Lux (8 page)

I chase the light, up the stairs, and when I finally see light underneath the door-crack of a lone door, I burst through it and come skidding to a halt.

I’m in an abandoned nursery.

It’s got two bassinets and a creepy rocking horse. Its wooden eye watches me lifelessly as I idly stare around the room.

The walls are pale yellow and old, the floor is gleaming hardwood, the ceilings are high. There are chandeliers even in here, in a place where children were supposed to flourish.

But the toys are scarce and the formality is abundant.

The silence is unnerving.

There are no children here but something something something pulls me.

The silence roars in my ears and my feet move on their own accord, toward one of the bassinets. It’s still, it’s quiet, it’s eerie, and when I get to the edge, I pull on it with my fingers and it rocks toward me.

A hoodie is lying inside.

It’s a simple jacket, but it’s the one the boy was wearing and it fills me with dread, and I sink sink sink with it to the floor, and the floor seems to swallow me, seems to grab at me with barbed fingers.

“This was your mother’s nursery,” Sabine says from the door. “And Richard’s.”

Two bassinettes, which indicates that they were babies at the same time.

My heart pounds.

“Are they…I didn’t know… are they twins?” My words are limp, and Sabine doesn’t truly answer.

“Twins run in your family, girl.”

She trails her twisted fingers along the walls as she paces paces paces toward me, and with each step, her face seems to get more grotesque under the twisted scarf of her turban.

She drops something into my hand and it’s a locket and it’s inscribed with a calla lily. “Go ahead,” she urges me, and it comes open in my hands.

There are pictures inside.

One of Eleanor, when she was very young, and one of another woman.

They both look young, and dark-haired and dark eyed and

Oh

My

God.

“You,” I breathe. “It’s you. Are you and Eleanor… sisters?”

“Twins run in your family,” she says simply.

She sinks to her heels next to me, and she pulls me to her and hums, rocking rocking rocking me, and I think she’s singing a gypsy song and I’m confounded and stunned and still.

“Did you know that sons must pay for the sins of their fathers?” she asks, and then she hums again, and again and again. “Roma believe that, and it is true. Roma beliefs are different from yours, but we know. We know.”

“What do you know?” I ask her the question as I slightly pull away, trying to look at her face.

“We know what you don’t want to see,” she replies. “We know the things that aren’t explainable, the things that don’t seem possible. We know things happen that are bigger than us, more powerful than us. And sometimes, a sacrifice must be made for that.”

“What do you mean?” I ask and I’m afraid, so so afraid, so afraid that I want to break free and run.

“A sacrifice is something you give,” she looks at me, her dark eyes so cold and flat. “You give it willingly, to save something important.”

“I know what a sacrifice is,” I tell her. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Everything, my girl. Everything.”

I break free from her grasp and I run, and she doesn’t follow.

I
summon
all of my courage and I open the doors to Eleanor’s office.

She sits at her desk, sharp and stern in her tightly buttoned sweater and she stares over her reading glasses at me as I approach.

“Grandmother,” I say hesitantly, and she waits like a serpent on a rock.

“Yes?” her eyebrow arches.

“Will you tell me the story of our family?”

She is silent as she puts her book down and stares at me, examining me.

“You’ve been speaking to Sabine?”

I nod. “Is she your sister?”

Eleanor looks out the window and for a moment just a moment, I see the young girl in her face, the one that was in the locket. She looks softer for a second, then she hardens as she looks at me once more.

“Yes.”

“So we’re all related?”

“All?” She raises her eyebrow again.

“Me, Dare, Olivia, Finn….”

There’s something in her eyes something something something, but then it’s gone and she shakes her head and she denies everything.

“You’re still troubled, child. Olivia died when she was young. I don’t know who ‘Dare’ is.”

“He’s her son,” I cry out, and my fingers shake. “I know him. I knew him. I was raised with him.”

“You’re so troubled, girl,” Eleanor says, and her voice is softer now, softer.

“How can we all be related?” I ask and I feel weak now, like my knees will collapse.

She sighs and she breathes. “Because our bloodline is pure,” she says and I think briefly of the royal bloodlines of Egypt. They married amongst themselves to keep their bloodlines pure.

“Like that,” she says and I don’t know if she read my mind, or if I said it out loud. I never know these days.

“We’re from the oldest bloodline in the world,” she adds proudly. “We have powerful blood, Calla. Ancient blood. You have no idea.”

“No, I don’t,” I agree. “Does my mother?”

My grandmother seems amused. “Your mother has always known,” she tells me. “Since she was a child. She’s known her place, she knew her purpose. She was strong. Unlike you. Your mind is weak and we must handle you.”

“Handle me?” my words are a whisper and she smiles again.

“A sacrifice must be made,” Eleanor says bluntly. “And you must make it. We’ll shelter you and strengthen you until then, but when the time comes,
you will be strong,
girl.”

It’s a directive, not a question.

I will be strong.

I’m not strong now as I fumble out the door and trip down the long halls to my bedroom. When I arrive, when I tumble through the door, Dare is sitting in my window seat and he’s pale and he’s troubled.

“Something isn’t right,” he says, and his British accent is clipped. “Something is very wrong.”

“I know,” I agree, and I collapse next to him and he rubs my back and we stare out the window together at the moors and the moors growl.

“We’re all related,” I tell him, and he stares at me in surprise.

“That’s not possible,” he replies, but I can hear the doubt in his words.

I nod. “Eleanor just told me. Only she said that your mother died young and that you don’t exist.”

“I’m as real as you are,” he says firmly, and his hand is on my back and he does feel real.

“She says we’re like the Egyptian pharaohs,” I explain. “Our bloodline is pure.”

“What does that mean?” Dare asks, and he’s dubious now.

“I don’t know.”

And I don’t.

D
ays turn into weeks
, and with every week, things get stranger. All traces of Dare have been eradicated from Whitley. Not a picture, not a mention. I’m so convinced that I’m crazier than ever that I even stop confiding in Finn.

It’s not something my brother appreciates.

“You’re not yourself,” he announces one day in the library. “Something’s wrong and you’re not hiding it very well.”

He’s so worried that it twinges at my heart. I want to tell him, I wanttowanttowantto. But I can’t. Can I?

“Have you ever imagined someone into existence?” I ask him carefully, grabbing his hand and squeezing it ever so softly.

“No,” he answers slowly. “Have you?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I thought we had a cousin. A step-cousin. But everyone is acting like he doesn’t exist, like he never did. And I’m starting to wonder if I made him up in my head.”

Finn takes a breath, then another, and he squeezes my hand, and squeezes it hard. “Delusions are common with your condition, Cal,” he finally answers. “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you dreamed him. You’re fine. I promise, you’re fine.”

“But you don’t know who I’m talking about?” I ask softly.

Finn shakes his head slowly.

No.

But Dare is so real.

Dare is real now as he sits across the library and stares at me, listening to our words and smirking.

He’s real when he follows me back to my room, and he’s real as he leans against the door.

“Come with me back to Astoria,” I suggest. “We’ll get this sorted.”

“What a British thing to say,” he grins.

“That’s the meanest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

He laughs, completely unoffended.

On the night before I leave for home, Eleanor comes to my room, creeping in the dark, moving in the shadows. Her skinny arms are like limbs, the shadows scraping the walls like dead leaves.

“Calla, I have something for you,” she tells me. I sit up in my bed, startled because I’d never even heard her come in and she’s never been in my room before.

She holds her hand out, and a ring glistens in her palm.

It’s silver and shiny, a plain band, thick and heavy.

I look at her questioningly.

“It was your grandfather’s,” she says simply by way of explanation. I take it immediately, curiously examining it by moonlight. It feels cool in my hand, significant somehow.

“Did my grandfather die because he wanted to?” I ask. “To get away from you?”
Because that’s what people say.

Eleanor actually laughs, a husky noise in the night.

“Child, your grandfather never did anything he didn’t want to do. And that included dying. He was like you, you know.”

This grabs my attention with both hands and holds it.

“What do you mean?” I ask sharply. “How was he like me? He was crazy, too?”

She sits next to my bed. “Don’t say you’re crazy, Calla. It’s demeaning and you’re a Savage. You aren’t understood, and I can’t explain it. That doesn’t mean you’re crazy. Your grandfather was a good man, and he was just like you, only he wasn’t strong enough to sustain. He couldn’t keep going on. But I know that you are. Keep his ring. It will hold you to the ground, and help you to always remember where you are. When the time comes, you’ll do what is right.”

This is confusing and I tell her that. She smiles again.

“Give me your hand.”

I obey and she strokes the palm, her brow knitted together as she examines me.

“Your heart line is broken, child,” she murmurs, tracing it with her fingers. “It forks into two, then three. It’s as I’ve always said. One for one for one.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. I’m sure it’s a valid question because
how confusing.

She ignores me. “Your life line is long and deep,” she announces. “It indicates you are stronger than you know, that you are cautious.”

“I don’t feel strong,” I tell her.

“I know,” she answers. “But you are. Your life line breaks into many branches, which means you have to choose. You have to choose, child. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I have to choose what? Choose what? To live?”

What a silly thing.

Eleanor stares at me, unflinching. “Take your grandfather’s ring. It belongs to you more than anyone else.”

It will hold you to the ground and make you remember where you are.

“Who am I?” I ask, and my question is desperate and my words are hot.

Eleanor shakes her head. “You’ll figure it out, and it will all be as it should.”

Her words swirl and twirl, and an image comes into my head, something I’ve never seen, but I have. Somehow.

Files, in a drawer, in Eleanor’s desk. My name, and Finn’s name and Dare’s name.

My eyes meet her and I’m defiant.

“If Dare isn’t real, why do you have a file in your desk with his name on it?”

She looks at me and her gaze is hard, and it’s like rocks, like pebbles, like stone.

“You don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

“I do,” I insist, and I think harder, and they’re like memories, and I don’t know where they came from. “Finn and I inherit your fortune, but Dare doesn’t. Only if we die.”

It’s proof it’s proof it’s proof.

“Calla,” she sighs. “You don’t understand.”

She pulls me up and I go with her to her office and she opens her drawer and there
are
files in there. Two. One with my name and one with Finn’s. We inherit the fortune, but Dare

But Dare

But Dare.

I’m confused and my grandmother’s lip twitches as she stares as me in the dim light from the lamp.

“Your riches don’t come from money anyway,” she assures me. “So don’t fret. Your riches come from your blood.”

I go back to bed and I pray for Dare, I pray that he’ll come to me, but he doesn’t. I fall asleep in confusion, but that’s nothing new it’s nothing new, I’m used to it.

The night passes slowly, and Dare doesn’t come until the next morning.

“I’ll miss you,” he murmurs as I climb into the car and my head snaps up and he’s gone.

His brilliant smile is the last memory I think of before I board the plane for America. It’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep that night, and it’s what I dream about as I sleep in the familiarity of my room in the funeral home.

Dare. I need him.

I need him here.

I can’t be without him.

He can’t be gone.

He knowsme knowsme knowsme.

I wake to find Dare seated on the edge of my bed, calmly watching me sleep.

“How did you…” I breathe, and I’m confused and startled and afraid. He smiles again and his black eyes glint in the morning light.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re here.”

He arcs an eyebrow. “It seems so.”

Happiness bubbles up in me, through my belly and into my chest.

“I’m glad,” I murmur.

“Me too.”

Dare finds the funeral home fascinating, and I take him on a tour. Through the embalming rooms, the Viewing Rooms, the chapel. I show him where we keep the caskets when they come in, where my father keeps the hearse and the family cars. The things that other people find so creepy, and that I find just a normal part of life.

“It smells like flowers here,” Dare observes, his large slender body filling the doorway.

“It does,” I agree. “It gets into your clothes and then you smell like a funeral home all day.”

“Nope,” he answers. “Just flowers.”

I let it go because I’d rather smell like lilies than death any day of the week.

I show him the beaches and the ocean and our sailboat. I show him the Carriage House and the forest and the cliffs. “Watch your step here,” I tell him seriously. “The ledge is thin.”

“Will do, mate,” he answers.

Mate?

I don’t want to be his mate. I want to be…

I don’t know what I want to be.

But when I show Dare the old abandoned amusement park the next day, Joyland, I take a minute to scratch our initials into the wood.

DD and CP.

It’s Valentine’s Day so it feels appropriate.

Dare smiles, and rolls his eyes.

“You’re 13. I’m 16.”

I lift my chin. “So? In a couple of years, we’ll be 16 and 19. And I’m the only one who knows you exist.”

That feels so strange to say, and I briefly think that he’s my imaginary friend. Don’t most children have them?

But staring at him makes warmth gush to my girl parts, and I don’t think imaginary friends do that.

Dare chuckles and we leave the park. “So talk to me about it when you’re 16,” he suggests. But his voice is filled with somethingsomethingsomething.

Interest?

Promise?

Darkness.

I don’t know.

All I know is that when he is with me, I feel invincible. I feel strong. I feel like me, but a better version.

So I do the only thing I can think of to do. I slide my grandfather’s ring off of my thumb and give it to him.

“I can’t take this,” he protests softly, but he’s so so touched, I can see it.

“It will remind you of where you are,” I tell him. “And
who
you are. I want you to have it. You’re a Savage, too. As important as anyone else.”

He slides it onto his middle finger and the movement is mesmerizing, and the sheen of the ring the sheen of the ring the sheen of the ring shines in the light and the world swirls.

It swirls

It swirls

It bends

It breaks.

The pieces drift around me and form pictures and I feel I feel I feel like I’ve been here before.

I stare at Dare, and he’s different, he’s older. My hand is older, too. Long and slender and strong, as I reach out to touch Dare’s face.

“Do you want to turn back, Dare?” I ask, and my voice is flirty, and we’re here in Joyland but it’s older and dirtier.

“Not on your life.” Moonlight shines upon his face, and drenches us, illuminating the dark stubble outlining his jaw.

“Let’s do it then.” I smile, and my heart is full and we disappear into Nocte.

The darkness swallows us, then blends together, then falls away, and then I’m once again standing in the sun, and Dare is staring at me, confused, bewildered.

“Calla?” There’s concern in his voice, and there is no stubble on his clean-shaven face.

I shake my head, shaking all of the confusion away, because it’s notrealnotrealnotreal.

“I’m ok,” I whisper, but I’m not really. Because sometimes I’m here, and sometimes I’m not.

Keep his ring. It will hold you to the ground, and make you always remember where you are.
Eleanor’s words echo through my head and I focusfocusfocus on them.

I’m here.

Dare’s here.

Yet a minute ago, as real as anything, I wasn’t here. I was somewheresomewheresomewhere else.

We go home, back to the funeral home, and the days inch, fly, swirl past. They turn into weeks, and the weeks turn into months, confusing wonderful beautiful months.

Dare spends my birthday with me, then two. He spends Christmas. He spends every day in between. Every day, he becomes more and more unsettled.

Because he’s not real.

Because I don’t know
what
he is.

“If I could fix everything, I would,” I tell him one day as we stand on the cliffs. The wind whips at my hair and I shove it away. Dare stares at me and there’s sadness in his eyes.

“I know, Calla Lily.”

He’s so vulnerable, and sad, and he’s seventeen now and I’m fourteen.

I lean up, because I need to kiss him more than anything in the world.

“Kiss me,” I whisper, looking hungrily into his eyes. He looks away and the warmth the warmth the warmth. It warms my belly and floods my heart.

“I shouldn’t,” he answers, low and husky, and he’s unsure because he might be a figment of my imagination, or we might be related, and he shouldn’t he shouldn’t he shouldn’t.

But he wants to. I can see it see it see it. His eyes are cloudy and tormented.

“Do it anyway,” I reply, hoping, praying, holding my breath.

So he does,

He lowers his dark head and his lips press into mine, hard, warm, firm, real.

My first kiss.

Kissing him is like taking a fresh wintry breath. It gives me life, it fills me up, filling all of my darkest, most emptiest places.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Dare mutters, yanking away, and I don’t want him to leave, but he does it anyway.

He stalks away and I trail behind, my fingers on my lips, still in too much wonder to care that he’s regretful. I know why… because I’m fourteen and he’s seventeen and he’s my cousin and he thinks that creates a chasm.

But it doesn’t.

It’s not a chasm,

It draws us closer together.

He’s mine. He just doesn’t know it yet.

After dinner, I find him down at the woodshed, punching at it like a machine.

“Dare, stop!” I plead, holding onto his hands, trying to prevent him from injuring himself further. There is blood on his shirt, blood gushing from his knuckles. His face is so tormented, so pained.

“Do you know what it’s like not to be able to change something?” he asks, and his voice is so ragged, so painful to hear that it tears my heart into ripped pieces.

“Of course,” I tell him. And I lead him to the Carriage House where I clean up his wounds.

He strips his shirt off and muscle ripples from the top of his back to the bottom, and LIVE FREE is bold and strong. I can’t breathe because he’s beautiful and warm and vibrant, and he’s right here.

So close.

So close

So far away.

He studies me, my face, my eyes. And when he sighs, it’s such a lonely sound. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he says and he’s resigned. “Not like I do. Because you don’t remember everything, but I do.”

I open my mouth to reply, but he doesn’t allow it.

“I’ll be sleeping here in the Carriage House,” he tells me. “Instead of in the funeral home. It’s for the best. Maybe things aren’t going to change after all, this time. Maybe this will always be how it is, and if that’s the case, then I just want to let go, Cal.”