What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) by Delany Beaumont Page A

“Agreed?” she says, not commanding but asking.
    Aisa says, “What about her?” She points in my direction.
    Moira answers quickly, “I don’t care about her right now. If you want to keep her around for a while, fine. Let’s have them chain her in the cellar of the Orphanage for now.” She passes her torch to Needle and claps her hands again. “Children, come get her. Hurry up. Take her back with you, over the bridge and back home.”
    The wraiths, the Black Riders, turn from us and pay no more attention to me or to the other normal ones. They hover around Gideon’s body murmuring, jostling for the space closest to it. They look like a swarm of black crows in the darkness, pecking away at something.
    Someone grabs me from behind, yanks one of my arms back, then someone snatches my other arm and pulls me away. The heels of my feet bounce across the bricks. Soon I can’t see anything beyond the glow of the bonfire as it collapses in on itself.

Part Four
    The Orphanage
One
    In a dream, Larkin is talking to me. Something about us going swimming tomorrow.
    In my worst moments, I dream about Larkin.
    There’s a swimming hole, placid and deep, behind a rocky shelf in a creek near Oxbow Ferry. It’s close to the fields where we’ve been picking blackberries. The water there is cold and clear. We’ve started to bathe there.
    It’s only during the summer that we can really wash ourselves clean. I’ve been bringing the girls down there almost every afternoon. We bring soap and shampoo. We lather up, then rinse ourselves off by splashing and diving as far down as we can. Under the cold water, I imagine trout nudging up against us, crayfish skittering through the mud our toes can touch.
    The hot afternoon sun always dries us off before we make it back to the house we’ve taken as our own. Once inside, we change into newfound clothes and comb each other’s tangled hair while Larkin takes CJ and Terry with him so they, too, can clean up a little and cool off.
    “We should all go swimming for fun,” Larkin says before leaving with the boys, while I’m drawing a big-toothed comb carefully through Stace’s flame-colored hair. “All of us together.”
    I snort sarcastically. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
    He gives me a gentle punch on the shoulder. “We’ll all wear suits, don’t worry. I’m sure we can find some.”
    “I don’t know… How are they going to do a good job of washing themselves?”
    “You’re always so practical.” He mimics me. “The swimming hole is only for getting clean, not for fun.”
    “I never said that. I like to have fun like everybody else.”
    “But it’s hard for you to let your guard down.”
    I know he’s right. I should relax a little.
    Then I’m looking at Larkin lying in bed. It’s that last room he occupied, in that last house we shared. His breathing is shallow, his face is pale. I bend down to kiss his feverish forehead. I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them—
    Gideon’s face is where Larkin’s should be. My lips have brushed against Gideon’s gray-white skin, cool and dry, tissue paper thin and flaky like an old hornet’s nest. His black eyes are open, staring out at nothing. I pull back in horror, as if I’ve just kissed a snake or a spider.
    Gideon’s face blurs into Larkin’s and then back again. Both faces have a hole in the forehead where the bullet from my rifle struck. I stare at the hole, a deep purple intrusion, sunk into the skin. How far does it go? I wonder. To the center of his brain?
    I hold my hand up before my eyes and study my fingers. I think of the one they called Needle, using one of his long white fingers to probe the wound, to explore the hole I had made in Gideon’s skull.
    I reach down and touch the wound myself. The flesh of Gideon, of Larkin—the face keeps transposing, switching from one to another—is now as cold as clay, lifeless. I watch my own index finger, moving beyond my control, as if it’s