Soul Trade by Caitlin Kittredge

Author:Caitlin Kittredge
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Published: 2012-09-03T22:51:28+00:00

14.

Pete might have spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what the fuck was happening, but there was Margaret to think of, and barely time to pull on real clothes and comb her hair before she and Jack were off again, moving toward the village green with a crowd clutching rucksacks and portable chairs, sporting a higher-than-average ratio of natural fibers and New Age bangles. Some were travelers, but some looked like ordinary folk, rumpled and red-eyed and not used to sleeping rough.

Pete didn’t tell Jack about the raven, or about what it had said. There was enough going on this morning—later, she could tell him the whole story and see if he had any idea what they might have stumbled into.

The green was just a flat space at the edge of the village, bounded on one side by a series of stone buildings and on the other by rolling open country. A hill fort looked down over the grassy expanse, blocking the light and trapping the mist in a low bowl of shadow and chill.

The crowd congregated under a white tent, the sort used for church fetes or picnics.

A plywood stage had been constructed at the edge of the green, and four small chairs sat across the length. Pete intended to slip in the back of the tent, but Norma Smythe spotted her and dragged her to the front of the crowd, to assorted grumbles from the surrounding hippies.

“Oh, shut it,” Jack said. “Smear some more patchouli on your nethers and calm down.”

Norma gave him a dirty look, and Pete tried to smooth her over with a smile. “Sorry. We’re just a bit tired.”

“Stay here,” Norma said. “We’ll find you when it’s over.”

Pete looked for Margaret, but when she found her, she was being held tightly by Philip, who gripped her arm as though it were a leash. Margaret had circles under her eyes even deeper than Pete’s, and she slumped in her father’s grip like a broken toy.

“Shit,” Pete muttered. She had to speak to Margaret alone and find out what was going on. She chewed on her lip and tried to look interested in what was happening onstage.

“All right, then. We’re starting.” Pete tried not to stare when she caught sight of Bridget Killigan’s father. The last time she’d seen Dexter, bent over his daughter’s hospital bed, he’d looked wrung out but still lively. Now he was gaunt and pale, looking close to keeling over but for the microphone he clutched to hold himself upright. “I’ll tell you how this works, then I’ll turn this over to Philip,” Dexter Killigan said. His voice, even amplified, was a thin shred of what Pete remembered. “You can ask one question. The children will answer. Their answers cannot be disputed or argued over. You may not ask another question.” He paused, staring out at the silent massing of people with unfocused eyes. “That’s it, then.” With a limp gesture, he passed the microphone to Philip and slumped offstage.

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