Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 Read Online Free Page A

not in my bed? He does not possess the power I do to control his traveling, no matter how many times I have patiently tried to teach him, and if he leaves me… ah well, I suppose I would have to find him again and teach him a lesson in faithfulness. Silly boy.
    He is the only friend I have ever had, really. I can count my friends on one finger:
    Luke.
    I had an imaginary friend as a little girl. I had not yet learned of my abilities, and I was lonely in the village. Old Babba ignored me mightily, with a steadfastness that shocked even me. I had to invent my playmates as no flesh and blood children would come near me. Their parents said my family had abandoned me, left me to my evil ways. I was ashamed and refused to admit they must have fled somewhere. Like an unwanted changeling baby, I was left behind in the care of an old woman who despised me.
    My favorite make-believe friend loved me all the same. She knew all my darkness and cared not a farthing. She was quite un-judgmental. I have not had such good luck with friends since that time.
    But my thoughts ramble again. This is supposed to be a memoir, and I hardly have anything else to do with my time. My fingers are cramped from writing, but I will continue.
    I was seven when Old Babba finally died. Couldn’t have come at a better time really, as she was really beginning to anger me quite constantly that year. My temper was frightful, I can admit, and sometimes she would lock me out of her dreadful house. I was as skinny as a string bean from her feeding me barely enough to keep me alive, and we were always doing this ridiculous dance around each other, trying to out-ignore one another and watching the other without seeming to. She was scared to death of me, only God knows why, and I didn’t exactly trust her either. Both of us used to feed bites of our food to the dog to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. It was only a matter of time before one of us succeeded in doing in the other.
    In the end though, even I was hardly equipped for murder at the ripe old age of seven, and Old Babba kicked the bucket naturally enough. Hardly surprising; the hag must have been at least a million years old. I made a great show of burying her, dragging her body out of the house –which was no small feat for a little girl - and cheerfully rolling it into my homemade grave. Tossing in the dirt after her was great fun too, and I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in years. I even made invitations for the villagers, inviting them to the funeral, but no one came. Can’t blame them. She really was an old witch. I sang snatches of hymns I had heard and then moved onto nursery rhymes and anything else I could put to song. I even danced a bit.
    The night I buried her was the first night I traveled. It must have been my light heart that made me sleep so well.

3
    I am groggy and listless the next day. I hadn ’t slept well; dreamt of wicked old ladies and poisoned dogs and starving little girls. I feel oddly consumed by thoughts of Rose Gray and her story. Her handwriting had become so bad by the end of last night’s reading that I had to set it aside and rest my aching eyes. She wrote (writes? Could she still be alive?) like a child, alternating between large letters, harshly drawn with her pen and ink, almost tearing through the paper, and lightly scratched, tiny, loopy letters that are nearly unreadable. It’s as if several people took turns writing. Several six year olds, to be precise.
    I cannot stop thinking of her through my breakfast of egg and toast; I cannot stop thinking of her through the plaiting of my hair; I simply cannot stop thinking of her at all.
    When I realize I could easily find out what happened to her through the files of patients I am privy to, I want to smack myself in the head for being so daft. “Really, Lizzie,” I mutter to myself as I hurriedly tie my nurse’s kerchief on my head and shove the diary in my pocket. “You’d think you haven’t a brain in your