They’re as black as sin.
I scream and I faint, and when I come to, I’m back in my bed, and the hooded boy is next to me. He holds my hand and his fingers are pale.
“There’s a ring,” he tells me. “And if you give it to me, your brother will always be safe.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, and I’m paralyzed with fear, at the mere thought that Finn might someday be in danger.
“You aren’t crazy,” the boy says. “What you dream is real. What you see is real. There is more to your family then you know.”
But the moonlight, the moonlight, it shines into my room and it illuminates his eyes and they’re black black black as night, and I scream so loud my room shakes and my parents come running.
When they burst through the door, the boy is gone.
“There was a demon here,” I cry, but there isn’t anything here now, and they can see that. “His eyes were black,” I insist, and I swear I swear I swear my father looks away, almost like he feels guilty.
I swallow hard, I swallow my fear and it tastes almost like poison.
“I saw you outside,” I tell them. “I heard what you said. Why does grandmother always get her way? And Sabine?”
But my mother looks at me blankly and my father kisses my forehead.
“Honey, that didn’t happen,” she says, and my father nods in agreement.
“You must’ve been dreaming,” my father adds, and while that should comfort me, it doesn’t.
Because the hooded boy, the boy with the black eyes, told me that my dreams are real, and if they are, if that is true, then my parents are lying and the world is a scary scary place.
Chapter Ten
The conifers, the ferns, the never-ending moss…all of it is wet, all of it is suffocating. I run down the path toward the cliffs, and I feel like I can’t breathe, like my chest is constricted, like there’s a rock on my ribs, crushing my bones.
“That’s what Dare feels like,” a voice calls from behind me. I turn, and it’s the boy, and he’s whispering, but in my ears it echoes like a scream. “His heart hurts, Calla, and it’s your fault.”
I spin around and face him, and my hair whips in the wind, my pink Converses slip slip slipping in the rain.
“What do you mean?” I ask, and I’m panicked, because when he speaks to me, it always feels true. “What’s wrong with Dare?”
“His heart is weak,” the boy says and his eyes penetrate me, seeing into my soul, reaching in and twisting it, twisting it, twisting it. “You gave him your heart condition. It was supposed to be yours, but you gave it to him. Iniquum, Calla.”
Unfair.
I’m confused because that’s not right. I would never. I would never. I would never hurt Dare.
The hooded boy nods. “No, you didn’t do it on purpose, but Fate is Fate, Calla. It must be paid. But you can change it.”
I stop, and the rain runs down my face, soaking my shirt and I shiver in the cold.
“How?” and my voice comes out like a whimper.
“You just can,” the boy says, and for one minute, I see his cheek and it is silver in the moonlight. “By night you are free.”
“By night I am free.” The words the words the words seem familiar and I don’t know why. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Yes, you have,” the boy nods. “Think about it, dream about it, because your dreams are real.”
My dreams are real.
I’m dreaming now.
I thrash in my bed and Finn wakes me up and his pale blue eyes are so worried.
“Cal, are you ok?”
His skinny hands grip my arms, and I’m shaking in the sheets. Finn curls up with me and holds me, his cheek against my hair. “I’ve got you. It’s fine, Cal. It’s fine.”
His breath is warm and familiar, and his heart beats against mine, in perfect rhythm, because we are the same, he is mine and I am his, and we’re twins. We’re closer than closer than close.
“I had a bad dream,” I whisper, and my face sinks into the pillow. I can’t stop thinking about it, and the words swirl in my mind.
By night I am free.
By night I am free.
Finn eventually falls asleep in my bed, holding on to me for dear life, so afraid that I’ll slip away into something bad, into something panicky or manic. I won’t. Because I’m restless and I feel I feel I feel like the answer is here, it’s here somewhere, it’s close.
I cautiously crawl from the bed, careful not to wake my brother. I drift through the house, moving from room to room, and I feel like I’m pulled to something to something to something .
I float through the visitation rooms, past the caskets and the corpses and the flowers. I drift through the chapel by the piano past the altar. I stroll into the Salon, and I stop in front of the window seat and Finn’s journal is there, on the cushions.
The Journal of Finn Price. It’s embossed on the leather and it was a gift from my parents. He hasn’t had time to write much yet, but it’s his and it pulls me and I open it.
It’s blank, the pages are white, but something something something makes me run my fingers over the linen pages, and there are indentions, like someone pressed hard into the paper.
I turn on the lamp and I hold the paper under the light and there are words there, words scratched into the pages, like someone pressed hard on a pen and the pressure bled through.
Nocte Liber Sum.
Nocte Liber Sum.
By night I am free.
I am stunned, and I drop the journal because the words the words the words are the same. I curl up on the seat and I soak in the moonlight and I’m overwhelmed.
What is happening to me?
What is real?
I don’t know anymore.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I fall asleep, curled up into a ball, and when I sleep I dream.
I dream of Dare, and I dream of Whitley. I dream that Dare is not at the whim of my uncle. I dream that he is free, he is free
He is free.
Chapter Eleven
The plane ride seems ridiculously long this year and my gawky adolescent legs are cramping when we finally de-plane. I walk stiffly through the cluttered halls of Heathrow.
I immediately find Jones waiting for us and we pile into the dark car that will take us to Whitley. The entire drive, through all of the rolling English hills, there’s only one person I can think of.
Dare.
I’m fidgety and my brother notices. He puts one pale hand out to still my bouncing knee.
“What is your problem, Cal?” he asks, his thin eyebrow raised. There’s concern in his eyes though. I see it before he hides it.
Like always, the concern I see there is for me.
He’s afraid I’m fidgety because I’m manic. He thinks I’m flying high, unable to come down. There’d only been one episode like that this year, and it was months ago, after Mr. Elliott died. I’m better now, so there’s no reason to worry today. Sometimes, I resent their concern. I resent seeing it in their eyes. I resent that their concern is necessary.
I shake my head, though, pushing my annoyance down. It’s not their fault I’m crazy. “I’m fine. Just tired of traveling.”
He nods and he’s not convinced, but he never is. He always, always errs on the side of caution when it comes to me.
He reaches over and grabs my hand and holds it for the rest of the drive.