Sleep No More. Aprilynne Pike

back so peacefully he looks like he’s sleeping. I choke back a sob and hope with all my heart that it’s just some drunk guy who fell asleep and froze to death. Not that I would wish anyone death but it would be better than … better than …

      Better than a teenage face looking up at me with vacant eyes and skin covered with a tiny layer of lacy flakes. A gust of wind clears some of the snow and then I see the bruises.

      It’s another victim.

      His coat is unzipped halfway down his chest and his scarf has been untied and pushed to the side as though to display what the murderer has done. Deep purple swatches cover his neck, almost black against his pale skin made even whiter by death. I stand there shaking, shivering, even though I can’t feel the cold anymore. He looks so serene that it’s almost worse than the gory scenes I witnessed with Bethany and Matthew. So incredibly dissonant.

      I force myself to focus—the vision won’t last forever—and I lift my eyes to his face.

      “Jesse.” My words are lost in the wind. Jesse Prince. He was in my art class last semester and we ended up being partners on a project. He had all the talent; I had all the discipline. The final result was subpar at best.

      I suck in a ragged breath and look around again. It’s an empty space—a parking lot?—and I’m standing underneath a tall lamppost with only one light functioning. Maybe a park?

      That’s it. A park. And now I can see the dim outline of a row of houses just out of the circle’s light. There’s a sign. It’s some kind of development. But as I lift my feet to get closer, the vision starts to fade. I try to run, to get there before everything goes black, but I can only lift my foot an inch or two and, within seconds, it’s all gone.

      I blink slowly, carefully, bright sunlight invading my eyes and making them sting after the pure blackness. Unfortunately because I was sitting on a slippery patch of ice, I’m now lying full out on the ground beside the rusty truck. My head sits right next to a puddle of slush and I can feel moisture soaking into my hair and dampening my scalp.

      I sit up, but don’t bother to look around. It doesn’t matter if anyone saw me; nothing matters now. Damp strands of hair fall into my face but I shove them away and push my hands into my pockets, grasping for my phone.

      I don’t stop, don’t think, and don’t let myself reconsider. My icy-cold fingers dial the number and, as it starts to ring, I get to my feet, hanging on to the truck for balance.

      “Hello?”

      A man.

      I was expecting a girl.

      A woman.

      Despite what Sierra said, deep inside I was certain it had to be another Oracle. “Hello?” My voice cracks as I answer and I have to clear my throat a few times before I can speak clearly.

      The man on the other end says nothing, just waits.

      “It’s Charlotte,” I say once I can speak again.

      I hear a long, slow breath and he whispers, “Finally,” so softly I barely hear it. “Did you see the next one?” he asks in that same, calm voice.

      “Yes,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

      “I need to meet with you.”

      I swallow hard and force my emotions back. “How do I know you aren’t the killer?”

      He laughs now, a soft, bizarre sound considering the circumstances. “Charlotte, how stupid would I have to be to try to kill an Oracle?”

      Every muscle in my body stiffens.

       Never reveal that you are an Oracle to anyone except another Oracle.

      He pauses and when I don’t say anything he continues: “You know you’re not going to die today, don’t you?”

      My silence is answer enough.

      “If it makes you feel better, you choose the place. It can be as public as you want so long as it’s somewhere we can talk without being overheard.”

      It’s still so soon after the vision that my brain and my body are moving at half speed. I should have waited to make the call until after I had recovered.

      But then I might have changed my mind.

      “The food court,” I finally decide. “At the mall.”

      “When?”

      “I’ll head there now. How will I recognize you?”

      “I’ll find you. I know you.”

      The way he says “I know you” makes a trickle of fear shiver up my spine. But I chide myself for it. Of course he knows me. He knew me well enough to learn my cell number. He’s been watching me closely enough to know that I warned Matthew.

      Of course he knows who I am. But the words make it real.

      “Ten minutes,” he says, and then the line goes dead.

      What have I done? But my fingers clench and I push my phone into my pocket. “Something,” I mutter to myself as I duck my freezing and still-damp head and turn in the direction of the mall. “I’m doing something.” Of course, the last something I did might have made things worse. But I shove that thought away. I can’t be afraid.

      It only takes me about twenty minutes to walk to the mall, which is plenty of time to feel thoroughly frozen. Coldwater’s mall is more like one hallway of a real mall, with a mini food court stuck onto the end. There are about ten tables spread out around an alcove with several skylights that are quite pretty in the summer, but make everything feel even colder in the winter. I pick a table at the edge farthest from the stores and restaurants. Everyone can see me, but the nearest seat is about ten feet away. It’ll work.

      I sit there like I’m just ditching school to meet a college boyfriend. Like I’m sneaking off for some typical teenage mischief, not supernatural lifesaving. At least I hope it’s lifesaving. If this guy can really show me how to stop this, then it’s all worth it.

      Because I’m not sure my mind can handle another kid dying. A kid pretty much just like me.

      I sit alone for a few minutes before I realize someone’s looking at me. I raise my head to get my first look at the man who thinks he can save our town from this monster.

      

      I’m not sure what I was expecting—not really certain if I was expecting anything at all. But he’s so nondescript my eyes slid right past him the first time I glanced his way and he only caught my attention when I realized he was looking at me. He’s basically average: average height, average build, average age if such a thing exists. Maybe midthirties, I decide as he gets closer. But his hair is prematurely peppered with gray, so at first he looks much older. He’s wearing nice jeans—the kind that are almost as dark as slacks—and a black peacoat that looks like half the coats in Coldwater. He’s neither handsome nor plain, but has a strange kind of in-the-middle face.

      I expect him to smile when our eyes meet. For him to try to put me at ease, get me to trust him. But the somber expression stays there as he drops into the seat across the small table from me.

      “Hello, Charlotte,” he says, and I instantly recognize the voice from the phone.

      “I don’t know your name,” I say. It’s kind of a rude way to greet him, but since he’s ignoring the meaningless niceties of meeting someone for the first time, I follow suit.

      “Call me Smith,” he says. “No, it’s not my real name,” he adds before I can scrunch my face up into a look of suspicion, “but you’ll forgive