Why not? Did it really matter? Did my survival really matter to anyone?
Yes, it did. It mattered to me, even if I could not have said why. And so I went on struggling. I have been trying to find physical analogies for the battle, but there is no point. It was a war of souls, more painful, more bitter and more difficult than anything I have ever endured. Physically he raped me; mentally I continued to resist. And as I went on resisting, holding out against all the odds, Jade had to shift more and more power to our spiritual struggle, leaving our bodies to sweat and grapple as they would, leaving them as unimportant.
And so it was that I could act. So it was that my hand, moving helplessly on the ground, flopped like a beached fish, grazed the knife that Jade had used to kill Yolanda. It was a very sharp knife. I scarcely felt it cut me, although from the corner of my eye I saw the fresh red bead the surface of skin already stained with another’s blood.
I didn’t think. I was too occupied with holding my own against Jade to be able to plan. My hand grasped the knife almost of its own volition. My arm rose languidly into the air and came down on Jade’s back as if I wished to pull him closer to me. But the hand held a knife, and the knife plunged deep into Jade’s naked, laboring back.
The shock of it made him pull out of my mind, although not my body.
We stared at each other. His eyes were only a man’s eyes now. No fire, no strength, only pain and bewilderment at the approach of death. I felt new strength. He pulled away from me and tried to rise. I stabbed him again.
I don’t remember much about going away from that place.
I remember the two bodies lying in the chalked circle, their blood eating away at the boundaries of it and seeping into the porous rock. I remember bending over Jade, feeling for breath or pulse, needing to know for certain that he was dead.
It is nearly night, now. I sent the children to Hannah’s house. This is my confession: I killed the man called Jade. It was self-defense, although I do not expect anyone to understand that. I suppose I shall pay for my actions.
It is hard to direct my thoughts, and yet I know I must plan. There are so many things I must think of now. But I am weary unto death from my struggle with Jade, a weariness sleep cannot help.
I find myself thinking of Walter, almost as if nothing happened. It is easy to think of him, to let my mind slip back into old patterns. It is such a habit to think of him and to want him back. I want him still but, ironically, I hope he does not come back. I am not fit for any man now. I thought once that Walter could save me, but it is far too late for that, now. I can’t remember why I wanted Walter. I don’t know what I would say to him if he came tonight.
Who am I? I am not who I once was. I have been changed. I am not Jade, although he tried to take me, to make me another part of himself, to fill me with his own spirit. I fought him off. I survived. But having survived, where do I go now?
I kept the small jade figure and took it away with me, back to town. It lives, still, warm to the touch and tingling with the same energy. I have it wrapped in silk on the table before me as I write. What is it that lives within the stone? Can I make use of it? If I could turn that power to my own use . . . Some instinct warns me not to try. Perhaps I should destroy it, and end this whole affair. But I am afraid to—and I don’t want to. I want to know more. What life is it that heats the smooth stone? Would it give me Jade’s powers if I knew how to use it?
Why shouldn’t I use it, as Jade tried? Why shouldn’t I be more successful? If Walter comes
Chapter Eleven
And there the journal ended, in the middle of a line. Sarah flipped through the book’s remaining pages, hoping for some postscript, some last thoughts, but the creamy blankness was unmarred by ink. She stared at the page she had just read, wanting more from it. She felt frustrated and muddled, emerging into her own world again.
What had happened next? Had her husband knocked at the door? Had the stone figure come to life in her hands? Sarah thought of Mrs. Owens. What had she said? There had been murders in the house—plural. Both Nancy and Walter Owens had died here. But who had killed them? And why?
Sarah became aware of the silence.
It was not a natural silence. It was as if the whole house had been wrapped in a muffling cloth, isolated from the rest of the world. Sarah got to her feet, her body already tensing for the expected attack, and then the world was plunged into darkness.
The darkness was as absolute as the silence, and the suddenness of it was dizzying, as if the room had fallen away. Sarah clutched the diary to her chest and remained standing, feeling the couch against the backs of her legs. Her eyes strained against the blackness, but there was nothing to see, no shapes or shades to grade the darkness. She was blind. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and the darkness seemed to throb around her. It was as if she’d been swallowed alive by some huge animal.
It wouldn’t do her any good to think like that. Sarah forced herself to be calm and breathed slowly and deeply. She had to get out of the house, to safety. There was no reason why she had to stay here—she could find her way to the door even in total darkness. To her left was the dining room; beyond that, the kitchen, the back porch, and safety. It seemed an awfully long way to walk blind, but she had no real choice.
She had taken only the first step when she heard the breathing. She took another step and did not turn back, although her skin crawled with the awareness that there was someone behind her.
There was a sibilant whisper, scarcely louder than the breathing. Had someone spoken her name? Boards creaked, across the room, as if someone was coming towards her. Her skin prickled, electrified, as if a hand had brushed her as a teasing threat.
Sarah walked more quickly, stumbled, and cried out, bruising her hip against a doorframe. Her own breath was coming so quickly that she couldn’t hear anything else above the sound of it rasping in her ears. Her hand trembled as she stretched it out, and she had to grit her teeth, but her fingers found the edge of the kitchen doorway and she oriented herself again.
Behind her—but she wouldn’t think about that. There was nothing behind her. There was no one else in the house—only Jade. And Jade could not hurt her. Jade was not a person, not a thing, not a demon, but only the leftover echo of someone who had once lived. He had powers, still, but they were not physical powers. He could only use her own mind, her fears, against herself. All he had was trickery, and she would not let herself be tricked by him again. Feeling a little more secure in her own strength, Sarah stepped through the doorway, and into the solid, immovable body of a man. Powerful arms crushed her in an embrace.
She should have been frightened, but, for a moment, all Sarah wanted to do was to relax, to give herself up to sensation, to be stroked by knowing hands. She had turned her face up to be kissed, straining forward, when her own response, the betrayal by her own body, suddenly frightened her far more than any invisible stranger. She jerked away, flailing out with her arms and shouting incoherently. Her blows did not connect. There was no one there.
Panting, her shoulders slumped. “No,” Sarah said, in case her point had not been taken. “I won’t—I don’t want you. Stay away from me.”
Jade’s voice came out of the darkness, cold and distinct. “You have not learned yet, have you, Sarah? A woman has the right to play coy, but there are limits. There comes a time to say yes instead of no. And if you will not . . . if you still reject me . . . then I shall have to show you what I do to those who reject me, to those who try to escape me.”
“You can’t,” said Sarah. “You’re not so powerful. I know what you are. I’m not afraid of you.”
“Aren’t you?”
“You’re not a demon, at all. You’re just a man—just what’s left of a man—a man who somehow didn’t die when his body did.”