Gifted (Awakening Book 2)

by Jacqueline Brown

  I stepped forward into the darkness. My trembling hand automatically went to a beam of wood beside me—anything to bring stability to my racing body. I felt the rough splintered wood, the corners with jagged edges. In the wood I felt … fear. I pushed my hand flat against the uneven grain. The fear was not mine. This was an empty attic, the waiter was not here—there was nothing for me to fear, and yet I felt fear so deeply I wanted to cry, to cower in a corner until someone found me and saved me. In front of me, children appeared—dark faces stared up at me. Their eyes were hollow and burning with pain. They huddled together, bodies covered in rags. It was their fear I felt. I was seeing what was not there. I tilted my head, my eyes narrowing. They were not there, I told myself, but they looked so real. I reached with my right hand toward one of them. She ran from my movement, inches from my touch.

  They saw me.

  I was real to them, just as they were real to me. They tried to hide; they were terrified of me. Not the me I was, but the me I represented. It was as if they knew who I was, but of course they didn’t. They clutched one another. The rags that covered them were not created to be rags; they were once beautiful clothes lovingly selected for each child. These children had been loved once. They were still loved, but not in this place.

  The smell of human waste wafted in the warm, humid air.

  They were so … so afraid. I wanted to help them, to tell them I wouldn’t hurt them. I moved forward, bending toward them, sliding my hand down the beam. The children pulled back. I was a threat to them, someone who was going to hurt them.

  “Siena!” I heard my name called from a great distance.

  My hand instinctively pulled away from the wooden beam. The children were gone; their haggard faces disappeared. An empty attic remained.

  My breath caught in the frozen air. My fingers went toward the beam. I didn’t want to witness the pain of the children, but I needed to understand.

  “Siena, let me in,” Luca’s weak voice called behind me.

  I reluctantly stepped back, out of the darkness. My mind cleared. I ran from the water closet and unlatched the door.

  Luca believed I was in danger; I could read it in his expression. He wrapped his fingers around my arm.

  “We need to leave,” he said, pulling me down the hallway.

  He didn’t give me the chance to speak, though I didn’t think I could, even if he’d asked me to. My mind whirled so fast that nothing made sense. Other diners stared at us; I didn’t care. I wanted out of this place as badly as Luca did. How did he know I needed him? How did he know to come to me?

  He raced down the stairs. I winced in gratitude at the pain in my knees. It reminded me of reality, that I was flesh and bones. That Luca was real, that we all were. All who were alive … were the children alive? No, they couldn’t have appeared and disappeared if they were alive.

  Luca pulled cash from his pocket and thrust it at the hostess. “This is for our bill,” he said to her without slowing down. His hand was on my back, guiding me forward.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked with feigned interest.

  “No,” he said as we hurried toward the door.

  “Have a nice evening,” the hostess called as the door swung shut behind us.

  The cold clung to the sweat that covered my body. The cold didn’t matter—nothing mattered except the haunted expressions that floated in my mind.

  Luca guided me steadily across the parking lot. One hand on my back, the other on his forehead. Part of me wanted to speak to him, to tell him what I’d seen or ask him why he’d come to me, but still, no words came.

  We reached the jeep. He fumbled with the key. His hand was shaking.

  Had he seen them too?

  He unlocked the door. I climbed in. He slammed the door and ran to the driver’s side.

  I cast a glance at the roofline of the restaurant. A dim light shone from the ladies’ restroom … beside the attic.

  Sixteen

  Luca turned the key in the ignition. The jeep followed his commands as we quickly spun out of the gravel parking lot.

  Luca held his forehead, his breathing shallow. He was in pain. After a mile or two his breathing relaxed and he removed his hand from his head, placing it carefully on the steering wheel.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice frail from the headache that was leaving him.

  Was I okay? “Yes,” I answered meekly.

  “You didn’t ask me what I was doing when I forced us to leave,” he said, trying to steady his breathing.

  “No,” I said—the thought of remaining for even a moment longer in that place engulfed me in a blanket of darkness.

  “Why not?” he asked, as if afraid of my answer. As if my awareness of all that had been in that place was even more dangerous than the place.

  “You were right,” I said, clearing my throat, my voice becoming stronger. “We needed to leave.”

  “How did you know?” he said, his voice trembling.

  Yes, he was more afraid of my awareness of the danger than the danger itself.

  I turned my head away from him, watching the trees blur past as the jeep’s headlights illuminated them. “I saw something. When I touched a beam of wood I saw ….” I couldn’t go on with the truth. “I saw something.”

  He was silent for a moment, his expression still as stone, and then he said, “Like what happened at the inn?”

  Was it like the inn? That seemed so long ago, though it was yesterday when I saw the blood dripping from Thomas’s arm, down his thin fingers.

  “Yes,” I said. If the question came from anyone else, I would have left it at that or, in truth, never mentioned any of it, but he wasn’t anyone else—he was Luca. Luca, who felt evil and saw holy souls. Luca, who for some reason, knew to find me.

  I continued. “But it was … more intense. Like it was happening now.”

  I watched him. Even in the darkness of the jeep, I could tell his dark face had turned pale.

  “You’re afraid,” I said, voice trembling. If he was afraid, how much more afraid should I be?

  His eyes flitted to mine and then back to the road. “Yes.”

  My voice shaking, I said, “Why?”

  Why was he afraid of the haunted children? He hadn’t seen them—he hadn’t felt their fear. Yet his voice trembled. My body shivered. The cold was seeping into the very essence of my soul. I doubted I’d ever be warm again.

  The trees blurred past us. Luca held the steering wheel tight, unwilling or unable to take his eyes from the road.

  “You aren’t the first person I’ve known who saw the memories of places.” His voice sounded timid and young, nothing like his normal voice.

  Even in the darkness I could sense he was near tears. His world, the world he created for himself, was collapsing in front of me. Why should the images of the past two days matter so much to him? The metallic taste of fear rose to the back of my throat.

  “Who else?” I whispered.

  He shook his head. He could not or would not answer. His face was so pale I was afraid he’d faint. He was driving twice as fast as he had on our way to the restaurant. He pulled the jeep onto a side road. Thank God the roads were clear. If he’d taken the turn that fast with even the thinnest layer of ice, the jeep would’ve been wrapped around a tree.

  My dad was right; from now on I would drive. That assumed Luca would ever venture out of the house with me again. Something about the death grip he had on the steering wheel told me that was unlikely. He guided the jeep up the hill that led to our church. He didn’t need to explain where he was going or why. He went to church often, as often as Sam would lend him the jeep. It’s where he felt the best. It made sense that he’d go there now, when he felt his world crumbling. He didn’t tell me that was how he felt, but I was right. My hands trembled. I pushed them together in my lap to try and steady them.

  Of the houses near the church, some had lights on, some didn’t. The parking lot was well lit. There were no other c
ars around. The church would be locked, but it didn’t matter. Father Luke had given Luca the code to the lockbox that held the key. It had been at Gigi’s request; Father Luke never said no to Gigi.

  Luca didn’t bother to pull into a parking spot. He stopped in front of the steps and turned off the jeep.

  “I need to go inside. Will you come with me?” Luca asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “Yes,” I said. I could never deny him such a simple request. Nor was I brave enough to sit alone in the jeep, not after the waiter … the children ….

  He jumped from the jeep. I undid my seat belt, but was still sitting when he came around and opened the door. He offered a faint smile. He thought I was allowing him to open the door for me. In truth, my mind had moved too slowly to open the door myself.

  He took my hand and gently guided me from the car. I stood, facing him, my eyes on his. I touched the side of his face. His skin was soft; he’d shaved for our date.

  “It will be okay,” I said. Why I said this or where the understanding came from, I didn’t know, but my words were true. Somehow it would be okay.

  He leaned into my touch. His eyes closed. I caressed his cheek and a tear wet my thumb. He sniffed and straightened. He opened his hand, inviting me to take it. I did so. He squeezed my hand as if determined not to let me slip away. I read too much into it—I was sure—but in his grip … I felt him holding on to me as if he was refusing to allow the darkness to steal me away.

  He started up the stairs with me by his side. When he reached the lockbox protruding from the wall of the church, he had no choice but to release my hand. Still, he kept his body close to mine.

  He entered the combination, a slot opened, and a key slid into his open hand. He took a few steps and inserted the key into the lock, pulling the door open. The foyer was illuminated by the faint blinking glow of a smoke detector. There were no windows in this part of the church. After a few seconds, our eyes began to adjust.

  Luca slipped the church key into the pocket of his jeans. Behind us, he clicked the deadbolt, locking the double doors. I felt relief when the door was locked; no one could enter behind us.

  The foyer was far from warm, but it was not nearly as cold as the outside air. Most of the time, the heat was turned off, programmed to turn on when the sanctuary was in use during Mass times. Today was Friday; the last Mass had been at noon and the church had begun cooling soon after.

  When the smoke detector blinked, I was reminded that I had not used the restroom at the restaurant. “I’m going to the restroom,” I said quietly. Even at night, with no one around, speaking in a regular voice at church felt wrong.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I’d rather you not,” I said with a wry smile.

  “I’ll stand outside the door.” He was going toward the hallway where the restrooms were.

  I placed a hand on his chest, blocking his way. “It’s okay. The church restroom isn’t haunted.” I meant it as a joke, but he took it seriously.

  “If it is, it will be with holy souls,” he said thoughtfully, “so you should be okay. They might startle you, but they won’t hurt you.”

  His words added to my fatigue. Two months ago I would’ve thought he was joking; now I knew better. Luca never joked about the holy souls. Instead he prayed for them continuously, honoring them as much as others honored saints.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  In the hallway I turned on the light. I was far too jittery to walk around in the dark, even if there were only holy souls around. The restroom light turned on by itself when I entered—a recent upgrade to the electrical system.

  I was right. There were no ghosts, no memories in this restroom, only those replaying in my mind. As I washed my hands with frigid water, I stared at my expression in the mirror. My eyes were fearful, but nothing like the eyes of the children in the attic. What had to happen to a person … a child, to create such haunted expressions?

  The foyer was empty. I went toward the sanctuary. I didn’t have to wonder where he’d be.

  My boots echoed off the worn pine floors. Hints of moonlight filtered in through the stained-glass windows on the east side of the church. The moonlight was the only light other than the candle burning inside the red glass holder. That candle remained lit as long as Jesus was in the tabernacle.

  Luca was there.

  This was where he’d spend all of his time if he were allowed to. I thought of the prophet Samuel, how much Luca would have loved to live in the temple as Samuel had done. Perhaps the prophets were the same. Perhaps they, too, felt God’s presence in a tangible way. Having Luca as an example of this brought a new understanding of what these men and women may have been like. Outside, they would’ve appeared like the rest of us. Inside, they were very different.

  Luca was kneeling, head bent low, almost touching the base of the tabernacle. There was a rug on the altar in front of where the tabernacle stood, which meant Luca could stay in that position for hours without much pain. But he never remained kneeling for hours. He knelt for minutes and then switched to a sitting position. This was at Father Luke’s request, and Luca always did as Father Luke requested.

  I genuflected, knees throbbing as I bent them, and slipped into the first pew. Luca looked up at the tabernacle and bowed again. He stood and reached out his hand, touching the gold box, a replica of an ancient temple with its carvings on the sides. He kept his fingers against it for a few seconds, head bowed. Then he removed his fingers, crossed himself, and came toward me. He knelt with both knees going down to the pine floor, an action the rest of us only did when the Eucharist was exposed in the monstrance. He bowed his head low again, then rose, and sat beside me.

  We sat in silence for several minutes. When he finally spoke, his voice was stronger, back to how it was earlier in the evening. “Will you tell me what happened?”

  I picked at a snag on my dress. “Will you tell me who else has had … who else is like me?”

  “I asked you first,” he said calmly.

  I could have argued this point since I’d asked him first, in the car, but I let it pass. It wasn’t him—that much I was sure of—nor did I think it was Sam. Who else could it be? Part of me didn’t want him to answer.

  “You were wrong about the waiter,” I said, quietly beginning. “He was not attracted to me. He recognized me … he recognized us. He’s friends with Beth. He said I was exactly as she described me.”

  “He recognized us?” Luca said, leaning toward me in concern.

  I nodded.

  “What did he do?” His eyes were wild.

  He hadn’t expected danger on the human level, only the spiritual. I wondered at this moment which one he thought to be more dangerous.

  “He led me to the restroom and said some awful things, so I went inside, locking the door behind me. I didn’t want to run into him when I left, and it was a strange room, so I figured there might be another way out.”

  “How was it strange?”

  “There was a sink and another door.”

  “I’m sure the other door opened to the toilet,” Luca said.

  “It did, and that room was larger than the first room and it had another door. I thought it must go to another entrance, so I opened the door.”

  Luca’s hand went to the back of the pew as he leaned in closer to me.

  He sensed danger. He felt in this moment what I had not. If I had, would I have entered the attic? Would I have seen those children?

  I swallowed down the fear. “It … it wasn’t a way out.”

  Seventeen

  Beside me, Luca’s body became rigid.

  “Where did it go?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “The attic,” I answered. “The ceiling sloped down and wooden beams were crisscrossing all over it.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Nothing … at first.”

  “At first?” His voice cracked.

  “I felt something. I didn’t understa
nd it, but it was so strong. My fingers went to a wooden beam for stability. Being in there, feeling whatever it was I was feeling—it made me uneasy. I needed stability,” I said, defending my actions even though he wasn’t accusing me of any wrongdoing.

  “When I touched the beam, they were there.” The memory of the roughly hewn oak against my fingertips transported me back to the dark space where children huddled in terror. Their eyes so hollow, their faces so thin. They were together, trying … to keep me from them.

  “Siena,” he said with concern.

  I shivered violently. I was in my church, Luca beside me. “I didn’t want to see them. I didn’t want them to be there,” I said, choking back tears.

  “Who?” he said, his arm going around me, offering me safety—something the children never had—not in that place.

  Safety did not exist there.

  I inhaled, trying to catch my breath. “There were children, little children, younger than Lisieux.” I swallowed. “Some were younger than Avi. They were terrified, absolutely terrified,” I said, tears falling at the image of the haunted expressions.

  He held me protectively. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’re gone now.”

  I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. “I’m not crying because I was scared, though I was,” I admitted. “I’m crying because of their pain.”

  He was silent a moment. “You believe they were real?”

  “What else could they be? I mean, I don’t think they were there now, but … it was… it was like I was seeing the memory of the attic.”

  “Tricks can be played on people,” he said, his arm still around me though he sat up straighter.

  “You think it was like a projection or something?” I asked, realizing that Luca was studying me as I had studied him when I thought he was crazy. Did he think I was crazy? Maybe he did. Maybe I was. With all that I’d been through in the last two months, would anyone blame me if my mind broke?

  “Did it look like a projection? Were the images flat, only visible against a wall?”