Love Reborn

by Yvonne Woon

  “Renée?” It was a high-pitched voice with a Russian accent.

  Before I knew it, Anya Pinsky had wrapped her skinny arms around me with an excited squeal. I breathed in her tangy perfume. It reminded me of winter in Montreal, of the cozy smell of smoke and incense that had enveloped me every time she’d opened the door to her dorm room; of the scratchy blanket she’d thrown over me all those times I’d fallen asleep on her sofa, the candles on her windowsill flickering while the snow fell over the city. Suddenly everything felt like it was going to be okay.

  We parted quickly, an awkwardness coming over us as Anya brushed herself off. She normally wasn’t one for hugs. I couldn’t help but smile when I took in her tight black ensemble, which was more urban than rural, and made her look at odds with the rocky natural landscape of Massachusetts. She wore heavy black eyeliner and nail polish to match.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, eyeing my wet jeans, my windswept hair, my coat, which was stained at the hem with flecks of mud. “And what are these shoes?” she said with a frown.

  I looked down at the tall shearling boots, which I had taken from my mother’s closet. “What’s wrong with them?” I asked.

  Anya raised an eyebrow. “Nothing,” she said. “They’re just ugly.”

  I rolled my eyes, though a part of me wanted to squeeze her. After our flight through the woods, after the dogs and the Monitors and the mysterious chest from the lake, it was a relief to hear Anya criticize my fashion choices—to be reminded that normal life still existed somewhere. “What are you doing here?”

  She dug around in her pocket and handed me an envelope. I opened it and unfolded the note inside. It was written on a thick piece of paper with an expensive grain.

  Dear Ms. Pinsky,

  You do not know me, but I know you. I am writing to you on a matter of utmost urgency. Enclosed is one ticket to Pilgrim, Massachusetts. Go there immediately, and wait at the Old Soul Tavern on Main Street. Once you arrive, you will know what to do.

  Sincerely,

  Monsieur

  I stared at the swirls of black ink. The handwriting was neat but elegant. “Monsieur?” I murmured to myself. It was French, though all it meant was Mister. “Monsieur who?”

  Anya shook her head, her pale cheeks flushed from the cold. “Maybe that’s just his name.”

  I flipped the envelope over. It was addressed to her home in Montreal. There was no sender or postmark. It must have been hand-delivered.

  “It was sitting in our mailbox a few days ago,” Anya said, reading my thoughts. “But it doesn’t look like it came by the normal post.”

  Was it a coincidence that someone had sent a letter to Anya telling her to come to the same town Dante had told me to meet him in? He was the only other person who knew we were coming here, but the handwriting didn’t belong to him. Plus, there was no way Dante would have had time to send Anya a note. He’d been with me for the last ten days.

  I gazed at the first line. You do not know me, but I know you. It felt threatening. Had someone been watching her? I studied the signature. Monsieur. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.

  “How did he know I was coming here?” I asked, almost to myself. “And why did he tell you to come, too?”

  Anya furrowed her brow, which was a delicate shade of brown. Her natural color. “Didn’t you get a letter from him, too?”

  “No.”

  “So why are you here?” she asked, and glanced behind me. “And where’s Noah?”

  My face dropped. The last time I had seen Anya was in Montreal, just before Noah and I had left by train for Gottfried Academy. She didn’t know that we’d found the chest beneath the lake, or that the Liberum and their Undead boys had followed us. She hadn’t heard that they’d taken Noah and pulled him beneath the ice, or that Dante had come and saved me. Did anyone outside of Gottfried know what had happened?

  My expression must have betrayed my thoughts because Anya stepped back, her chest collapsing.

  “He can’t be...” she whispered. “But you only just left school. He was fine then.”

  I bit my lip, wishing I could tell her what she wanted to hear. Instead, I told her what had happened, starting with my train ride with Noah from Montreal to Maine. We had been following clues left by the Nine Sisters, a Monitoring sisterhood that had claimed to have found the secret to eternal life. The sisters had vowed to destroy their secret, but before they could, they were murdered by the Liberum—all but one. The ninth sister, Ophelia Hart, survived. She defied her sisters by hiding their secret with three clues, which she planted throughout Montreal, the historic city of Monitors. I had found the final clue at St. Clément, an academy for Monitors, where I had met Anya and Noah. But Ophelia’s clue had led me back to Maine, to Gottfried Academy: the school where I had first learned of the Undead; where I’d discovered that I was a Monitor, predisposed to bury the dead; and where I had first met Dante. It was there that Noah dove to the bottom of the lake to retrieve the chest Ophelia Hart had buried. The Liberum had caught up to us, and their Undead boys dragged Noah back into the frozen lake. Dante had whisked me away just before one of the Brothers lowered his withered face to mine to take my soul.

  When I was finished, Anya’s gaze was distant. She said nothing for a long while. When she finally looked at me, her face was firm, wiped free of any grief. She wasn’t one for crying. She believed in karma and superstitions; that everything happened for a reason.

  “It was unlucky from the start,” she said. “I should have known. I felt that from the beginning.”

  She didn’t seem to be talking to me, but to some force in the air around us. “What happened next?” she said.

  I told her about the Monitors from Gottfried Academy, about how they had come running from the school, my grandfather leading the pack as they chased Dante and me into the mountains. I told her about how we’d split up. “Dante told me to meet him in Pilgrim, Massachusetts. He said that I would know where to go.” I glanced up at the wooden sign creaking in the wind. “So I found my way here....”

  “But Dante isn’t here,” Anya said, finishing what I couldn’t say.

  “Yet,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that the sky was already folding into a dark orange sunset. Had the Monitors caught up to him? No, if they’d buried Dante, I would have felt it somehow. It had to work that way; our connection was too deep. I couldn’t lose my soul mate without realizing it, could I?

  “So what happened to the chest?” Anya pressed, the spaces in between her words asking me if it had been worth the price of Noah’s life. “Do you still have it?”

  I bit my lip. “Only half of it.”

  “Half?” Anya asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Dante has the contents.”

  “What do you mean? What was inside of it?”

  “We’re not totally sure—” I began to say, but before I could continue, the screen door of the tavern opened and the old man stepped onto the porch. He looked a sturdy seventy; his white hair was thinning at the top, and a pipe was tucked into the breast pocket of his sweater. He held a walking stick, which he used to feel his way a few paces forward. He was blind.

  A hush fell over us. Had he heard us talking about the chest?

  He grasped the porch column beside him. “You girls still out here?” he asked in a grizzly, kind voice. He squinted in our general direction. “It’s getting late. Isn’t it about time you both came inside?”

  Anya and I exchanged a perplexed glance. Had he known we were here the entire time? Neither of us spoke.

  “Now, don’t go and pretend you’re not there,” he said with a harmless smile. “I may be blind, but I’m not dead yet. You’ve been standing out here in the cold for almost an hour. Besides, I’ve been expecting you.”

  I froze. What did he mean?

  “My grandson told me,” the man said simply, and opened the screen door. “Are you coming in or not? The draft is getting to me.”

  Grandson? I lo
oked to Anya, hoping she might know what he was talking about, but she looked as dazed as I felt. I watched the old man feel his way inside. His grandson was probably the same age I was, though I couldn’t think of anyone I knew who resembled him. I gazed down at the storefronts that lined the street. They were all closed, the dusk settling over them. We had nowhere else to go. Anya must have been thinking the same thing, because she shrugged, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the porch. I followed her.

  Two mugs of mulled cider and a set table were waiting for us inside. A fireplace crackled in the corner of the room, giving the tavern a country glow.

  “Do you girls want stew or bisque?” the man said from behind the bar.

  I frowned. What was the difference?

  “Bisque,” Anya said, as if she had strong feelings on the matter. She turned to me.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Excellent,” the old man muttered.

  I watched as he struggled to reach the top shelf, stacked with an assortment of plates, glasses, and bowls. His arms trembled as he patted around, tenuously close to knocking everything over. “Should we help him?” I whispered to Anya.

  “He’s fine,” a voice said over my shoulder.

  I spun around. A boy stood behind us, so close it seemed impossible that neither Anya nor I had heard him coming.

  He looked like a well-bred boy who had spent too many years lurking in corners, his brown hair lush yet unkempt, his eyes mischievous as they darted between us. He could only have been a few years older than I was. A grin spread across his face—impish, as if he were in on some practical joke.

  “See?” he said, nodding to his grandfather, who was now gracefully picking out two bowls and two water glasses from the mix of plates and snifters and wineglasses, as if he could see them. “He taps the shelf so he can tell what the shape of each dish is. He can tell by the way the sound reverberates off of them.”

  I watched the way the boy spoke, looking for something familiar about him that would explain why Dante had told me to come here.

  “I’m Theo,” he said. “Or Theodore, to my grandfather. Or Theodore Arthur Healy to my aunt, when she’s angry with me, which is most of the time. Or That Healy Kid to the cops. Or Case Number 5418 to the Monitors, but I guess you don’t really need to know about that.” He paused, studying us as if to see if we were familiar with any of the things he’d just said. But they all sounded foreign to me. Case Number 5418? Monitors? Was he a Monitor?

  “And you are—wait, let me guess.” He glanced between the two of us, pretending to think hard. “Renée and Anya.”

  “How did you know that?” I demanded. “And how did you know we were coming here tonight?”

  “I was actually expecting you earlier this morning,” he said, and pulled up a chair, straddling the back.

  “How—?” I let my voice trail off. Beside me, Anya said nothing. She studied Theo, squinting as if she could see through him.

  “He received a note from Monsieur too,” she said thoughtfully.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I did,” he conceded. “Though that isn’t how I knew your names. And I have to say, my note is a little better than yours.” Before either of us could ask how he knew what Anya’s note said, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and began to read. “Dear Ms. Pinsky—”

  Confused, Anya patted her pocket, looking for her note, but it wasn’t there.

  Theo grinned, pleased with himself, and emptied the contents of his pockets, which included both of our wallets, one of Anya’s bracelets, and the silverware from my place setting. “Sticky fingers,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry.”

  That was how he knew our names, I realized. I took back my wallet, the clasp loose over my license. I wasn’t sure if I should be angry or awed. Then I remembered the chest. I glanced down at the floor, hoping he hadn’t somehow looked inside without me knowing, but to my relief it was still there by my feet, the outline of the chest barely visible through the canvas.

  Theo must have noticed, because he gazed at my bag with curiosity. I shifted my weight, scolding myself for being so obvious, but he didn’t ask me about it. Instead, his eyes met mine. A glimmer of understanding passed between us. Then he reached in his pocket and took out his own note.

  Dear Mr. Healy,

  You do not know me, but I know you. I am writing to you on a matter of utmost urgency. In a few days’ time, three strangers will arrive at your doorstep. They will need your help. Do not turn them away.

  When they arrive, you will know what to do.

  Sincerely,

  Monsieur

  When he finished reading, he dropped the note on the table. “So who’s the third?”

  Dante. A draft seeped in through the window, mimicking his presence, but it was nothing more than the night closing in around us. I took it as a sign. “He’s coming,” I said, hoping it would make it true.

  Theo crossed his arms over the back of the chair. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “His name is Dante,” I said softly, and glanced up to see if any glimmer of recognition passed over Theo’s face, but he only frowned.

  “What’s holding him up?”

  Anya answered for me. “He’s just running a little late.”

  I picked up Theo’s note. It was written in the same handwriting as Anya’s, the same ink. Monsieur. How did he know so much? And why did he think that this boy could somehow help us?

  “Did this come in the mail?” I asked.

  Theo shook his head. “Someone slipped it beneath the door when I was out. But my grandfather was here,” he said, just as the old man felt his way to our table, carrying two bowls of bisque.

  He lowered them onto the table, his hands trembling. “Heavy footsteps,” he said, his dull eyes gazing off toward the side of the room. “Three of them. Like he had a third leg.”

  Anya frowned. “A mutant?”

  “A cane,” I murmured. “Monsieur is old.”

  “Or crippled,” Anya said.

  “And tall,” I said.

  “Or fat,” Anya added.

  Theo clapped his hands together. “Mystery solved. He’s a tall old fat crippled mutant with a cane.” I rolled my eyes as he turned to me. “So where’s your note?”

  “I never got one.”

  “So why are you here?”

  I hesitated. Had Dante received a note, too, or had someone been watching us? I imagined the dark shadow of a man following us through snowy woods, a withered face peering through the window of our cabin. The thought of it made me shudder. “Dante told me to meet him here. Today.”

  “Dante,” he said, turning the name around in his mouth. “The third stranger. So he’s the one with all the answers.”

  I stared at the bowl of bisque getting cold in front of me. “Look,” I said. “We don’t need your help.”

  Theo’s eye twitched. “Who said I was offering?” He stood up, casting a fleeting glance at the bag by my feet. I closed my legs around it. “So I guess that means you don’t need a room?”

  Anya gave me an uncomfortable look.

  “I hate to break it to you, but today is almost over. What if your friend doesn’t show up?”

  “He’s coming,” I said, because he had to; without him, I was lost.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Spade

  D ANTE DIDN’T ARRIVE THAT NIGHT. With nowhere else to go, we found ourselves following the old man up the back stairs of the tavern to his apartment, which occupied the second and third stories of the building. Anya and I shared a small guest room overlooking the street, with two twin beds and a stack of dusty sheets. If we needed anything, Theodore was just down the hall, his grandfather assured us, his dull eyes staring off into the distance. The moon glinted off of them, and I shuddered, remembering the Undead children from last fall—the way their eyes blurred to gray just before they decayed. Soon Dante’s eyes would grow cloudy, too.

  Once we were alone, Anya folded herself onto the tiny bed
. “Do you smell that?” she whispered. She sniffed the air, then bent over and held her nose to the coarse blanket by her feet. She winced. “Smells like farm.”

  I sniffed mine, but didn’t notice anything off about it.

  “I’m descended from peasants,” Anya reasoned. “My nose is extremely sensitive to this sort of thing.” She kicked her blanket aside and pulled an extra sweater from her bag.

  Outside, the trees trembled in the wind, the shadows of their branches stretching across the street like a tangle of legs. How I wished to see Dante emerge from the night. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.

  “Me too,” Anya said.

  Who was Monsieur? We considered the facts. He was a man, probably French, and walked with a cane and a heavy gait. He was familiar with each of us, which meant he’d been watching us for a while. He knew that Dante and I would come to the Old Soul, and he’d assumed that when we did, we would need help—which is why he’d sent Anya and Theo notes.

  “But why Theo?” I said. “And why you?”

  Anya went quiet. “Perhaps because we’re friends? And Theo—perhaps he has some skill that we don’t.”

  “Like what?” I said. “Stealing?”

  Anya shrugged. “That can be useful in the right situation, too.”

  “Maybe,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced. Theo, I knew, was a mistake. And Anya—though I was happy to have her with me now, her being my friend wasn’t a good enough reason to send her on this journey. Monsieur must have chosen her for a reason.

  But the question that really bothered me was: Why would Monsieur want to help me in the first place?