Blood Brothers (18 page)

She was used to bad news by now. But the book was in her backpack, and she had to finish reading it. She could hardly keep from fidgeting. She watched Irene's face, but it told her nothing.

“Lucy, I don't want you to think that I'm staying away indefinitely. This job in Paris isn't permanent, you know.”

Hesitantly, Lucy nodded.

“I just don't want you to think that . . .” Irene plucked nervously at the sterling silver chain around her throat. “I don't want you to feel that I'm abandoning you.”

Wow. Matt must have laid a
huge
load of guilt on her tonight.

This time Lucy shook her head.

“Father Matt thinks this is a wonderful idea, your living with Mrs. Wetherly. A marvelous opportunity for you. And I agree with him.”

“You . . . do?”

Lucy had been totally shocked. She'd stared at her aunt with suspicious disbelief.

“And,” Irene went on, “it seems to resolve many of my concerns for you. You'll have a safe place to stay, and I'm sure you'll be an enormous help to Mrs. Wetherly. You'll be earning money of your own. And it will certainly give me peace of mind while I'm gone.”

But Lucy felt too preoccupied to hold a grudge. Relieved about staying with Gran, and stunned by her discoveries in the book, her mind had continued spinning in a dozen different directions.

“Well, it's late,” Irene announced. “We both should be getting to bed.”

Hardly able to contain herself, Lucy waited while Irene turned off the first-floor lights. Then she followed her aunt up the stairs.

On the landing, Irene paused. She'd looked at Lucy with a frown that was almost defensive. “I'm glad you're home safe,” she'd said.

But Lucy scarcely heard. All she could think about was the book.

She locked her bedroom door, got undressed, and put the medallion back in her nightstand. Then she showered in record time, threw on pajamas, and jumped into bed.

She'd been pondering the book all night. Ever since she'd deciphered that last mysterious message.

She'd decided it was a hoax, of course.

It had to be.

The whole idea of “undead” was just too fantastic, too unbelievable.

Someone had made it up, like a ghost story.

Someone had made it up and written it all down to look like a journal. But it wasn't a journal at all—it was a work of pure fiction, just the renderings of a brilliant imagination.

She told herself this as she propped herself up in bed, holding the book open on her lap. She told herself this while at the same time she wondered how she could possibly have read and understood the unknown language it was written in.

How weird was
that
?

She told herself it was just another prank; she told herself a lot of things.

But the truth was . . . the book was
real
.

The book was
genuine
.

And Lucy had no clue how she knew this.

She just
did
.

She'd found it. And understood it.

And as she sat there flipping slowly through the pages, she summoned all her concentration and touched the letters once more with her fingertips.

Nothing happened.

She tried again. She pressed her fingers to the words and held them there, but absolutely nothing came into her head.

She was absolutely certain this time.

In fact, here was the sketch of the faceless angel, and the bold writing beneath it.

Once more she'd focused. Once more she'd touched her fingers to the letters.

Nothing.

She told herself all she needed was rest.

A good night's sleep to replenish herself by morning.

Frustrated, she'd closed the book and laid it on her nightstand.

She'd promised herself to wake up refreshed, and then she'd try again.

And this time she would understand every word . . .

 

“The news is,” Matt said, “that Father Paul might be leaving us.”

Engrossed in her own thoughts, Lucy said nothing.

“Hey, are you there?”

“Sorry. Yes, I'm here. He's moving?”

“Retiring, I think is how they're putting it.”

“So . . . you'll be the only priest now?”

“Looks that way. And don't sound so disappointed. Oh, there goes that phone again. Look, how about I pick you up? Quarter till?”

“Quarter till. And Matt?”

“Hmmm?”

“I really am happy about living with Gran.”

“Good. I want that in writing.”

She heard the click on Matt's end of the line. She sat there and clutched the receiver.

What was it Dakota had told her? That she should write everything down? So if she mysteriously died or disappeared, there'd be documentation?

Well, it was time.

Lucy took out a clean notebook and a pen. She sat cross-legged on her bed, and she thought.

At first, she didn't quite know how to start.

And then, finally, she wrote.

Everything.

Just like she'd told Dakota.

Lucy wrote all morning—racking her brain, trying to recall every detail.

She wasn't sure why she felt such a sudden need to do this. Maybe it had something to do with finding the book in the mantel. Maybe
that
had inspired her to write her own unbelievable story. Maybe someday someone would read her own personal journal and want to believe it as much as she wanted to
be
believed.

But then again . . . maybe her words would be doubted.

Just as she doubted the words of that strange and magical book. Those words she'd been able to translate.

Those words that hinted of truth.

She didn't realize how much time had passed. Checking the clock, she hid her notebook and hurried downstairs just as Matt rang the bell.

She didn't even have a chance to say hello before he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Great news, Lucy.”

“What?”

“Jared Wetherly called me this morning. Right after I hung up with you.”

Lucy stared at him. “Called you? From where?”

“I assume from the place he's staying. Although he sounded like he was in a cave or something—it had a funny echo.”

Was there a phone in the church cellar? She didn't remember one.

“He's ready to meet his grandmother.” Matt sounded pleased.

“He is?” Lucy told herself she shouldn't really be surprised. She'd seen how Jared's wound had miraculously healed. And he couldn't hide forever. Sooner or later he'd have to face what was left of his family and reconnect at some level. She knew she should feel glad about it, but for some strange reason it depressed her.

Matt helped her into the Jeep, then sat down behind the wheel. “I'll drop you off at Mrs. Wetherly's. You and she can have a nice chat while I go pick up Jared—and then we'll all sit down to Mrs. Dempsey's pot roast and homemade apple pie.”

“Sounds good,” Lucy agreed without enthusiasm. “Where are you picking him up?”

“You know that bed-and-breakfast on the north edge of town?”

“You mean Stratton House?”

Matt looked dubious. “I . . . think that's it. All I know is that it backs right up to the woods.”

The woods.
Was that where Jared had been attacked, she wondered? But there were lots and lots of woods around here . . . it could have happened any place.
Like the woods behind Irene's house . . . like the woods around the park . . .

“Are you okay?” Matt eased up on the accelerator and gave her an anxious glance.

“Sure.”

“You seem a million miles away.”

“Just thinking.”

He slowed at a railroad crossing and glanced at her again. “It's gonna be fine, you know. She'll love you.”

“Thanks. But that's not what I was thinking about.”

Before he could respond, Lucy turned and fixed him with a solemn frown.

“Do you remember when Byron died, and you went to Gran's house to tell her?”

Matt looked puzzled. “Yes.”

“You said the front door was unlocked, and she was sitting up in bed, just like she was waiting for you.”

Matt nodded, but didn't speak.

“So here we are, not saying anything to her so she won't worry. But what if she already knows? What if she knew before we did?”

Matt considered this. They were on Gran's street now, and Lucy could see the Victorian house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The two of them sat there while the Jeep idled at the curb.

“How could she know about Jared?” Matt asked reasonably. “She
lived
with Byron—she
raised
Byron. They were close.”

“How did she seem when you told her Jared was here?”

“I haven't told her yet.”

“Matt!”

“I know, I know, but he asked me not to. He said he wanted to tell her himself, in private. He said he wanted it to be personal and . . . and special.”

“You're the one who said another shock might kill her!”

“Well, I thought maybe if you were there with her, it wouldn't.”

“You're the priest. You're the one who's supposed to be good at handling things like this.”

“Who told you that?” But at Lucy's sigh of exasperation, Matt rushed on. “Look, all I'm saying is, there's no possible way she could know that Jared's coming here. There's no . . . connection like she had with Byron. She wouldn't necessarily have any memories of Jared if his father took him away that young. Maybe she wasn't even living here when it happened. Maybe she never even knew about Jared at all.”

“How could she know about Byron and not Jared?” Lucy insisted. “How could she not—”

“I'm late,” Matt broke in. “Sorry, but I've got to go across town . . .”

“That should take a good five minutes.”

“Funny. I'll be back in a little while.”

Lucy got out of the Jeep, but Matt added one last thing.

“Lucy—about that headstone. I think you're right about Irene. I don't want her to be there when I take it.”

Lucy gave a distracted nod. She couldn't think about the headstone now—not with Jared and Gran to deal with. She could see Mrs. Dempsey waiting for her in the front doorway, yet she stood there on the curb, watching Matt drive away.

She didn't know why this was bothering her so much—this link between Jared and his grandmother. She supposed it was because Byron had told her about Gran's ability to “see” things before they happened. But maybe Matt was right. Maybe Gran never even knew about Jared. Maybe Jared had been a well-kept secret.

Lucy walked up the sidewalk to the porch. Mrs. Dempsey was glaring at her.

“She wants to see you right away. I got the house fixed up just the way she likes it. Special occasion and all.”

“It looks beautiful,” Lucy agreed, noting the thoughtful touches Mrs. Dempsey had added. As on Lucy's previous visit, everything gleamed and shone; there wasn't a speck of dust to be found. Vases of fresh flowers filled the house with fragrance, wafting together with the comforting smell of roast beef and fresh-baked bread. The same large cat was here as well—only this time it watched Lucy from behind an umbrella stand in the hall.

Yes,
Lucy thought suddenly, and with some surprise.
Yes, this is where I belong.

It seemed so right somehow.

Almost as if she were coming home.

“Well, go on now.” Mrs. Dempsey broke into Lucy's reverie. “She's waiting.”

Lucy remembered her way to the bedroom. She walked down the hallway, then paused a moment right outside the door.

Gran motioned her in before Lucy even knocked.

Still lying in the old-fashioned bed, surrounded by fluffy white covers and soft stacked pillows trimmed in delicate lace. Her nightgown was still the color of cream, and her long braid of silvery hair still fell across one tiny, thin shoulder. It was obvious that she'd been beautiful when she was young. She still was.

“Big day,” Lucy said, almost shyly. She walked toward the bed, then began to notice that Gran wasn't smiling. That those huge dark eyes, so much like Byron's, were pinned intently on Lucy's face.

Lucy faltered. “I . . . I don't know how to thank you, Mrs. Wetherly. Byron loved you so much. I just feel . . . honored.”

Finally . . . a feeble attempt at a smile. Gran moved her left hand again and gestured Lucy to come closer.

“What is it?” Lucy asked softly. “Is there something you want me to do?”

She could see the slate and the piece of chalk.

The painstaking movement of Gran's palsied hand as it scratched childlike letters across the surface of the slate.

DANGER.

Lucy reached out in slow motion. Trembling, she closed her fingers around Gran's.

“What is it?” she murmured. “What's wrong?”

“We're here!” Matt called from the porch.