Blood Brothers (10 page)

“Dakota,” Lucy announced, “this is going to take a while.”

They'd spent the next three hours deep in conversation.

And Lucy had told her everything.

From that first night of fleeing into the cemetery, to Matt's strange behavior this evening at the church altar.

At the beginning, Dakota kept quiet. A question here and there, a point that needed clarification—but generally, silence and a steady, solemn gaze. When Lucy finally exhausted herself and leaned back in the kitchen chair, only then did Dakota move, as though shaking off the spell of Lucy's narrative.

“Wow,” she said quietly.

“Just ‘wow'? That's it?”

“I don't know what else to say. I mean . . . you really expect me to believe all this?”

Lucy's heart sank. She gave a miserable nod.

“I do.” Dakota nodded. “I
do
believe all this.”

“You . . . do?”

“Lucy, I told you before. I believe in everything.”

So simple. Just like that. Lucy hadn't known whether to laugh or to cry.

“But I'm cold inside,” Dakota added. “I'll have to keep thinking about this. It's a lot to take in all at once.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Lucy replied glumly.

“I don't think I can. I think that part would be totally beyond my range of comprehension.”

Lucy managed a smile. But one nagging question had kept at her, looming larger than all the others.

“Do you really think he's Byron's brother?” she asked.

“Well . . . why would he make up something like that?”

“I don't know, that's what bothers me so much. I mean . . . why would he suddenly show up now? Asking all those questions about Byron's funeral?”

“There could be a million reasons. Just because Byron never talked about him doesn't mean they're not brothers. And if he
looks
that much like Byron—”

“He does. So much, it's actually scary.”

“And didn't you say Father Matt was trying to find some of Byron's relatives?”

“To help with his grandmother, yes.”

“Then I'd say Jared is the least of your problems,” Dakota concluded. “Considering everything you've told me, and putting it all in perspective.”

Lost in their own thoughts, the girls sat for a while, neither of them speaking. It had been Lucy who finally broke the silence.

“Dakota . . . why
me?
”

“Why
not
you?” Dakota's answer was quick, but not unkind. “Remember that night in the bookstore when you saw Byron at the window?”

How could Lucy forget it? Uncomfortably, she lowered her eyes.

“Do you remember what I told you?” Dakota persisted. “About your being gifted? And brave?”

“Sort of.”

“And how I knew you had an aura—a very special energy—like Byron's, only a whole lot stronger?”

“I remember.”

“And how I told you to trust your instincts?”

Lucy nodded.

“So . . . what are your instincts telling you now?”

Lucy looked up into Dakota's calm stare. She wrapped her fingers tightly around her cup, but her hot chocolate had gone cold.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “I don't feel like I know
anything
anymore. Nothing makes sense.”

“But don't you see—that's just it. Things
never
make sense till they're
supposed
to. Answers don't come till we're able to understand them. And truths can't be revealed till we're ready to accept what they are.”

A slight frown touched Dakota's brow. Her voice grew pensive as she reached over to squeeze Lucy's hand.

“This is one thing I believe. I believe we don't discover our purpose all at once. I believe we have to be eased into it, little by little . . . sort of like practicing. Till we're strong enough to handle it on our own.”

“So . . . you're saying . . . what exactly are you saying?”

Lucy had wanted explanations. An end to all the madness. But what she'd gotten instead was Dakota's quiet prophecy.

“You've been chosen for something. Some destiny that's way beyond anything we could ever imagine.”

“Don't tell me that, Dakota. Just tell me what to do!”

“I can't. But when it's time . . . you'll know.”

 

So now they were sitting here eating at the run-down diner.

Because after their conversation, Lucy had needed noise and life and a sense of normalcy, no matter how false it might turn out to be.

She dragged one French fry through a thick pool of ketchup.

The red liquid reminded her of blood, and how she'd had to shower and change again before they'd come here, to wash away the stains and the smell and the shock of her day. From a distance she heard Dakota talking to her, and her mind snapped back into the present.

“What did you say?” Lucy asked.

“I said, you need to write everything down.”

“Write what down?”

“Everything. Everything you told me. Everything that's happened to you since you came to Pine Ridge.”

Lucy made a face. “What good would that do?”

“Well, just think about it. If you died mysteriously or disappeared again, you'd have documentation.”

“That's a pleasant thought.”

“You should keep a record of every experience. Like a diary.”

“Are you planning to publish my memoirs after I die and make a lot of money?”

“No. I'm being practical.” Dakota sucked thoughtfully on her straw. “So . . . when are you going back?”

“To the church?” Lucy gave a weary shrug. “I can't just leave him there. But it'll be harder to get inside this time—and I
really
don't want to get arrested for breaking and entering.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“If you come with me, he'll know I told.”

“But if he looks at my face, he'll know I'm very trustworthy.”

Lucy couldn't help but smile. “You have a point.”

“I just can't believe you didn't take toilet paper.”

“What?”

“You brought all that other stuff for him, but you didn't bring toilet paper.”

Lucy stared at Dakota. Dakota stared back.

“No toilet paper,” Dakota sounded distressed. “And even worse . . . where's he supposed to go to the bathroom?”

“You know, I really don't think—” Lucy began, but before she could finish, a young man with spiked orange hair raced up to their booth and immediately plopped down beside Dakota.

Dakota just as immediately looked annoyed. “Lucy, this is my brother, Texas.”

“Texas Montana?” The words were out before she could stop them, but Lucy managed a quick recovery. “The musician, right? Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, how ya doin'?” The guy jerked his chin at her, though his attention was focused on Dakota. “You heard the latest?”

Dakota deliberately mulled this over. “The latest. Meaning . . . some earth-shattering event that actually broke up band practice tonight?”

“Couldn't practice without my bass guitarist, right?” he threw back at her. “Greg got called in.”

“Greg works for the sheriff's department,” Dakota explained.

Lucy nodded politely, but a prickle of apprehension was starting up her spine. Dakota's brother was so wound up, he was almost shaking.

“So he knows about that murder, right?” Texas went on. “That Wanda Carver girl?”

Lucy put her hands on the edge of the table. Her knuckles went white as she began to squeeze.

“You won't believe what happened to her.” Texas's face was incredulous. “I mean—this is so, like, right out of the movies!”

“She fell,” Lucy insisted firmly. “Someone pushed her.”

“Yeah, well, maybe, but that's not all. And you can't say anything, 'cause the cops don't want anybody to know.”

He motioned both girls closer. They leaned in over the table. He placed one arm over each of their shoulders and ducked his head down between them.

“That girl was drained, man,” he whispered. “There was hardly any blood left in her whole body.”

Lucy stared up at the bedroom ceiling.

She was holding the medallion Matt had given her, stroking it absently with her fingers.
“Someone gave me this a long time ago . . . an ancient holy symbol . . . helped through some pretty rough times . . . give it a try . . . special to you . . .”

She'd almost forgotten about it through the drama of these last few days. She'd stashed it in her nightstand, where it had slipped to the back and gotten wedged behind the drawer. But tonight, after she'd washed Jared's clothes, and rounded up more towels and blankets, and fallen exhausted into bed, she'd found the medallion again, and she'd remembered Matt's words, and she'd longed to be comforted.

She still couldn't make out the medallion's design. Nor had she been able to discover what the carved symbol meant. The one time she'd tried to ask Matt about it, they'd been interrupted.

But now she squeezed it tightly with both hands. She'd been lying here for hours, unable to sleep and unable to turn off her thoughts.

The death of Wanda Carver haunted her. The last moments of Wanda's life and what the poor girl must have gone through—the panic, the absolute terror and pain . . .

And Lucy hadn't known either.

That day when she'd bumped into the cheerleaders, when she'd had that first inkling of Wanda's death . . .

How could she have known then that the death she'd seen in her vision would turn out to be a murder?

“I tried to warn her,” Lucy whispered. “I tried to help.”

And what was it Byron had told her? That day they'd been together, an eternity ago?

Lucy tossed restlessly beneath the covers.

It didn't surprise her that the police would be close-mouthed about Wanda's death. For a thorough investigation, they'd need to keep certain clues confidential. And they'd definitely want to prevent an outbreak of hysteria in the community. But who—
what
—could have done something this brutal to another human being? It
couldn't
be human itself, Lucy rationalized—it would have to be some sort of wild animal . . .

A sinister chill crept through her. She huddled beneath the blankets, like a child afraid of the dark.

She was letting her imagination take over. Even an animal wouldn't be able to do what had been done to Wanda Carver. Even an animal couldn't drain a body of that much blood.

What if there really
were
some animal that could do those things?

She was afraid to look at the curtains now, or the sliding glass door . . . afraid to peer out on the balcony. Suddenly she was afraid to look anywhere, afraid even to move.

Because what if some horrible evil
had
come to Pine Ridge?

Hiding in cemeteries . . . roaming through woods . . . watching through windows in the night?

Her heart was pumping out of control, ice-cold terror coursing through her veins. The whole room was closing in.

For suddenly she sensed that she
had
. At some long-ago time, in some long-forgotten dream, she'd looked into its face and heard the sound of its voice . . .

Like something was touching her now . . .

For one brief instant, the memory burned fierce and deep, and Lucy almost remembered.

Almost . . . but not quite.

Groggily, she sat up and reached for the blankets.

They were folded around her ankles, though she didn't recall turning them down. The medallion had dropped to the floor.

She tucked the covers under her chin.

Almost . . . she could almost remember . . .

So dear to her . . .

And so deadly.

The change in Lucy would be slow.

A transformation so subtle she would scarcely even recognize it in herself.

A delicate altering of the senses . . . a slight shifting of perceptions . . . so gradual . . . so very gradual . . .

Leaving emptiness in place of memories.

And realities where only disbelief had been before.

But most of all . . . most important of all . . . fixing
him
first and foremost in her mind.

It was
already
happening, in fact.

He had watched from the balcony tonight—watched her deep distress and restlessness—and he had suspected that she was trying to remember him.

And when she fell asleep those few brief seconds, he had crept in to her. Gently turned down her blankets. Caressed her with a slow and tender touch.