Miranda couldn't stop a cringe as she waited to see whether she was in for cold distance or a heated talking-to.
      Instead Sara gave her a non-angry mother smile. "Why doesn't my son ever make that offer? That'd be great." She waved her spatula, "Plates are right up there, silverware in that