Page 127 of The Sister's Curse

I turned back to Monica. She was starting to pass out.

She was certainly going to hate me for what I was going to do.

I ripped her leg off the spike. She screamed at me, cursing a hundred words I had never heard strung together. Blood splashed.

I ripped my belt out of its loops and fastened it around Monica’s upper thigh. I wrenched it tight, with all my strength. At this point, she was going to lose either her leg or her life.

She cringed, gripping her leg. I held tight to the tourniquet.

“Stay here,” I ordered.

Monica nodded. Her lips were turning blue.

“Sing with me,” I said, desperately. I knew her favorite song, improbably, was “The Wreck of theEdmund Fitzgerald.”

“The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee…”I began, singing in my terrible voice.

Monica joined me. Her voice was dim, but she could still carry a tune.

The end of a bedsheet slapped me in the face. Drema peered down at me. “We’ve gotta get her out of there.”

Still warbling about the woes of theEdmund Fitzgerald, I flung the end of the sheet back up to Drema, forming a sling.

I picked Monica up off the spikes, and her song wavered. None of the other wounds were life-threatening, but the sooner we could get her up, the sooner the squad could take her to the hospital.

“Have you got this?” I hissed to Drema.

She was braced with one foot on either side of the doorframe, with the ends of the sheet wrapped around her wrists.

“I do Pilates,” she growled. “Lots and lots of Pilates.”

I put Monica in the sling, supporting her from the bottom. I picked slippery footing among the spikes, pushing up as Drema pulled.

Drema was strong, far stronger than I expected. She pulled Monica up through the doorway and into the kitchen.

I climbed back up over the banister, my hands slick with blood.

“I’ll flag down the squad,” Drema said, scrambling to her feet and charging out the front door.

I yanked on Monica’s tourniquet, and she nearly slugged me. She looked at me through slitted eyes. “You know what really sucks about this?”

“What?”

“That I’m gonna be too fucked up to wear that pink leather miniskirt I ordered.”

—

The squad swept into the house, seized Monica, and swept back out of the house in moments. There were lights, sirens, and then silence.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Drema asked, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I don’t know.” My voice hitched. Monica was my mentor. My friend.

And without her, I would be totally alone.

Drema pressed her bloody hands to her face. “Jeff’s a monster.”

I inhaled, trying to break out of my mental paralysis. “You need to get somewhere safe, someplace where he can’t get to you.”