Love Reborn

by Yvonne Woon

  “What about natural sights?” I said. “Can you ask her if there are any in particular that stand out?”

  Just before Dante relayed my question to the innkeeper, Theo wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Why don’t you ask her what places we should avoid?” he interjected. “If the second point is anything like the place we just came from, I doubt it’s a tourist destination.”

  Dante paused, nodding in agreement, then repeated what Theo said to the woman.

  She paused, and for the first time since she had invited us in, she took a long look at each of us, as if she suddenly saw something now that she hadn’t seen before. “Where the rivers meet,” Dante translated.

  “The rivers?” Anya repeated, unable to hide her excitement. Her eyes met ours over the table. “How do we—?” she began to ask, but the innkeeper backed away, shaking her head.

  “I don’t like to talk of such places,” Dante said, translating her words.

  She gave us our keys and pointed us upstairs. Before we could ask anything more, she bid us good night.

  Our room had four nesting beds, each made of whittled wood, as if they belonged in a dollhouse. We dropped our bags, and while the others began to unpack and wash up, Anya pulled me out into the hallway.

  “Do you remember the other night in Paris?” she said. “When I left?”

  I nodded.

  “I went to the Monitor Archive. They have records there for all of the cases heard by the High Court. I thought maybe they would have something on Theo. And they did. Kind of.” She slipped a document from inside her coat and handed it to me.

  I unfolded it and scanned the pages. Most of it consisted of Theo’s physical and educational details. Height, weight, body mass index, hair and eye color, spoken languages, specialized skill sets. The year he enrolled at St. Clément; the year he dropped out. The year he was awarded his Spade, and a list of the members who witnessed it, my grandfather among them. And then I saw it. Halfway down the page, in thin red letters. Current status: DISBARRED.

  So I’d been right. I had seen him sanding the red dye from his Spade that night. I felt a twinge of excitement as I turned the page, eager to see what he had done to deserve such a punishment, but the rest of the document was blacked out, the words CLASSIFIED BY ORDER OF THE HIGH COURT stamped beside it.

  I flipped the sheet over, confused. “What—?” I looked up at Anya. “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, biting her lip. “But you were right about his Spade. I should have believed you.”

  “I wasn’t even sure if I believed myself,” I said with a shrug. “So where can we get classified information?”

  “Nowhere,” Anya said. “Only the members of the High Court have access to it. Usually they only classify cases that involve major things like organized criminal attacks or plots they uncovered by the Liberum—things where the investigation is still ongoing and leaked information would compromise the case. But this—it’s very odd. I don’t know what Theo was doing, but whatever it was must have been bad. Very bad.”

  “We have to confront him,” I said. “He’s been lying to us this whole time.”

  “No,” Anya said, her eyes wide. “We can’t do that. What if he gets upset and leaves?”

  “Then he’ll be gone,” I said, confused. “So what? He’s been a little helpful, but we’ll get by without him. It would probably be better, actually.”

  Anya shook her head. “I saw his cards. He has something dark in his past, something complicated. It isn’t just about right and wrong; it’s unresolved. Whatever he did—that’s the reason why he’s here with us. It’s why he wants to find the Netherworld, why he’s willing to sacrifice his life for it. That’s why Monsieur sent us to him. Because he knew that Theo wouldn’t just be able to help us, but that he would have a stake in it.”

  I wanted to ask her why she, too, was willing to sacrifice her life to go to the Netherworld, but before I could speak, the door swung open.

  “What’s going on out here?” Theo asked, leaning on the handle of his Spade.

  Anya gave me a hard look, as if to say Not yet, and then smiled and slipped her deck of tarot cards from her pocket. “I was trying to convince her to let me read her fortune,” she said, stepping back into the room, and turned to Dante, who was sitting at a desk reading about Descartes. “But she said it’s your turn.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think so. That kind of stuff isn’t for me.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Anya said, narrowing her eyes.

  “Divining magic,” said Dante. “Fate. I like to believe that I’m in control of my own future.”

  “If you don’t believe, then what’s the harm?”

  Dante looked to me for help, but instead of agreeing with him, I hesitated. A few years ago, I had been the sort of person who would have groaned at the idea of going to a séance or a fortune teller, and I certainly never would have elected to have my fortune read through a deck of cards. But that was before I had found out about the Undead, before I had fallen in love with Dante, before I’d realized that belief in the unknown was all we had left to cling to. Would I ever hear the richness of Dante’s voice again? Would I ever be able to fall asleep to the comforting sound of the rain pounding against the roof, or to the arrhythmic beat of Dante’s heart? I wanted to know if all of this was worth it.

  “It can’t hurt, can it?” I said.

  My response surprised him. Without taking his eyes off mine, he answered. “No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

  Anya’s face brightened. She pushed her hair behind her ears, stretched her fingers as though she were about to perform some gymnastic feat, then stacked the deck and held it out to Dante, giving him the same instructions she had given Theo.

  He slipped a card from the middle and held it to his forehead for us to see. Drawn on the other side was an image of a man hanging by his feet on a wooden cross. The script at the bottom read: The Hanged Man.

  Placing it back in with the others, he shuffled, the cards fluttering between his fingers, then cut the deck three times. Anya gathered them with care, and, one by one, laid the cards.

  A knot formed in my stomach when The Hanged Man came out first.

  “From the beginning, suffering has carved the shape of your life,” Anya said. “You are strong, but have been forced to endure much. Too much.”

  The next card revealed an image of a dead man stuck with swords, his insides bleeding out onto the dirt. Ten of Swords.

  “The Lord of Ruin,” Anya said, touching the edge of the card.

  I caught the gasp before it left my lips.

  It was followed by the Five of Pentacles, two men wandering through the snow in tattered clothes, their faces forlorn and shrouded by cloaks.

  The Lovers came next. A nude man and woman standing at the foot of a lush garden. I tilted my head to see it better, for it was laid out upside down.

  “You have fallen in love,” Anya said. She traced the corner of the card thoughtfully.

  I let out a sigh of relief, and smiled to myself. I was in his cards. Our love was written. I gripped the sides of the chair and braced myself for the next card, but Anya lingered. Her eyes darted to mine as if she had seen something awful and wasn’t sure if she should tell me.

  “But it’s upside down,” she continued. “Which means love lost.”

  “What?” I whispered. “No.”

  Anya bit her lip. I’m sorry, her eyes seemed to say, but she continued.

  She laid out two more cards. Strength, an image of a lion with a goddess, and the Three of Swords, displaying a heart pierced with three swords.

  “You are searching for something. You will embark on a great journey, in which you show great strength and valor. Despite this, however, you will become lost.”

  Up until then, Dante hadn’t uttered a word. Finally, he spoke. “Lost? How so?”

  Anya touched the wounded heart on the last card. “It could mean literall
y lost, or emotionally. Or both.”

  Finally, she dealt the last card. When she placed it on the table, she let out a gasp.

  The Tower. A lone white tower perched atop a mountain. Storm clouds raged overhead, and a bolt of lighting stuck the top, making the tower crumble.

  Anya swallowed.

  “The darkest card of them all,” she said. “Death and ruin.”

  I felt light-headed.

  “I’m just an amateur,” Anya said in apology. “The reading was probably faulty. You’re Undead, after all, so the lifeline spread might not work on you. We could do it again. I could try a different card layout.”

  “It’s fine,” Dante said. “They’re just cards.” Though the way his body grew tense made me wonder if he really believed that anymore.

  Anya nodded, too eager to agree with him. “No one’s future is written in stone.” She leaned over the table to gather the cards, but Dante stopped her.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I want to look at them.” He traced his finger around the edge of the tower, his skin the same shade of white as the stone. “The past can be forgotten, altered and washed away by time and trauma. And the future is just a guess, a faraway point on a map. All that’s certain is what’s happening right now, this very moment.” He slid his hand back from the cards, his eyes locking with mine. “In that way, we’re no different than anyone else.”

  That night I dreamed of death. I was standing on the Gottfried campus once again, the frozen lake stretching out before me, its surface petrified to a deep gray. A thudding filled the air. Louder, louder, until the ice buckled, and a slick white hand rose from the gash.

  Noah pulled himself up from the ice, his eyes snapping open. He gazed at me, his lips calling my name. In a flash, he was running through the woods, following a trail of footprints in the snow. Time seemed to pass quickly around him, the sun rotating over the sky as night fell. As the days passed, and the footprints tapered off into multiple directions, Noah slowed. He grew lost, wandering in circles. I watched him kneel over the snow, exhausted but unable to sleep. His throat was parched and dry; he dug his fingers into the ice and raised a handful to his mouth before spitting it out. Nothing could give him relief. His hands trembled. He studied them, his once olive skin now as white as the snow, the veins pulsing cold blood up his arms. Another flash and it was nighttime. A warm glow emanated through the trees. Noah trudged toward it until a lodge materialized out of the darkness.

  He paused when he reached the front door, the light slanting out from the windows in two long bars. He ran his hands along the smooth wooden handles, then opened the door and stepped inside.

  The brightness of the place dazed him, the plush furniture and wooden decor of the lobby making him look more out of place than ever before. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror on the far side of the lobby. The sight of his gaunt face and soiled clothes startled him. He pushed his auburn hair away from his face, trying to make himself look like the person he had once been.

  At the front desk, the concierge studied his clothes, which were dripping water on the carpet. “May I help you?”

  “I—” Noah said, his voice cracking. “I would like to make a call.”

  The concierge pondered his request, then lifted a telephone from beneath the desk.

  While the concierge turned away, eyeing him over his shoulder, Noah dialed a Quebec number. It rang twice before a man picked up. “Oui, allo?” Noah’s father.

  Noah moved his lips as if he wanted to respond, but said nothing.

  “Allo?”

  Noah listened for a moment more before hanging up. “Merci,” he said to the concierge, reverting to his native Quebecois French. “I—I mean, thank you.”

  He rushed outside. When he was out of sight, he pressed himself against the side of the lodge and sank to the snow, his chest collapsing. His heart thudded irregularly, like a hand pounding against his ribs, trying to break free.

  He looked up, his eyes dilating. “Renée,” he said. “I’m coming for you.”

  I woke in the middle of the night, the bed creaking beneath me. I reached for Dante’s arms, which had been wrapped around me when I fell asleep, but they were no longer there. I sat up. Dante was sitting at the desk, where the tarot cards were still laid out.

  “Another nightmare?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if I had spoken Noah’s name aloud.

  “About?”

  I tried to shake Noah from my head, but his presence haunted me. What I’d seen had been nothing more than a dream, though it might as well have been real. He was out there somewhere, lost, searching, his life gone but his body still pressing forward, all because of me. “I can’t remember.”

  “Those are the most frightening kind,” Dante said. His eyes lingered on me, then turned to the chest, which he was holding in his hands, tracing the map inside as if memorizing its etchings.

  “In case we lose it,” he said, referring to Monsieur’s warning.

  A draft floated in from the balcony. Even beneath the heavy quilt, my arms trembled with the cold. I slipped out of bed and went to close the doors, but they were already shut. I stared out into the night. The German countryside was dark. I couldn’t see anything. I held my hand up to the glass. The draft seeped through the panes and tickled my fingers, making them curl into a fist. Goose bumps traveled up my arms. I knew this feeling. The Undead.

  Theo sat up in bed and immediately reached for his Spade, which was leaning against the wall. He must have felt them, too. Anya woke with him. “What’s happening?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “They’re here,” I whispered.

  It was too late to escape. I could feel their presence descending on us like a dark cloud rolling in on the horizon. There must have been dozens of them. I could feel their force, their desperation.

  We barely had time to speak. Dante shoved the chest into his bag while I ran to the bed and slipped the shovel out from beneath my pillow. The small black box was sitting behind it. I didn’t care if Monsieur thought we should let the Undead take what they wished; I wasn’t letting them have anything. I stuffed it into my bag, slipping out a roll of gauze from the side pocket, and held up my shovel.

  Someone pounded on the door downstairs. A chill filled the room.

  Dante’s face had become hard and merciless, his eyes clouding as gray began to creep over his irises. His gaze drifted to the shovel in my hand. It seemed to surprise him, as if he suddenly remembered that I was trained to bury people just like him. And even though we stood only a few feet apart, for a moment, the distance between us felt impossibly vast.

  Theo waited by the side of the door, gripping his Spade. Anya stood behind him, her shovel raised. “There must be dozens of them,” Anya said.

  “We have to use the staircase and the hallway to our advantage,” Theo said. “We wait for them to come to us so they can’t surround us. Then we’ll push them down the stairs and into the basement, and put them to rest.”

  Outside, something scurried over the balcony. A flash of white flitted past the window. Then another. I steadied myself, feeling the gauze in my pocket. A thin wisp of air beckoned me toward the window. I pushed back the curtain with the tip of my shovel, and peered out at the balcony. It looked empty. Had I been seeing things? Below, the ground was a good twenty feet away. They couldn’t have scaled it, I thought. But just before I turned around, something crashed through the window.

  I dove to the ground as glass shattered around me. The presence of the Undead filled the room. The tarot cards blew off the table. I heard a scream downstairs and the pitter-patter of bare feet running up the staircase. On the other side of the room, the door burst open.

  I scrambled to my feet. A pair of clouded eyes appeared through the darkness in the hallway. Followed by another, and another. From afar they looked like young boys, nothing more than children. As they drew closer, I could see their eyes, vacant and clouded with gray, their hollow cheeks and skin so
ghastly in color that I could almost see the veins beneath.

  They swarmed inside, some so far decayed that they had gone blind. They knocked over the furniture, the fixtures, and the lamps until the room went dark.

  They clawed at my legs, my arms, my clothes; they scratched at my skin, their cold fingers making me cringe. Across the room, I saw Anya whispering to the Undead boys, trying to coax them away from us as she had done back in Montreal, but there were too many for her to control. Their raspy breathing and scraping of their feet against the floor drowned out her voice.

  I kicked them off, trying to press them toward the door with my shovel, but they were resilient. Three of them sprang back and tried to grab the handle from me. I swung wildly, thrusting them away, but they took hold of it, their fingers pulling the metal face until it fell from my grasp and clattered under the bed.

  The three Undead rushed at me, their limbs a wild thrash of white. I made for the bed, where I tried to reach for my shovel beneath the frame, but before I could take hold of it, they knocked me onto the bed. I tried to twist out of their grip as they clawed up my legs, their tiny fingers scratching at my throat. I felt their cold breath beating against my collarbone, their hands pressing against my ribs, pushing the air out of me until my lips parted against their will. A thin coil of air began to unravel inside me. I swallowed. They were going to take my soul.

  This is what I knew: the only way to kill an Undead was to bury him beneath the earth, set him on fire, or mummify him. We were on the second floor, far from a basement or a well, and I didn’t have a lighter—which left only one option.

  The fingers of the Undead clawed at my lips. I turned my cheek and patted at the mattress until I found a sheet hanging off the side of the bed. I swung the sheet over them, and using all my force, I twisted their bodies within it.

  They kicked and grasped at the air, trying to tear the cloth off, but I held fast, and removing the roll of gauze from my pocket, I began to wildly wrap them from head to toe like I had learned in my burial classes at St. Clément. They grew weak. Their limbs slowed until I was able to push them off of me and wrap them tighter. They writhed beneath my arms. One of their fists shot out from beneath the sheet. It was half the size of mine, barely large enough to have belonged to a ten-year-old. I winced and looked away. For once I was thankful for darkness. I didn’t want to see their faces; to see their eyes grow red and bloodshot before the last vestiges of life left them. They had once been children, too. When their bodies went limp, I let go of the sheet and backed away.