The Silver Kiss by Annette Curtis Klause Page A

they’d found her? She tried not to look for dark stains on the ground.
    What if there were someone back here? What if she were jumped? Would that be enough? Would death let her mother go? Only one Sutcliff needed, regardless of age or gender?
    She was trying to make herself laugh at the thought, afraid to explore it, but a skittering behind a garbage canput an end to that. She turned the corner, her soft soles hitting cracked concrete silently. The alley beyond was dark, but there was light at the end, the warm glow of Elm Road. But something bigger than her moved in the shadows—in front, to the right, by basement stairs.
    She edged to her left. What was it? Could she turn and run? Was it only a flickering of the dim light just past the steps? Yes, that’s all. It made the shadows move unnaturally. She crept along, as close to the left-hand wall as possible.
    A trash can got in her way. It went flying—empty, unanchored, smashing the silence, stopping her heart. The shadows leapt, too, from the steps into the light.
    The boy crouched there shaking, eyes big as night. Blood smeared his face. Dripping feathers were clutched in his hand.
    â€œSimon,” she whispered.
    Sorrow twisted his face.
    She turned and ran.

8

Simon
    S imon hacked viciously at a broom handle with a large knife. He had stolen the knife that evening from the surplus store, shortly after he had made his decision. He muttered to himself fiercely as he worked, cross-legged, on the dusty classroom floor.
    â€œShe’ll never let me in now. She’ll never talk to me again.” I need someone, a voice inside him howled. “Damn girl,” he spat as the knife bit deep, then curled another slice of wood away from the pole.
    What was she doing there anyway? What had possessed her to walk down that alley at that time? Stupid girl. Didn’t she know better than to walk down dark alleys at night? Was she asking for trouble? “And I did want someone to talk to,” he whispered, his eyes growing misty for a moment. But the moment passed quickly, and his eyes glittered again like hard, dark stones, as he carefullytrimmed the last shreds of wood to leave a wicked point.
    I have had enough, he thought, slapping the shank of the stick into his palm. I have waited too long. He stood and swatted at the dirt begriming his clothes. The dust of the grave seemed to follow him wherever he went.
    â€œBut never death,” he muttered, “not for me, and never, ever love.”
    Like a shadow he could only live on the edge of people’s lives, never touched or touching except to bring a cold shiver like a cloud over the sun, like a shroud over the corpse. The only time he touched, it was in death, yet that was the only thing that proved he existed at all.
    â€œI know who’s trapped me in this hell, and I know whose blood will wash the anger from my heart and help me sleep tomorrow.”
    Simon reached the shadow of the bushes in the Chestnut Street backyard, in time to see the boy climb out of his bedroom window onto the windowsill. The boy was dressed for climbing in a pair of overalls on top of a sweater. There were sneakers on his feet. So, Christopher roams tonight. A thin, glittering smile slid across Simon’s face, and he stroked the sharp stick he held.
    The boy edged along the windowsill and climbed down a drainpipe with the grace of a circus performer. There was a bundle across his back. When he reached the ground he untied something, sniffed the air as if testing it, and shifted the bundle to under his arm. Simon shrank fartherinto the shadows. As the boy crept past the shrubbery, Simon disincorporated slightly to blend in with the night. He would follow the boy to a more deserted spot, where a single cry would not set windows blazing with light.
    Christopher walked with a purpose, once he reached the street. He kept to the inner edge of the sidewalk, away from the lights, but did not make as much effort to