by Nichole Van
“So you’re naturally occurring triplets?”
“Yes. The most common form of spontaneous triplets—a set of fraternal twins where one of the eggs then split into identical twins. The GUT split with us. My brothers got the past portion of the GUT. I got the future all to myself.”
“Which is why it’s more potent with you?”
“That’s one speculation. It could also be that the madness was only ever tied to the future portion of the GUT. It’s hard to say.”
Olivia frowned, taking all this in. “So the GUT is genetic and tied to the male line?”
I let out a long breath. “No. It’s more complicated than that. There are two theories as to where our GUTs originate. Family oral history says that our GUTs were actually a gift granted by gypsies in the Middle Ages. An ancestor found himself in a difficult situation and essentially sold his soul in exchange for a gift of Second Sight. The gift, as often happens in these types of tales, turned out to be more of a curse. It does grant us powers of Second Sight, but it demands a horrific price.
“Recently, we’ve come to doubt the family lore history. Aside from oral tradition, there is nothing to support it being reality. The events with Jack and the daemon point to a different source. The ancient Etruscan religion—”
“Etruscan?”
“Yes, the people who lived here in Tuscany before the Romans conquered them. Volterra was one of their major cities. In fact, one of the city gates in Volterra is Etruscan and thousands of years old. But I digress. Where was I?”
“Jack. Daemon. Etruscan religion.”
“Right. So the founder of the ancient Etruscan religion was a guy named Tages. Tages and his descendants were oracles who used lightning, the flight pattern of birds and entrails to communicate with the dead and foretell the future. The object that trapped Jack in the shadow world originated with Tages and the Etruscans. We D’Angelos can access the power of these objects. Adding more to the mystery, we realized this past summer that our sister, Chiara, has a GUT, too.”
“Whoa. She does?”
“Yeah. It’s not as powerful as ours, but it’s definitely real. She can read omens and stuff. Put all together, there’s really no reason to think that there is any tie-in to the gypsies at all. In fact, my father managed to send a message through Chiara a few months ago—”
“A message? Like from beyond the grave?”
“Yeah, using Chiara’s more limited GUT. I guess it’s easier for her to act as a medium or something. It was . . . healing to hear from him. He told us that the daemon was the cause of the madness, that we needed to seal the scars in order to free ourselves from the madness.”
“Can I—” She paused and then continued. “Can I ask how he died? Was it suicide?”
I understood her subtext: What about your suicide attempts?
I wasn’t ready to talk about that with her yet.
I glanced out the window to the tumbled stones, flowers growing around them. The granite blocks were all that was left of the medieval tower where my father had ended his life—the entire structure blown to bits in the cataclysmic lightning strike that had ended his life.
“Yeah, it was suicide.” I laid the words gently. “The fracturing took Dad when we were sixteen. He was obsessed with lightning at the end of his life, always muttering about it. We think he may have thought to use the power of lightning to close the scars, but who knows. He climbed the tower behind the house there”—I pointed to the area—“raised a lightning rod to the sky and called down a monstrous bolt that instantly obliterated him and the tower. It was . . . traumatic.”
Olivia froze as I spoke. Even I could see the horror on her face.
I swallowed. The gut-punch of losing my dad never ebbed.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
Silence.
Olivia stared sightlessly ahead, brows drawn down. She let the moment pass. “This is all interesting, but none of it explains why I can see the scars? Why the daemon is attacking me, too? And why your GUT doesn’t sense my emotions?”
“I’m with you. It’s puzzling.”
“I mean, I don’t have a GUT, and I have no connection to your family or this Tages guy.” She pause. “Well, that I know of, I guess.”
“You were adopted, so there’s no saying what your family line is.”
She tapped her lips with a finger. “True. I wonder if I have some D’Angelo or Tages blood in me, too.”
That got my full attention.
“How so?” I asked. “Your coloring is definitely striking, but I thought you were of Hispanic descent, not Italian.”
“Yeah, I think most everyone assumed I was Latina based on my looks. I know I did. My parents certainly did. The number of Spanish classes they made me take as a kid.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I finally did a DNA test last year, and it came back with random results. Apparently, I have Italian and Greek heritage mixed with southwest Asian.”
“Southwest Asia?”
“Think Nepal and India.”
“That’s . . . fascinating.” Though now that she said it, I could see it more clearly in her features.
“But my Italian heritage could be linked to the same family line.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about us being long lost cousins of a sort.
“We could test to see if you have a GUT,” I offered.
Her eyes lit up. “Really? How would we do that?”
I crossed the room to her.
I told myself I simply needed to be closer to her to help. It had nothing to do with the pull I felt toward her, that I couldn’t stand being so far away.
I would behave myself. I would.
I sat down beside her, Elvis on one side, me on the other. The hound dog had fallen asleep as we talked and now snored away, his head half in her lap.
Dumb hound dog and his wily ways, making the moves on my girl.
Olivia shifted slightly to face me, sliding Elvis off her leg.
It was a small win, but I would take it. Anytime a girl chose me over the King was a good day.
Dimly, my brain noted that being this close was not wise. That this was the exact opposite of keeping my distance from her, both literally and emotionally.
But being near Olivia . . .
Her eyes were forest pools of molten color; a tendril of her hair clung to her neck. I finally caught the faint thread of her soap or a subtle perfume or something. I yearned to close the gap between us and learn her through more senses than just sight.
Stop obsessing. You’re going to get her killed if you keep this up.
“So what do I do?” she whispered, leaning toward me.
“Why are you whispering?” I replied, also whispering.
She rested her head against the back of the couch. “This situation feels very clandestine and whisper-able.”
I could go with that.
“Let me hold your hands.” I extended my own toward her.
She readily dropped her hands into mine. Soft, smooth and warm. Electricity sparked at the connection. I slid my fingers along her palms without thinking, causing her to shiver.
Intuition told me it was a good sort of shiver, but who knew? I was way out of my depth here.
“Now what?” she murmured.
“Close your eyes.”
She did as I instructed, long eyelashes sweeping down, kissing the dusting of freckles there.
I sternly told my hands not to touch her face. I longed to run my thumbs across her cheeks, vividly remembering how they had felt in the hospital.
Not good.
Focus.
“Okay, so I want you to think back on times in your life when you’ve had premonitions of something.”
A beat.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Uh . . . like have you ever looked at bird flying away and thought that maybe something bad was about to happen? Or have you ever seen lightning in the distance and had a scene dance before your eyes?”
Olivia’s brow furrowed, darling and scrunched. She sucked in her cheeks and chewed on the side of her mouth.
I let her think and stew for a few minutes. The various facial expressions she adopted were adorable.
Finally she blew out a long breath and opened her eyes.
She dropped my hands.
“I got nothing,” she said, her voice no longer whispering. “I’ve never had any sort of premonition or seen random scenes, literally or figuratively. I just see scars and a daemon.” She shrugged, apologetic.
“So you’re saying when you look at entrails, you don’t fall into a convulsing vision?”
“Well, you didn’t ask me that, now did you?”
I froze.
“I’m joking,” she deadpanned. “Do I look like the kind of person who enjoys entrails?”
I was pretty sure there wasn’t a good way to answer that. I hesitated too long.
“Sorry.” She blew out another long breath and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not good with this sort of thing.” She motioned between us.
I was so out to sea. Not feeling her emotions, I had no clue what was going on inside her head. What ‘sort of thing’ did she mean? Casual conversation? Or my stilted attempts at flirting?
And which did I want it to be?
I hadn’t realized before meeting her how colossally bad I was at reading basic body language.
“You’re going to have to explain what you mean, anima mia,” I finally said. “I’m not good with this either.”
She cocked her head at me, like she wasn’t quite sure she believed me. Or maybe I just looked better at an angle.
Regardless, the motion caused the lock of hair behind her ear to pop loose, tumbling across her cheek. Without thinking, I reached for it, intent on tucking it back behind her ear. But my fingertips brushed her cheek and every coherent thought fled my brain.
Soft.
So soft.
I ached to gather her into my arms, to feel her soft warmth pressed against me.
Taking on a life of its own, my thumb swept across her cheekbone. Once. Twice.
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away from my hand. If anything, she leaned into my palm.
I swallowed.
This is not good, a distant voice in my brain screamed. You need to pull away. Danger!
But then she . . . nuzzled.
My woman nuzzled my hand and I was suddenly helpless to deny her anything.
Affection and adoration blazed through me. She owned me, body and soul, and I couldn’t seem to stop myself from tumbling.
My reaction was instinctive.
I cupped her face, her cheek fitting perfectly in my palm.
Her eyes flicked to my lips.
Moisture fled from my mouth.
Help! I mentally shrieked.
Were we inevitable, she and I?
It would be so easy. Just lean forward six inches. Gravity in action. The natural outcome of two stars fated to collide. The breath of her mouth would brush across mine, seconds before we—
Elvis erupted into a howling fit and launched himself off the couch with a loud thwump.
I flinched.
Olivia and I sprang apart, both breathing hard.
I stared at her, horror-stricken.
The vision of her blood-soaked body flashed before me. Zach gurgling, drowning in his own blood.
How could I even have vaguely entertained the thought of kissing her?
Obviously, I had vastly underestimated her charm and my own self-control.
Self-loathing flooded me. Shame and frustration with myself. I was the worst of the worst.
Color tinged Olivia’s cheeks and she looked away, folding her arms across her chest.
Elvis continued to howl and bark.
Thank goodness for my mood-killing dog.
“Elvis!” I called. “Get back here!”
But Elvis was down the steps and whining at the front door.
Emotions slammed into me.
I had been so wrapped up in Olivia that I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. People were coming up the drive. Or would be soon.
The familiar giddyhappymaniacwhirling emotions that were my sister Chiara.
And another set . . . frustration, irritation, annoyance, determination.
Not Jack, because I couldn’t feel Jack.
No. But they were familiar. It took me a second to pinpoint where I had felt this before.
Tires were crunching on the gravel outside when I put it all together.
Michael.
Michael had returned.
SEVENTEEN
Olivia
So explain to me again why you’re here, Michael?” I cuddled up against Tennyson, tucking my shoulder against his as I surveyed Michael across the room.
As soon as Michael arrived, Tennyson had plastered himself to my side, maintaining the facade that we were dating.
Allow me to repeat the most salient point in all that—
Plastered. To. My. Side.
As in, touching from hip to shoulder.
As in, I could feel his heartbeat.
Feel. His. Heartbeat.
Every time Tennyson moved, his Hot Person cologne would eddy and curl around me, tempting me with his seductive man-voodoo.
Gah.
I was so done for.
Tennyson had stolen all my feels and I was never going to get them back.
I knew the cuddling was entirely for Michael’s benefit—and, by extension, my mother—but the part of me that enjoyed living in this bizarro-fantasy world gloated.
See, this amazing guy thinks I’m date-able. So there!
Sure it was all pretend, but . . . whatever.
“Yes, Michael, why are you here?” That was Chiara, Tennyson’s younger sister.
We were all sitting in the drawing room. Tennyson and I with Elvis on one couch. Jack Knight-Snow and Chiara were nestled together on a loveseat across from us. The sun had set about an hour ago; accent lighting and lamps lit the room here and there, casting shadows.
Michael sat alone in a club chair facing all four of us. If he disliked being the odd-guy out, he didn’t show it.
He had changed from business-formal-Michael in his suit and tie into business-casual-Michael in designer denim, a crisp white button-down and tight-cut suit coat. Michael was nothing if not meticulous about his clothing. Say what you would—and, trust me, I could say a lot—the man always looked camera ready.
It was a Hot Person mantra—‘Maintain Hot status at all times through impeccably-styled clothing choices.’ Michael probably had the saying pinned to a Pinterest board somewhere.
So, yes, Michael was good-looking. But good-looking in the central-casting sense of the word—nothing standing out as less than perfect. Not too tall nor too short. Not too buff nor too thin. Brown hair that was neither long nor short. Brown eyes set the right distance apart in a perfectly symmetrical face.
Tennyson squeezed my hand.
That’s right, in addition to being smooshed up against Tennyson, my hand was tucked tight into his.
We were holding hands.
Hand holding.
Beholden in our handness.
I was two hand squeezes and a thumb swipe away from melting into a pile of Tennylicious endorphin goo.
All of which begged another question—why was Tennyson so insistent that Michael and my mother believe he was my boyfriend?
It really served no purpose. Tennyson had nothing to gain by pretending to be my boyfriend.
I would choose to be here regardless of our romantic status. I was dying. Tennyson could help me. I had already committed to helping close the scars, as it would solve the whole I’m dying thing I had going on.
Michael’s gaze met mine across the room, his eyes flicking down to my enclosed hand.
He’s just using you. I didn’t need superpowers to understand Michael’s thoughts. He’s pretending to like you to win your trust.
> My mind briefly flitted back to that minute before Michael arrived. Tennyson cupping my cheek and looking at me so tenderly, eyes soft as if he would kiss me, before flinching and pulling away.
I rejected my mother’s assertion—at this point, I truthfully didn’t think Tennyson or the D’Angelos were out to use my political connections—but that didn’t mean I had a better answer.
Maybe Tennyson just didn’t like being caught lying and so maintained the charade to keep his sense of integrity intact?
Or maybe Tennyson was blown away by my stunning good looks and fascinating personality, so much so that he couldn’t tear himself away from my side, helpless to stop the freight train of attraction between us—
Hah! As if!
I cracked myself up.
I mentally wiped a tear of laughter out of my eye.
So . . . yeah. No idea why we were playing this little game for Michael.
The truth?
I kinda didn’t care. I knew I was supposed to care. I should Voice My Opinion and Demand Respect.
But . . . Tennyson.
My stupid, sneaky hormones highjacked my feminist sense of indignation, trussed her up and tossed her out the window.
Ah, hormones. My nemeses.
I was thirty-three years old. If I wanted to have a fling with a good-looking, Italian playboy/psychic—and have my heart shattered into a thousand pieces when he inevitably told me that I wasn’t his type—and spend the next five years in therapy getting over him and struggling to trust men for the rest of my life because of the lingering emotional baggage . . .
Well . . . that was my choice, dammit.
And if there was a teeny, tiny slice of my heart right behind my third rib that seemed like it did care that I was one or two hormone-laden decisions away from nursing a broken heart by binge watching Netflix in my pajamas for a month straight . . . well, I would deal with the pain when Tennyson eventually left.
“C’mon, Michael. Don’t be shy.” Chiara encouraged him to speak. “You got all gussied up in your cute boy clothes and drove down here. We’re dying to hear from you.”