Night World 4,5,6- Dark Angel-The Cosen & Soulmate.pdf

AUTHOR: Nightworld

TITLE: LJSmith - NW04 Dark Angel

CHAPTER

Gillian Lennox didn't mean to die that day.

She was mad, though. Mad because she had missed her ride home from school, and

because she was cold, and because it was two weeks before Christmas and she was

very, very lonely.

She walked by the side of the empty road, which was about as winding and hilly

as every other country road in south-western Pennsylvania, and viciously kicked

offending clumps of snow out of her way.

It was a rotten day. The sky was dull and the snow looked tired. And Amy

Nowick, who should have been waiting after Gillian cleaned up her studio art

project, had already driven away-with her new boyfriend.

Sure, it must have been an honest mistake. And she wasn't jealous of Amy, she

wasn't, even though one week ago they had both been sixteen and never been

kissed.

Gillian just wanted to get home.

That was when she heard the crying.

She stopped, looked around. It sounded like a baby-or maybe a cat. It seemed to

be coming from the woods.

Her first thought was, Paula Belizer. But that was ridiculous. The little girl

who'd disappeared somewhere at the end of this road had been gone for over a

year now.

The crying came again. It was thin and far away-as if it were coming from the

depths of the woods. This time it sounded more human.

"Hello? Hey, is somebody in there?"

There was no answer. Gillian stared into the dense stand of oak and hickory,

trying to see between the gnarled bare trees. It looked uninviting. Scary.

Then she looked up and down the road. Nobody. Hardly surprising-not many cars

passed by here.

I am not going in there alone, Gillian thought. She was exactly the opposite of

the "Oh, it's such a nice day; let's go tramping through the woods" type. Not to

mention exactly the opposite of the brave type.

But who else was there? And what else was there to do?

Somebody was in trouble.

She slipped her left arm through her backpack strap, settling it on the center

of her back and leaving her hands free. Then she cautiously began to climb the

snow-covered ridge that fell away on the other side to the woods.

"Hello?" She felt stupid shouting and not getting any answer. "Hi! Hello!"

Only the crying sound, faint but continuous, somewhere in front of her.

Gillian began to flounder down the ridge. She didn't weigh much, but the crust

on the snow was very thin and every step took her ankle deep.

Great, and I'm wearing sneakers. She could feel cold seeping into her feet.

The snow wasn't so deep once she got into the woods. It was white and unbroken

beneath the trees-and it gave her an eerie sense of isolation. As if she were in

the wilderness.

And it was so quiet. The farther Gillian went in, the deeper the silence

became. She had to stop and not breathe to hear the crying.

Bear left, she told herself. Keep walking. There's nothing to be scared of!

But she couldn't make herself yell again.

There is something weird about this place. . . .

Deeper and deeper into the woods. The road was far behind her now. She crossed

fox tracks and bird scratches in the snow-no sign of any-l thing human.

But the crying was right ahead now, and louder. She could hear it clearly.

Okay, up this big ridge. Yes, you can do it. Up, up. Never mind if your feet

are cold.

As she struggled over the uneven ground, she tried to think comforting

thoughts.

Maybe I can write an article about it for the Viking News and everyone will

admire me. . . . Wait. Is it cool or uncool to rescue somebody? Is saving people

too nice to be cool?

It was an important question, since Gillian currently had only two ambitions:

1) David Blackburn, and, 2) To be invited to the parties the popular kids were

invited to. And both of these depended, in a large part, on being cool.

If she were only popular, if she only felt good about herself, then everything

else would follow. It would be so much easier to be a really wonderful person

and do something for the world and make something important of her life if she

just felt loved and accepted. If she weren't shy and short and immature looking

. . .

She reached the top of the ridge and grabbed at a branch to keep her balance.

Then, still hanging on, she let out her breath and looked around.

Nothing to see. Quiet woods leading down to a creek just below.

And nothing to hear, either. The crying had stopped.

Oh, don't do this to me!

Frustration warmed Gillian up and chased away her fear. She yelled, "Hey-hey,

are you still out there? Can you hear me? I'm coming to help you!"

Silence. And then, very faintly, a sound.

Directly ahead.

Oh, my God, Gillian thought. The creek.

The kid was in the creek, hanging on to something, getting weaker and weaker. .

. .

Gillian was scrambling down the other side of the ridge, slithering, the wet

snow adhering to her like lumpy frosting.

Heart pounding, out of breath, she stood on the bank of the creek. Below her,

at the edge, she could see fragile ice ledges reaching out like petals over the

rushing water. Spray had frozen like diamond drops on overhanging grasses.

But nothing living. Gillian frantically scanned the surface of the dark water.

"Are you there?" she shouted. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Rocks in the water. Branches caught against the rocks. The sound of

the rushing creek.

"Where are you?"

She couldn't hear the crying anymore. The water was too loud.

Maybe the kid had gone under.

Gillian leaned out, looking for a wet head, a shape beneath the surface. She

leaned out farther.

And then-a mistake. Some subtle change of balance. Ice under her feet. Her arms

were wind-milling, but she couldn't get her balance back. . . .

She was flying. Nothing solid anywhere. Too surprised to be frightened.

She hit the water with an icy shock.

CHAPTER

Everything was freezing confusion. Her head was under water and she was being

tumbled over and over. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, and she was

completely disoriented.

Then her head popped up. She automatically sucked in a huge gasp of air.

Her arms were flailing but they seemed tangled in her backpack. The creek was

wide here and the current was very strong. She was being swept downstream, and

every other second her mouth seemed to be full of water. Reality was just one

desperate, choking attempt to get enough air for the next breath.

And everything was so cold. A cold that was pain, not just temperature.

I'm going to die.

Her mind realized this with a sort of numb certainty, but her body was

stubborn. It fought almost as if it had a separate brain of its own. It

struggled out of her backpack, so that the natural buoyancy of her ski jacket

helped keep her head above water. It made her legs kick, trying to stand firm on

the bottom.

No good. The creek was only five feet deep in the center, but that was still an

inch higher than Gillian's head. She was too small, too weak, and she couldn't

get any kind of control over where she was going. And the cold was sapping her

strength frighteningly fast. With every second her chances of surviving dropped.

It was as if the creek were a monster that hated her and would never let her

go. It slammed her into rocks and swept her on before her hands could get hold

of the cold, smooth surfaces. And in a few minutes she was going to be too weak

to keep her face above water.

I have to grab something.

Her body was telling her that. It was her only chance.

There. Up ahead, on the left bank, a projecting spit with tree roots. She had

to get to it. Kick. Kick.

She hit and was almost spun past it. But somehow, she was holding on. The roots

were thicker than her arms, a huge tangle like slick, icy snakes.

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