98.7°

[MurderWeasel]

((Robin Pounds continued from Shack Attack))

It took longer than it should have for Robin to realize exactly what was wrong.

She finally managed to distract herself enough to forget the pain, but it was primarily by letting the fatigue take over. Her eyes drifted shut, and the world spun into colors and sounds and shapes that didn't make any sense but suggested some sort of narrative. She tried to follow along, to pick out any sense, but while it all felt logical, nothing really came of it. She heard snippets of music, some of her favorite songs, but they sound wrong. Not bad, just different, out of key in a not-unpleasant way.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up. Shawn was still not around. His bags were still there, though, right where they had been before. It was lighter out. Rain splashed against the roof. Robin was drenched in sweat, but for the first time since being dropped in this valley, she didn't feel so muddled. Yeah, her nose was still stuffed and her throat still scratched and she was still chilled, but the cool now came from the dampness rather than an imbalance in her internal temperature. She couldn't say if the fever had broken for good, however, not for sure. Sometimes they would play dead, only to make resurgences later on. She certainly felt better at the moment, at least.

Standing was a slow process, because her stiff and aching muscles hadn't appreciated her passing out on the hard floor, but she stretched a little and was able to work out most of the knots. She massaged her arms, easing the tension from her forearms and shoulders, loosening herself up. Her right wrist was swollen, and it hurt when she moved it, but her range of motion was not severely impaired. Nothing was broken, or at least nothing really important.

She cleaned her face again, using wipes from Shawn's first aid kit. She was sure he wouldn't mind. She was able to find her reflection in the window again. There were three scabs running the length of her face, and she sure didn't look good, but it really could've been worse. She was still recognizable, at least. She didn't think she looked monstrous, and if she did, so what? It wasn't her fault. Thinking back to the night before, Robin felt some of her anger building again. She'd been lured into a trap. An attempt had been made on her life. And what had it been for? What had she done to deserve it? Why had Bailey singled her out?

She didn't really want to answer those questions. Instead, she set to work on the gun. It was a little tough to understand the instructions, something not helped by the places where her blood had blotted out parts of words, but she finally got a new bullet readied. The gun held only a single shot, it turned out. It was a very old weapon—the same model, the pamphlet informed her, that had been used in the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln. The instructions told Robin more about how to hold it, how to avoid hurting herself again. She would be able to defend herself, now, from anyone else who tried to hurt her or Shawn. She wouldn't have to mess around with rocks, never again. She could just shoot trouble the second it reared its head, and that would be the end of that. She practiced aiming a little, but didn't fire. She didn't want to draw anyone with the noise.

It was only after she got bored of this that Robin realized that Shawn had really been gone a lot longer than made any sense at all. It had been, at the very least, a couple hours since she had stumbled back into the shack, dripping blood all over the place. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she realized that there were more dangerous people in this valley, that killing Bailey had not put an end to all risk. What if Shawn had been killed while she slept? What if he had been taken hostage, or had gotten lost and was under attack even now?

So Robin pulled herself up and slouched her way out of the shack. The wind felt warmer than it had before, even as rain pelted her, slicking her hair to her forehead. Robin carried her bag with her, and Shawn's, too. It was heavy and unbalanced her, but she wasn't going to abandon their supplies if she had to race off to the rescue. She held the gun in her right hand, ready for trouble, for anything. She followed along the path she'd taken before, noting how different it looked with a clear mind and an attentive eye. The recollections of her chase were hazy, twisted. It wasn't as far as she'd thought. Moving more slowly, it wasn't tiring at all.

Before long, Robin came to Bailey's body.

The ground around the girl was discolored with dried blood. That wasn't what drew Robin's attention, though. Something had changed since she and Bailey had parted ways. Something was different, and in a way that made her stomach sink. Next to Bailey was a pad of paper.

Robin leaned over, looked at it. Something had been removed from it, a faint rectangle still outlined in blood. There was also writing on the book. Robin only had to read the first sentence to grasp what it meant.

Bailey hadn't been quite as dead as expected. She'd told. She'd gone and tattled, even as she lay bleeding out. She'd spilled the beans, and Shawn had found her, and that was why he wasn't back. He wasn't going to be coming back. He'd taken a look at this girl's body, maybe even exchanged a few words with her before she passed on, and he'd decided that Robin was a crazy murderer, and he'd left her forever. He'd abandoned her to die, thrown her aside like so much garbage. He'd given up on her.

All of a sudden, the world felt very, very cold.

Because, really, had Bailey been wrong? It wasn't just one girl accusing Robin, but three. There was Emily, lying broken at the bottom of a cliff. There was Zora, her head smashed in. There was Bailey, right here, haloed in blood. And Shawn had said the third strike was it, and he hadn't been making excuses at all. He'd really meant it, and Robin had just struck out.

She took a deep breath and screamed.

She'd murdered. She'd murdered three people, and she'd driven away the one person who had cared about her at all, and it really was her fault. This was all the result of her actions, the endpoint of a course that only she had charted.

And yet, that wasn't quite true. If Bailey hadn't left her stupid little dying words, then Shawn would have come back, and Robin could have talked to him. She could have explained, because she hadn't struck out at all. She'd been ambushed and threatened and had done nothing but defend herself and him. She'd been on watch and had only followed Bailey to keep Shawn safe, and sure, she'd murdered Emily and Zora, but Shawn hadn't cared about that. He hadn't left her over those things, no, he'd waited until the one time she was honestly innocent, and then he'd skipped off without even a goodbye. It was Bailey's fault, and right then, it wasn't nearly enough that the girl was dead. Robin pulled her leg back, thinking she'd kick her fallen foe, maybe stomp her face to a pulp. It wouldn't help, but it might feel better. She was about to lash out, when a thought crossed her mind.

It wasn't truly Bailey's fault at all.

Bailey had said what she thought was true. It wasn't, but could Robin fault her for that? She'd been dying, and there were few things as terrifying as expecting to die alone. And Bailey hadn't forced Shawn away. He'd done that of his own accord. He'd abandoned her, after all they'd been through, after taking her in and keeping her safe, keeping her company. Shawn had left her to die on the words of some crazy girl, and blaming anyone else for that was just hiding from the truth.

The truth was, Shawn just hadn't had any faith in Robin. He'd probably taken on too much responsibility. Maybe he'd been looking for a reason to ditch her for a long time. After all, hadn't he originally implied that he would only stay with her until they found shelter? But no, he'd taken advantage of her, then discarded her the second she was inconvenient. He'd used her, had let her get rid of threats while at the same time keeping his own hands and conscience clean. And now, now that they were close to the end, now that one of them might get to stay alive, he'd left her, hurt and alone, to die, because he didn't need her any more. Maybe he'd even known that she would have second thoughts. Maybe he'd known that she'd start to feel some regret for Emily and Zora, for two innocent girls whose lives she had taken.

But, Robin thought with a smile, Shawn didn't really know her at all. Nobody did, not even her sisters or her parents. Robin hadn't known herself until a few days ago.

Because Robin had a secret skill, a special talent, and that private little ability was making people hurt and then die. And if Shawn had abandoned her, had thrown her to the wolves, he would find that she did not fall so easily. He wasn't going to get away with this. Shawn was not allowed to leave her. Not ever, certainly not without her permission. Not without at the very, very least doing her the common courtesy of saying goodbye. That would have been enough, just a few words, a "Sorry, you screwed up. I need to be alone." That little touch, and maybe she could have believed that he was being genuine. But she had cared for him, and it was so apparent now that he had never cared for her, and so the only thing left to do was make him suffer a lot before he died.

And if there was any small part of Robin that was crying out against this plan, it was not so very hard to silence. The rain was pouring down on her, and the wind was chilling her to the bone again, and she had a purpose in life. She wasn't going to make it through this. She was pretty sure of that now. Alone, she stood almost no chance, and that was if she played it smart, stayed still and tried to stay out of trouble. If she was out making more of it instead, she'd be lucky to last another day. But a day would be enough. It had to. Because she would find Shawn, and if she found anyone else before him, well, they would just have to die, too. Shawn had a self-image as a protector, taking care of innocent little girls. He wouldn't like knowing that Robin was carving them up, and if he heard, why, he might just take it upon himself to try to stop her, and then she would have him again, would have him all to herself and he would not walk out on her again.

It wasn't like she could be damned any more than she already was. Any bridges were burned long ago. She didn't think about the people watching, because surely they were trying hard not to think about her.

Robin knelt next to Bailey, tugged loose the scarf the girl had been wearing, and laid it across her face. There were no hard feelings there. Not anymore.

No, all of Robin's negative emotions were reserved for those who were still alive.

She dumped Shawn's bag on the ground, rummaged through it, took his first aid kit and food and then kicked the bag into the mud that the rain had formed. She stomped on it, ground it with her heel, beat it until she was panting. She didn't want him coming back and finding anything useful.

Then she set off, on the hunt. She stumbled as she walked, taking a faster pace than before, but it didn't matter.

Very little mattered now.

((Robin Pounds continued in The Hecate Sisters))