Analiese Rising

by Brenda Drake

  “Me neither,” I say over my shoulder.

  A woman gives Dalton a strange look as she’s exiting the restroom and we’re entering. Her eyes practically bulge out.

  “I’m gay,” Dalton says to her. “Nothing in here interests me.”

  The woman hurries out, passing Marek, who’s rushing in.

  “Is there anyone else in here?” Marek asks.

  “Yes.” A woman’s voice comes from the stall at the end. “This is the women’s restroom, not the men’s.”

  “We know,” Dalton says a little too loud. “We’re helping my sister with an issue. You might want to leave. It’s not going to be pretty, and it may be somewhat stinky.”

  I glare at Dalton. “Thanks for that.”

  A wide grin stretches his lips. “Hey, just ad-libbing.”

  We wait at the sinks until the woman flushes and washes her hands, then she gives me a pity smile before exiting.

  Marek pushes the trash can up against the door, his grandfather’s satchel slung over his shoulder.

  I face him. “What are you doing here?”

  “You have to come with me,” he says, riffling through the bag.

  “I can’t.” I toss Dalton a sidelong glance, hoping he’ll back me up. “We’re on our way to camp.”

  Marek finds what he’s searching for and holds it up. “It’s about these.”

  “Passports?”

  “You have to see this,” he says, opening one and showing me the inside. “The name on it is Olivia Martin, and the photo is…” He taps it with a finger.

  My stomach drops as if it’s falling into a bottomless pit—down, down, down.

  It’s me.

  Chapter Ten

  I can’t believe Marek talked me into flying to Rome with him, or that Dalton backed him up. If Dalton had a passport, he’d go along; since he doesn’t, I’m on my own. Well, without Dalton. Obviously, Marek’s traveling with me.

  Going back to my house to get my passport almost caused Marek and me to miss our train. I know it annoyed him, but I wasn’t about to go as Olivia Martin. It’s illegal. Besides, I’ve had one since I was born. Most of the stamps in it are from Israel from when I go visit my grandparents.

  There’s no way this plan’s going to work. Dalton will lie to the camp counselors and say I’m sick and will be coming to the camp late. He even forged a note from Jane. He’ll call Jane to tell her we made it okay and we’re both fine. She won’t care if I don’t call. It’s expected. We’ve been at odds with each other ever since Dad died.

  We’re back in Shona’s apartment. There’s a passport in the illegal stack with her picture on it under a different name. So we figure she should know about it, and we need to find out if there’s a clue in the Michelangelo reproduction hanging over her fireplace.

  Vanilla scents the room. It’s likely coming from the candle burning on the table by the front door. It’s chilly. The air conditioner must be on high or something. My gaze keeps going to the painting. There doesn’t seem to be anything special about it. Nothing that looks like a clue.

  Shona huffs, staring at the passport in her hand. “Sally Smith? He couldn’t pick a more exotic name for me? Why do you suppose he made these for us?”

  “I’m not sure,” Marek says. “It must be something to do with the list. I found other passports. I can’t be certain, but I bet the photographs match up to the people on it.”

  Cain enters the room, a deep scowl on his face. “They’re here again. Don’t they have better things to do than to bother us? I’m going to the bakery.”

  Shona’s eyes follow him all the way until he disappears into the foyer. The front door opens and then slams shut. “He has such a sweet tooth lately.”

  “Is he always so grumpy?” I ask.

  Her eyes flick in our direction. “It’s been that way ever since he died.”

  Did she say died?

  Marek has the same thought. “Died? What do you mean? He’s alive.”

  “Your grandfather didn’t tell you, did he?”

  “Tell me what?” Marek stumbles to his feet and looks down at the carpet as if it tripped him.

  “You probably should stay seated for this.”

  Any time someone wants you to sit before telling you something, it’s usually bad. And I’m not sure I want to hear it. I’m kind of done with all the damn revelations happening lately.

  Who am I kidding? I want to hear what she has to say. I need to know more about that list now that a passport showed up with my picture on it, adding to the mystery. And I fear, whatever the reason, someone’s killing the people on that list. That’s why their names are crossed off. Why my parents’ and uncle’s names are marked out.

  Shona perches on the edge of a straight-back chair with swirling vines and flowers carved into its wooden legs and arms.

  Marek sits beside me on the couch, his hand resting on the cushion and against my thigh. With some effort, I act as if his nearness doesn’t send tingles across my skin and up my spine. But it does, so I scoot over, pretending as though I did that to lean against the armrest and not because I need some distance from him or risk him noticing my reaction.

  “You see,” she says and pauses, clearing her throat. “A car hit Cain while he was crossing the street. He died. I’m sure of it. There wasn’t a pulse. I was out of my mind. Crushed.” Her face is a mask; not a single emotion shows on it. “I cradled his face in my hands and was about to kiss him when his eyes snapped open. I thought it was a miracle, but the truth is that it was something else. Something from the devil.”

  I now scoot to the edge of the couch. “From the devil?”

  She rolls the material of her skirt between her fingers. “I did it. Cain came back to life because of me.”

  “Did you give him CPR?” I ask.

  “No. Just held his head.”

  “He came back?” Marek lifts a brow. “Maybe he was just knocked out.”

  Her eyes drill into his. “No. It wasn’t like that. I swear he was dead. He hasn’t been the same since. Sure, he looks and acts like Cain, but the Cain before the accident was kind and gentle. A health nut. An animal activist. This one is angry and has no remorse. He killed the pigeons the lady in 15A had up on the roof. All of them. Just because they bothered us while we were up there. He went into the cage and broke each of their necks.”

  Marek moves forward, aligning with me at the edge of the couch. “Maybe he just snapped. People change.”

  Shona lets go of her skirt and smooths the material down. “I know it sounds way out there.”

  Marek releases a frustrated laugh. “It’s nonsense. There has to be another explanation. You didn’t just raise him from the dead like some god.”

  His words make me remember what his grandfather said on the recording he left for Marek. Mr. Conte believed in gods and goddesses. He was delusional. Gods and goddesses from mythologies are just that—myths. Which makes me think his wild goose chase for hidden clues is a madman’s game. I probably should convince Marek to drop it. I don’t need answers. My parents and uncle are dead, and I probably shouldn’t dig up their secrets—if there are any.

  But I want to unearth them. I want to know everything, not just what other people have told me.

  Marek stands and shuffles over to the fireplace. “I’m a little thirsty. You have anything to drink?”

  Shona eases to her feet and tugs down her skirt. “Of course we do. What would you like?”

  “How about tea?” he asks.

  “Sure,” she says. “Hot or cold?”

  The smile on Marek’s face has a hint of mischief in it. “Hot. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  The moment Shona’s out of the room, Marek searches the back of the painting. When his hand comes out from behind the frame, he holds a tiny wadded-up piece of paper. I lean over his arm watc
hing him unfold it.

  “What does it say?” I ask lower than a whisper.

  “A clue.” Marek reads it quietly. “Seek the true one.”

  “This is a fake. The real one is in the Sistine Chapel,” I say. “We have to get to Rome.”

  “Yep. We need plane tickets.” He shoves the paper in his pants pocket.

  “What if all this is just one of your grandfather’s games?”

  Marek shifts and gazes down at me. “This is real. My grandfather wouldn’t put all this effort into a game. All that money. There’s something big at the end of this trail of clues, and I think you’re a part of it.”

  There is some sort of connection between my family and his. Mr. Conte even went to Israel to give my grandparents that statue of Bastet. A protection. From what?

  I’m scared to face it, though. Something happened to my parents and uncle. Something bad. And it wasn’t an accident. I push back on the inner voice that keeps telling me I don’t want to know the truth. Because I do want to know. I stare at him for a long while, processing what the repercussions will be if I go. But the thing is, I have no idea what they’ll be if I don’t.

  “Okay,” I finally say. “Do you have a plan?”

  “We need to find the soonest flight to Rome.”

  “Well, you aren’t going without me.” Shona slowly walks across the room, balancing three mugs on a silver tray. “I’m on that list, too. It’s going to be expensive this last-minute.”

  The front door flies open and bangs against the wall. Cain rushes in, practically blowing steam out his nose. He clutches a donut shop bag in one hand. His knuckles on his other hand are bleeding.

  “They’re out of Bavarian creams again,” he barks. “All they make is donuts there. How can they be out?”

  The anger on Cain’s face causes me to stand, ready to run if needed. “Did you hit someone?”

  “No, just the wall.” He paces the room, his muscles tense, eyes vacant. “A brick one.”

  A stunned look passes between Marek and me. We don’t move, not sure what to do.

  Shona places the tray on the coffee table and frowns at Cain. “What did I tell you? It’s a popular donut. No need to get violent over it. Take a breath and calm down.”

  Cain inhales a deep breath and lets it out. His glare shifting around and his nostrils going in and out are full-on scary, and he looks about to charge at someone. He’s like a bull stuck in a pen, waiting for Shona to open the gate and let him loose.

  “Now go wash your hand before you drip blood on the carpet,” she says, picking up one of the mugs and handing it to Marek.

  With a frustrated growl, Cain slouches off down a hallway at the end of the living room.

  “He’s not coming with us, right?” Marek studies the contents in the mug.

  A frown deepens the creases in Shona’s forehead. “I can’t leave him alone. He could hurt someone.”

  “You let him go to the donut shop,” Marek counters.

  She passes me one of the mugs. “He’s been instructed not to harm anyone in the neighborhood.”

  “That’s comforting,” I say with a sarcastic tone and breathe in the aroma of the tea. It’s a floral scent with a touch of spice. “Why not just tell him to not hurt anyone until you get back.”

  “Because I have to remind him every morning or he’ll forget.” She takes a sip of her tea, eyeing me over the lip of her mug. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.” I’m suspicious of the tea. She could have poisoned it. I place my mug back on the coffee table. “How can someone forget not to hurt someone? You just don’t do it.”

  Marek must not trust his either, because he puts his mug down next to mine.

  “You’re not listening.” That heavy frown does nothing for her face. If she keeps it up, she’ll have horrible wrinkles when she gets older. “He has no conscience. I’m the only one who can keep him from harming others.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven,” I drone.

  She regards me a moment before saying in a haughty tone, “We were…before the accident.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Marek interjects and yanks his cell phone from his pocket. “We should find a flight.” His fingers move across the screen.

  “Good idea,” I say.

  He lifts his phone and squints at the screen. “I don’t have service here.”

  “That happens all the time. We have bad cell connection because the brick walls on the outside are thick.” Shona pops up from her seat and motions for us to follow her. “We have a desktop computer in the spare room.”

  Marek follows her, and I trail him into the room.

  “I’ll contact my friend, Sid,” she says. “Have him pick us up at the airport. He lives just outside of Rome.”

  I plop down on the bed and sink into the expensive, fluffy comforter while Shona and Marek search for flights on the computer. My attention isn’t on them. It’s stuck on the elephant outside the room. Cain.

  “Wait. You have a friend in Rome?” I’m impressed when someone has a friend outside of Philadelphia.

  Shona flicks a look over her shoulder at me. I think she’s surprised to find me there. If she thinks I’m going to wait in the living room alone with her hotheaded boyfriend in the apartment, she can guess again.

  “Yes. I have them all over the world.”

  It takes all my power not to roll my eyes at her.

  Cain walks by and glares inside the room. I swear my heart stops as he passes, then it picks up beating again and my breath returns after he’s gone. When he comes back the other way and scowls, I lock eyes with him. I’m determined not to be the one to break. My cold stare says I’m not afraid of him, but inside I’m terrified.

  I almost slip off the bed when he looks away first and rushes down the hall. It wasn’t Shona who made him go, because she’s staring at the computer screen, discussing flights with Marek. He probably got bored of me.

  An uneasy feeling bubbles up in my stomach. Our traveling companions concern me. Cain in particular—with his anger and unpredictability, he could go off at any time. What will he do if Shona’s not around to stop him? And was it only birds he killed before? I’m too scared to know the answer to that question. Most serial killers start with murdering animals and then move on to humans.

  Lovely. Not only is this trip going to get me in big trouble with Jane, but it could also get me killed at the hands of Demon Boyfriend.

  Chapter Eleven

  I know it’s cowardly of me, but the entire trip from JFK airport to Rome I’ve made sure Shona was between Demon Boyfriend and me. I figure she chose Cain, so she can deal with him. Deal with his sudden outbursts.

  It’s nearing the hour mark since we’ve been on this curb, waiting for Shona’s friend to pick us up. It’s a hot day even under the metal canopy shading the sidewalk. I down the last bit of water in my bottle.

  “Maybe you should try him again,” Marek says, offering me his half-full water bottle, and I can’t stop myself from feeling a little swoony at the gesture.

  Still, I wave him off. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  Shona perks up. “There he is. Don’t call him a she. His pronoun is he, him…never mind, you get it.”

  A light pink Fiat pulls up in front of us. A guy about our age pops out from the driver’s side door with so much energy it makes me painfully aware of how exhausted I am from the long flight.

  No matter how tired I am, I can’t keep my droopy eyes off him. He’s beautiful, with perfectly styled hair and flawless makeup. Not just your average, cover-a-zit cosmetics, but it’s the kind of perfection that beauty vloggers do with fake eyelashes and bright highlighter on cheekbones.

  “Sid!” Shona darts around the back of the Fiat and embraces him.

  He wiggles out of her arms wrapped
around his shoulders. Tattoos on his well-defined arms peek out from under the sleeves of his shirt. “Girl, watch it. You’ll squish my Hermès bag. It’s vintage, you know.” His gaze lands on Marek. “Who’s the new boy toy, honey?”

  “He’s off-limits,” Shona says, opening the trunk and motioning for Cain to bring their bags. She leans over to Sid and whispers, but I can totally hear it—and if I can, so can Marek. “I think he’s already spoken for.”

  Sid raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me. “She’s a cute kitten. Needs help, though. A lot of tweezing.”

  “I can hear you,” I say and lug my suitcase over to Marek, who’s trying to fit the bags in the small compartment.

  Shona turns to me. “We’re just kidding. Anyway, Sid, this is Analiese.”

  Right. Kidding. For some reason, she wanted to embarrass me. I shut out the thought and smile. “Call me Ana.”

  “But Analiese is such a pretty name,” he says. “Why shorten it?”

  Marek steps in front of me, reaching out his hand. “Hey man, I’m Marek.”

  Sid grasps and holds it a little longer than necessary. “Sid. It’s definitely a pleasure to meet you.”

  “All right,” Shona says, cutting between them on her way to the Fiat’s back passenger door. “Let’s get going.”

  I give the pink vehicle a once-over. “How are we even going to fit in this?”

  “It seats five,” Sid says. “You might not be able to move…or breathe”—he laughs—“but it’s a short jaunt to the hotel.”

  Jaunt?

  “How old are you, anyway?”

  A smirk spreads over Sid’s lips. “I’d say about your age.”

  What kind of answer is that? “Seventeen?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” He walks off and joins Shona.

  His vagueness is strange. He probably gets off on giving people a hard time.

  Marek’s able to fit three of the four pieces of luggage in, but since his carry-on is more of a duffle-slash-suitcase contraption, it has to go across his and my laps in the backseat. It’s a tight squeeze with Shona on the other side of me.