The Ten Thousand Doors of January - Alix E. Harrow Page 0,74

paused, and that cold voice said, “Out of my way.” Then came harassed-sounding bickering, shuffling footsteps, and much stronger, frame-rattling thuds.

OF BLOOD

Where? My eyes felt distant in my skull, as if they longed to soar upward and leave my bleeding, hurting body on its own. I didn’t have an address, couldn’t even point to the place on a map, but it didn’t matter. Believing is what matters. Willing.

AND SILVER. I curled the blade around the final letter and thought of Samuel.

The new letters quashed up next to the first sentence I’d written, so that it all ran together in a single story I desperately, madly believed: She writes a Door of blood and silver. The Door opens for her.

The stepladder gave a final, fatal crunch. The door pressed inward against the tumble of cleaning supplies and broken wood. But I didn’t care, because at the same moment I felt the swirling, shifting madness of the world reshaping itself, followed by the most unlikely thing in the world: a fresh breeze against my back. It smelled of pine needles and cool earth and warm July lake water.

I turned and saw a strange, gaping wound in the wall behind me, a hole that glinted with rust and silver. It was an ugly, crudely drawn thing, like a child’s chalk sketch made real, but I recognized it for what it was: a Door.

The closet door was wedged halfway open and a white-fingered hand was reaching around its edges. I scuttled backward, sliding through my own blood and realizing from the queer ache in my jaw that I was grinning a fierce, flesh-rending grin, like Bad when he was a few seconds away from biting somebody. I felt the Door at my back—a blessed absence, a pine-scented promise—and crammed myself through it, shoulders scraping raw against the rough-hewn edges.

I fell backward into the swallowing darkness and watched as faces and hands swarmed into the closet, a many-armed monster reaching after me. Then the nothingness of the Threshold ate me.

I’d forgotten how empty it was. Empty isn’t even the right word, because something that’s empty might once have been full, and it was impossible that anything had ever existed in the Threshold. I wasn’t entirely sure I existed, and for a terrible moment I felt the edges of myself dissipating, unraveling.

That moment scares me even now, with solid wood beneath me and warm sun on my face.

But I felt the worn leather of The Ten Thousand Doors beneath my blood-sticky fingers and thought of my mother and father diving from world to world like rocks skipping across some vast black lake, unafraid of falling. Then I thought of Jane and Samuel and Bad, and then, as if their faces were a map unfurling in the void, I remembered where I was going.

Rough edges pressed against me again, and a darkness formed that was infinitely less dark than the Threshold. Musty wooden floorboards appeared beneath me. I fell forward and curled my fingernails against the floor as if I were clinging to a cliff face, the edges of my book pressing painfully, wonderfully against my ribs. My heart, which seemed to have disappeared in the Threshold, thundered into existence again.

“Who’s there?” A shape moved across the floor, casting moon-edged shadows over me. Then, “January?” The voice was low and female, rolling through the vowels of my name in a fashion both foreign and familiar. The word impossible sprang to mind, but the past few days had fatally weakened my entire concept of what was and wasn’t possible, and it slunk furtively away again.

Oily golden light flared. And there she was: short hair limned with lamplight, dress disheveled, mouth slightly open as she knelt beside me.

“Jane.” My head felt far too heavy. I laid it down and spoke to the floor. “Thank God you’re here. Wherever here is. I know where I was aiming, but you never know, with Doors, do you.” My words were soupy and slurred-sounding in my ears, as if I were shouting underwater. The lamplight seemed to be dimming. “But how did you get here?”

“I think the more interesting question is how you got here. ‘Here’ being the Zappia family cabin, by the way.” The dryness of her tone felt brittle, forced. “And what happened to you—there’s blood everywhere—”

But I was no longer listening. I’d heard a sound from the shadowy edges of the room—a lurching, dragging sound, followed by the click of claws on wood—and ceased to breathe. The footsteps padded closer,