07 The Return_ Midnight - L. J. Smith

knew she had to keep going. Isobel might be unconscious or too hoarse to answer. Meredith dropped
to her knees, crawling on the ground where the air was slightly cooler and more clear.
Okay. Isobel’s room. She didn’t want to touch the door handle with her hand, so she
wrapped her T-shirt around it. The handle wouldn’t turn. Locked. She didn’t bother to investigate
how, she simply turned around and mule-kicked the door right beside the handle. Wood splintered.
Another kick, and with a wooden scream the door swung free.
Meredith was feeling dizzy now, but she needed to see the entire room. She took two
strides in, and—there!
Sitting up on the bed in the smoky, hot, but otherwise scrupulously tidy little room was
Isobel. As Meredith neared the bed she saw—to her fury—that the girl was tied to the brass
headboard with duct tape. Two slashes of the stave took care of that. Then, amazingly, Isobel moved,
raising a blackened face up to Meredith’s.
That was when Meredith’s fury peaked. The girl had duct tape across her mouth, to
prevent her from making any cry for help. Wincing herself to show that she knew this was going to be
painful, Meredith grasped the duct tape and stripped it off. Isobel didn’t cry out; instead she took in
lungful after lungful of smoky air.
Meredith stumbled toward the closet, snatched two identical-looking white shirts, and
swerved back to Isobel. There was a full tumbler of water right beside her, on the nightstand.
Meredith wondered if it had been put there deliberately to increase Isobel’s agony, but she didn’t
hesitate to use it. She gave Isobel a quick sip, took one herself, and then soaked each shirt. She held
one over her own mouth and Isobel mimicked her, holding the wet shirt over her nose and mouth.
Then Meredith grabbed her and guided her back to the door.
After that it simply became a nightmare journey of crawling and kneeling and choking,
pulling Isobel with her all the time. Meredith thought it would never end, as each inch forward
became harder and harder. The stave was an unbearable weight to heave along with her, but she
refused to let go of it.
It’s precious, her mind said, but is it worth your life?
No, Meredith thought. Not my life, but who knows what else will be out there if I get
Isobel into the cool darkness?
You’ll never get her there if you die because of—an object.
It’s not an object! Painfully Meredith used the stave to clear some smoldering debris
from her path. It belonged to Grandpa in the time when he was sane. It fits my hand. It’s not just a
thing!
Have it your own way, the voice said, and disappeared.
Meredith was beginning to run into more debris now. Despite the cramping in her lungs,
she was sure that she could make it out of the back door. She knew there should be a laundry room on
her right. They should be able to feel a space there.
And then suddenly in the dark something reared up and struck her a blow on the head. It
took her dimming mind a long time to come up with a name for the thing that had hurt her. Armchair.
Somehow they’d crawled too far. This was the living room.
Meredith was flooded with horror. They’d gone too far—and they couldn’t go out the
front door into the midst of magical battle. They would have to backtrack, and this time make sure to
find the laundry room, their gate to freedom.
Meredith turned around, pulling Isobel with her, hoping the younger girl would
understand what they had to do.