History of Witchcraft waits for no woman. Now, move it.” She gives one more mighty yank, and the covers go flying off my bed completely.
I jackknife into a sitting position in response, prepared to beg if I have to. But before I can even get a sad-sounding pleeeeeeease out, Macy is grabbing on to my shoulders.
“Oh my God, Grace! Are you all right?” She sounds near tears as she frantically runs her hands over my shoulders and back and down my arms.
Her obvious panic clears the last of the fogginess from my brain. My eyes fly open, and I focus on her face, which looks even more terrified than she sounds.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, glancing down at myself to see what’s got her so worked up, then freeze the second I see the blood drenching the front of my purple hoodie. My heart is suddenly pounding in my throat as panic seizes my breath.
“Oh my God!” I jump out of bed. “Oh my God!”
“Stop moving! I need to see!” she tells me, grabbing on to the bottom of my hoodie and pulling it over my head in one fell swoop, leaving my tank underneath. “Where does it hurt?”
“I don’t know.” I pause, try to take stock of what’s going on in my body, but nothing hurts. At least nothing that should warrant this kind of blood loss.
Another quick glance down shows me that my tank is solid white—no blood. Which means… “It’s not mine.”
“It’s not yours,” Macy says at the exact same time.
“Then whose is it?” I whisper as we stare at each other in horror.
She blinks up at me. “Shouldn’t you know that?”
“I should,” I agree as I still pat my arms and stomach for soreness. “But I don’t.”
“You don’t know how you’re covered in blood?” she asks incredulously.
I swallow. Hard. “I have absolutely, positively no idea how it happened.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember walking back from the art cottage last night, but I just draw a blank. There’s not even a giant wall, like what happens with the rest of the memories I can’t access. It’s just…empty. There’s absolutely nothing there.
Which isn’t terrifying at all.
“So what do we do now?” Macy asks in a voice smaller than I’ve ever heard from her.
I shake my head. “You mean you don’t know?”
She looks at me like my head just spun around three times and I’m one second away from spitting pea soup. “Why would I know?”
“I don’t know. I guess… I mean—” I bring my hands up to shove hair out of my face, then freeze as I realize they’re streaked with blood, too. And so are my forearms. I’m not going to panic. I’m not going to panic. “What do you normally do when things like this happen here?”
Now she’s looking at me like I actually did spit pea soup. “Um, I hate to break it to you, Grace, but things like this don’t happen here—at least not when you aren’t around.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Fantastic. That makes me feel so much better, thanks.”
She lifts her hand in a “what do you want me to say?” gesture.
Before I can answer her, my phone dings with a long series of text messages. We both turn to stare at it as one.
“You should get that,” Macy whispers after a second.
“I know.” Yet I make no move toward my desk, where it’s currently charging.
“Do you want me to get it for you?” she asks when it dings three more times.
“I don’t know.”
Macy sighs, but she doesn’t argue with me. Probably because she is at least as afraid as I am to find out who’s texting me. And why.
But we can’t hide forever, and when a third string of messages comes in, I bite the bullet and say, “Fine, get it, please. I don’t want to…” This time I’m the one who holds my hands up—my bloody hands.
I want to wash off, am dying to wash off, but every police procedural I’ve ever seen is running through my head right now. If I do wash up, is that destroying evidence? Will it make me look more guilty?
I mean, it sounds awful, but I am currently covered in someone else’s blood and have no idea how it happened. Call me pessimistic, but it sounds like a road map to prison to me.
And I know I should be concerned about who I might have hurt but, well, sue me that I don’t feel bad if someone attacked me in the tunnels