by Nichole Van
Nothing. No response.
I cupped her face with my hand. Her skin was impossibly soft under my fingers. My thumb rubbed across her cheek, as if helpless to stop. I brushed her hair back from her forehead.
“Olivia,” my voice more urgent.
Nothing.
Her lips were turning blue, a sure sign of a lack of oxygen. She remained limp.
I wasn’t sure if this was serious, but I didn’t care. She was hurt. She had already told me she was dying.
I wasn’t taking any chances, not after the vision I just had.
I dialed emergency dispatch.
I followed the ambulance to the hospital.
Olivia remained unresponsive even as the paramedics loaded her onto a gurney. I explained her odd episode and ignored the ‘sure she just collapsed’ looks I received.
I may have also told them I was her boyfriend.
The conversation went something like this:
Paramedic. “So who is this woman?”
Me. “Her name is Olivia.”
Paramedic. “Last name?”
Me, staring blankly.
Paramedic. “Right. I’ll need you to wait here until the police arrive.”
Me. “Whoa, what? My girlfriend collapses and suddenly I’m under investigation?”
Paramedic, very skeptical. “She’s your girlfriend?”
Me, pause. “Yeah.”
The paramedic then looked around the opulent house, connecting that I probably knew people who knew people. And in Italy, it’s all about who you know. “Well, then you can follow us to the hospital, lover boy.”
I piled into my Jeep, following the ambulance. Given Olivia’s unresponsive state, they were transporting her all the way into Florence, nearly an hour’s drive away.
My mind churned as I drove.
The vision lingered.
Seeing Olivia with Cesare.
The horror of Olivia’s blood-soaked body and witnessing the Chucky-slime morph into some sort of hell-spawned demon.
Not to mention, Olivia could see the Chucky-slime.
It was a smoking gun.
She had to be linked to all this somehow. The vision just further confirmed it.
The dark demon-like apparition that had stabbed Olivia through the heart hadn’t really resembled Jack’s descriptions of the Chucky-slime. But it wasn’t outside the realm of believability to think the two might be related somehow. They both originated in the shadow world, after all.
As for the rest of the vision . . .
Our kiss had broken some barrier, shattering a boundary that gave the Chucky-slime, or something similar to it, power to pull her into the shadow world, into its realm where it killed her.
Correction.
If we kissed, it would give the demon-whatever-thing power to cause her death.
Solution? I would never kiss her.
My future visions were not iron-clad. They could be changed. If I didn’t kiss Olivia, then the vision wouldn’t come to pass.
I had just met this woman, but I already cared deeply for her. It wouldn’t take long for all the emotions from my visions to become truth.
I simply had to love and adore her without touching her. It sucked, but I could and would do it.
Olivia’s safety meant more to me than anything.
I would not be the cause of her death.
Poor Olivia.
She deserved so much more than my shattered, broken self. I had to keep her at arm’s length wherever possible.
And what I had done next?
Basically told the world I was her boyfriend.
So . . . not off to a great start with the whole ‘staying at arm’s length’ thing.
My phone jangled.
Branwell.
Could a guy keep a secret for even five minutes in this family?
I answered anyway.
“Talk to me.” Branwell jumped all preliminaries.
“You know I hate talk to me almost as much as you okay, right?”
“Don’t care. Spill. What went down? I had the sense that you met her. And then got a serious blast of horror and fear from you.”
Sighing, I told him everything. Branwell and I might keep things from Dante, Chiara and our mom, but we didn’t have secrets between each other.
“Olivia is your woman,” Branwell said as I finished.
“Yeah.”
“Like with Jack, you can’t feel her emotions, and she can see the scars and the Chucky-slime. Unlike Jack, she is fully in our world.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s the miracle we’ve been praying for. The one missing key point of help we need to resolve our curse once and for all.”
“Yeah.”
“But, bad timing, because she’s dying.”
“Yeah.”
“And she collapsed and we don’t know why.”
“Yeah.”
“And she’s on her way to the hospital.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“You just never do anything by halves, do you, Tenn?”
I was torn between a laugh and a groan.
“Need me to come to the hospital and help out?” Branwell asked. “I know how rough hospitals can be.”
“I’m holding it together. Focusing on Olivia helps. I’ll call if I need you.”
“You do that.”
We chatted for another minute, Branwell telling me about the twin’s smiles and the reddish hair they were finally growing.
The mental distraction helped, as Branwell knew it would.
When I finally arrived at the hospital, Olivia was already back in an examination room.
The no-nonsense woman behind the desk handed me paperwork to fill out and told me to wait for news about mia ragazza—my girlfriend.
I sternly told myself to ignore the painful thrill that surged through me at the thought of Olivia as mia ragazza. Not helping.
But one glance at the paperwork told me I knew positively nothing about this woman. Just her first name and country of birth.
I filled out the forms as best I could. If Olivia had a purse, she hadn’t brought it inside the villa with her. She did have a phone, but it was locked. I had nothing to go on. I was probably committing all sorts of fraud by giving Olivia a fake last name and birth date.
After handing back in the forms, I was told to wait and, no, the nurse didn’t know how long it would be. Her irritated emotions were even stronger than her tone.
Got it.
Stepping into a quiet corner of the room, I called my mom.
I know, momma’s boy, but I love my mom, and she always knows what to do in a crisis. Besides, I wanted her to hear all this from me, not Branwell.
I explained what had happened, keeping my voice low and quiet. Turns out, Chiara had already clued her in to my visions of Olivia. Of course. My sister couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. But that was fine. Mom needed to know sooner rather than later anyway.
Mom promised to come down as soon as she could. I figured Olivia would appreciate having a maternal figure around.
I certainly needed the help. Mom had a way of moderating my emotional equilibrium. Her emotions were a rock I could rely on, a comforting sense of home that defied all logical explanation.
The bond of a mother with her child, I supposed.
Her presence didn’t magically heal me. It wasn’t foolproof or perfect or even ideal. But when I was in crisis, it made all the difference.
After I hung up with Mom, I paced, desperately trying to turn my focus inward as I waited to see Olivia.
But reality hit hard.
Branwell knew me well.
Feeling emotions was bad enough. But feeling emotions in a hospital . . .
They were my personal version of a living hell.
Hospitals were worse than cemeteries, than prisons, than anything. People at a cemetery, for example, were typically grief-stricken, but it wasn’t that first moment of horror. It was a more leade
n, pervasive emotion.
But in a hospital, I felt grief, horror, elation, anguish and every emotion in between.
I hadn’t been voluntarily in a hospital for a very long time.
Not since Afghanistan, before my injury.
Not since Zach when he had done what he did—
Screams tore down the hall. Zach’s agony wracked me. The frantic fear and desperation of the hospital personnel crashed in behind.
I cringed, shrinking into the wall where I sat slumped. Too heartsick to leave, but not emotionally strong enough to move closer.
Zach was my friend, my brother-in-arms. How could I have done this?
Shame flooded me.
I knew better.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have said a word.
Why had I told him? I was such a cocky, arrogant bastard.
When would I ever learn?
He was dying because of me, because of my selfishness—
I tore myself out of the memory, frantically backing away from that mental quagmire.
But I didn’t find my equilibrium fast enough. That fractured darkness within me lurched into the void.
You should end this, it whispered. You need to free yourself. If you had freed yourself, Zach might still be alive. You should end it before you kill Olivia, too.
Over and over, the thought of falling pounded through my mind.
I saw it so clearly. Walking up the stairs, opening the door to the rooftop. Crawling onto the roof ledge. And then . . . one step forward.
That was all it would take.
The chain around me would snap. I would be free.
The voice lies. Don’t listen to it.
My thoughts were obsessive, brought on by the stress of all the emotions swirling around me.
The curse was not that easy to break.
Zach had made the choices he made. Yes, in my attempts to save his life, I had likely caused his death.
I concentrated on my breathing, on pulling myself away from the outside world.
A memory surfaced.
“When you are at your lowest, focus on love,” Dad’s words whispered through me. “Love is an anchor, keeping you stable in rough seas.”
My fifteen-year-old self frowned. “What do you mean?”
Dad placed a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to look deep into his eyes. “Love hard. Love true. When all hope is lost, remember only love will see you through.”
I chuckled. “You’re a poet, Dad.”
He shook his head, smile threatening. “Perhaps. Or maybe I’m simply a man desperate to keep his family together.”
Love.
It was my secret weapon.
Olivia needed me. My Olivia.
She was here. She was alone. The woman I already adored.
I thought of her and those future emotions of intense, blinding love I had felt.
I needed to love her. Focusing on her would get me out of my own head. Loving her could keep me stable, if only—
“Mr. D’Angelo?” A voice at my elbow startled me.
I turned to a nurse in scrubs.
“We’ve finished with our tests for now.” The nurse’s emotions wafted through me. Attraction. Curiosity. Distrust. “You’re welcome to sit with your girlfriend.”
I followed the nurse down a dingy hallway to a partitioned room. The room was empty of other patients, but Olivia was still tucked behind a curtain.
My heart lurched at the sight of her, so small and helpless in the bed, dressed in a loose hospital gown with her eyes closed, eyelashes fanned across her cheeks in her sleep. A heart rate monitor beeped.
“She’s still unconscious. Such prolonged unconsciousness without any obvious sign of external injury is troublesome,” the nurse said. “We’re just waiting for results from several tests we ran, particularly the blood test. Her breathing and other vitals are stable. The doctor should be in once we have more information.”
Her tone was polite, but her emotions said she thought I was a liar and had probably drugged Olivia.
How lovely.
I nodded. The nurse left.
I continued to stare at Olivia, the enormity of the situation hitting me all over again.
Life was like this. Light-hearted and carefree, until bam . . . you land in the hospital with your woman—who doesn’t even know she’s your woman—and reality rears its stubborn head.
I leaned forward and cupped her cheek, running my finger along her jaw. Her color was better, her skin not quite as pale, though a smattering of small freckles stood out on her cheeks. Her lips had lost their blue pallor.
Unbidden, I fixated on her mouth. I knew it was simply the lure of forbidden fruit. I would never know the taste of her lips, never know the feel.
The thought . . . ached.
Succumbing to a smidge of temptation, I brushed my thumb across her mouth.
Idiot that I am.
That was a mistake.
Her lips were somehow even more pillowy soft than they looked.
It hit me, a bolt of realization.
In all my earlier visions of her—us laughing, being together, falling in love—I had never kissed her on the mouth.
Not even a peck. Not once.
The only kiss I had seen in a vision was the one that caused her death.
I let the enormity of those facts sink in, branded them into my soul.
I would not repeat the horror of past mistakes. I would not return to that place of shame and regret and self-recrimination.
I would love her from a distance. Nothing more. I had to be strong.
I pulled my hand away and skirted around the bed, sitting down beside her.
As usual, I felt nothing from Olivia. Generally even sleeping people have an emotional baseline. But she gave me nothing.
I sank into her emptiness, the soothing nothingness of her emotions. Just being near her quieted my overwrought nervous system.
Was it because she was emotionally blank to me? Or was it because she was my woman?
And could I honestly separate the two anymore?
Who was she? What was her story? How was I supposed to keep her from dying?
I hated that I knew next to nothing about her. It felt like I should know everything, but aside from a love of pumpernickel and penchant for accessory jackets, she was essentially a stranger to me.
Someone would want to know that Olivia was in the hospital. Guaranteed there was someone who would be worried about her. If her family knew General Weymount, then they probably had military connections.
I took Olivia’s hand in mine, examining her fine-boned fingers. Her palms were soft and callous-free.
I wanted to memorize every detail of her. The mole to the left of her thumb. The slight curve in her pinky finger. Had she broken it at some point?
But fixation wasn’t entirely why I had lifted her hand into mine.
I pulled Olivia’s phone out of my pocket and used her fingerprint to unlock the screen.
I deliberately ignored the waiting text messages and emails, not wanting to invade Olivia’s privacy. Though, for the record, I was insanely curious.
Instead, I thumbed into her contacts and found what I was looking for.
The phone number labeled Mom.
Did Olivia have an international calling plan on her cell? Only one way to find out, I supposed.
A woman’s voice picked up after three rings. Her mother, I presumed.
“Olivia! Finally. There you are, sweetheart. I’ve been calling all day.” Her mother’s tone was that mixture of relief and irritation only a mother perfects. It was also vaguely familiar. Where had I heard her voice before? “You’ve called at a bad time. I’m set to be on the floor in five minutes. Call Michael. I need you here by tomorrow morning. We have a lot to go over before the announcement in two weeks. I’ll call later—”
“Wait! Ma’am!” I cleared my throat. “I’m not Olivia. Your daughter is in the hospital.”
Dead
silence.
“To whom am I speaking?” Her voice was commanding.
“My name is Tennyson D’Angelo.”
“I see.” Though her tone implied she clearly did not. The woman leaned away from the phone and hissed at someone to get Michael immediately. “What is Olivia’s condition? What happened?” Her words were crisp and commanding. Not the most motherly of responses.
“She collapsed and is unconscious. That’s about all I know. The doctors have been running some tests.”
No reply to that information.
Part of me was angrily offended for Olivia’s sake. This was her mother. Did the woman not care that her daughter was in the hospital? Didn’t the woman know that her daughter might be dying?
If I got a call like this, I would be freaking out. And I had only physically known Olivia for half a day.
Instead, her mother asked, “Olivia’s back in the States, then? Which hospital is my daughter in? Georgetown? Mount Vernon?”
Georgetown? Mount Vernon? Weren’t those places in Washington, D.C.?
“Olivia is in Ospedale Santa Maria Annunziata,” I replied.
“Where the hell is that? New Jersey?”
Her voice was so pissy, I almost smiled. “No, ma’am. Florence, Italy.”
More silence.
“My daughter is in Italy? Italy was not on her itinerary. Is this some kind of sick joke? Or did you roofie her and are now trying to get some leverage out of it? We are not people to mess with. Where is Olivia? Put my daughter on the phone immediately or, so help me, I will have the police on you so quick—”
Whoa.
That went ugly fast.
“I’m just trying to help, ma’am. I can switch over to video chat, if you’d like?” I offered, keeping my tone calm and helpful. “Olivia is lying right here. You can probably hear the heart monitor beeping.”
A pause.
“But she’s okay?” Concern finally edged into her voice.
“She’s breathing. She’s stable. There are no outward signs of injury.”
Olivia’s mother paused, seeming to absorb this.
“Michael!” She yelled and then her voice faded, moving away from the phone and speaking to someone else. “Olivia’s had another episode. I need you to sort this. I have to be on the floor right now.” She came back to me. “Don’t you dare harm my daughter. She’s a good, kind person, and I’m so tired of people taking advantage of her sweet nature. Michael will open negotiations.”