Analiese Rising

by Brenda Drake

  “I don’t know.” I toss page after page. Faces flash by, men and women, the photographs less aged the further into the album I get. “Why is there a photograph of each person alive then dead?”

  “Correction,” he says. “They’re dead then alive. Look at the times.”

  He’s right. I stop flipping pages and choke on my breath. On the chest of one of the men sits a death’s-head hawkmoth. Its yellow-and-brown wings perfectly spread apart, the skull on its back almost mocking. A shiver runs through my body, the album shaking a little in my hands.

  It’s a coincidence. That’s all. It can’t be related to the moths that appeared during the freaky frog incident at school. I shake the thought away.

  I remember just then what Shona told us about Cain.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Cain.” I can’t seem to form a complete sentence. Air is rushing too quickly into my lungs.

  Marek rests his hand on mine. “Breathe. It’s okay. What about Cain?”

  “Shona.” I take a breath. “She said he died and she brought him back. Could it be true?”

  “I don’t know. None of this seems possible, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Keep searching for answers.”

  “What sick person puts together something like this?” I look at the album.

  “I don’t think Antonia did,” Marek says. “The first photographs were in 1937. Writing and pages are faded. And she wasn’t alive back then. We should get those note pages translated. Maybe there’re answers in them.”

  The phone to the room rings. Marek leans back and picks up the receiver. “Hello? No. We’re not here, and I didn’t just answer the phone. Okay.” He sighs as he waits for something. “I’m not giving him a hard time. Right. See you later.” He hangs up and turns to me. “That was Shona and her lapdog. They’re on their way back.”

  I push off the bed and pick up the album. “We have to hide this stuff before they return.”

  “Okay,” he says, sounding as if he thinks I’m unreasonable. “Why? I thought they were in this with us. Shona is on that list. She’s searching for answers, too. Besides, she speaks Italian, and we need a translator.”

  With a deep sigh, I collapse back on the bed beside him. “You’re right. I just don’t trust Cain. He freaks me out.”

  “The dude definitely has anger issues.” He places his hand on my knee, and I feel a tug inside me at his touch. If we were in a different situation, I might act on my growing attraction to Marek. He keeps pulling me closer with every touch, smile, and kind thing that he does.

  And by different situation, I mean if I weren’t in mortal danger.

  …

  Sid drops Shona and Cain off almost thirty minutes later. Thankfully, it’s another full-moon night, so he doesn’t come up. He’s off to see the same guy he saw last night.

  Shona keeps glancing at us as she reads the notes from Antonia’s box. “These aren’t hers. It’s experiment records from a coroner’s daughter named Isabella Favero. She studied under her father. Bodies would come in for autopsies, and she’d experiment on them. It’s just stuff like subject died by drowning, pneumonia and other diseases, and accidents. Raised at such and such date. They’d come back to life. Doesn’t say how.”

  “Maybe she injected them with something,” I say.

  Her eyes go wide, and she covers her mouth. “Oh my gosh, then she’d suffocate them. Kill them.”

  I clench the side of the bed. Did they feel anything when she experimented on them?

  “There’s nothing about how she brought them back?” I ask.

  Cain’s pacing the floor in front of a fancy wardrobe. “I feel cooped up in here. Let’s go out. It’s still early.”

  “Dude, calm down,” Marek says. “Your girl is upset. Maybe you should, I don’t know, be less of an ass.”

  A growl originates somewhere deep in Cain’s throat, and his chest puffs out, his hands tightening into a fist. “What’d you call me?”

  Marek stands and readies himself for an attack. “An ass. Which you are.”

  Before Cain can make a move for Marek, Shona steps between them, facing Cain. “Stop.”

  Cain does.

  “Take a shower and cool down already.” She crosses her arms and stares him down until his hands go slack and his chest deflates.

  “He’s gonna get his one day,” Cain says, grabs his backpack, and slams the bathroom door behind him.

  “Why are you with that guy, again?” Marek asks, returning to his seat on the bed.

  “I try to remember the good times,” she answers, not convincing herself or us.

  “There must’ve been a lot of them.” Marek smirks but then sobers when both Shona and I give him a that-is-so-not-funny-right-now glare. “Bad timing?”

  “Yes.” I elbow him when Shona returns to reading the notes and mouth, “Be nice.”

  He mouths back, “I am.”

  “I’m right here,” Shona says, her eyes still planted on the page. “I can see you in my periphery. And I agree. Marek, behave. Stop trying to provoke Cain.”

  Marek chortles. “But he’s so easy to provoke.”

  “Still not funny.” Even though I say that, I have to press my lips together to stop the smile tugging at my lips. Marek is too cute when he laughs.

  “I’m sorry.” He swallows back one last laugh. “I can’t help it. Being in this room with him sucks.”

  Shona looks up from her reading. “Have we forgotten the scary shit going on? Specifically, this.” She shakes the paper in her hand. “Stop messing around.”

  Who could forget? It felt good to laugh a little. Relieve some tension.

  After she gets through all the pages, she straightens the stack beside her. “It’s basically all the same. The girl was experimenting on dead people. That shit’s not right.”

  “So we should go to the Sistine Chapel tomorrow,” I say. “See if we can find the next clue.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Marek agrees.

  Cain comes out from the bathroom—hair wet, no shirt, low-slung pajama bottoms—and I avert my eyes. Sharing a room with two guys does have its benefits.

  My eyes meet Marek’s brown ones. My cheeks heat.

  And it has its downfalls.

  “Cain, put a shirt on,” Shona says, slipping the papers into the box with the poster boards and album. “You’re making Analiese uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not—” I catch Marek watching me. That heating sensation returns in my cheeks. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Once inside the bathroom, I stand in front of the mirror, just staring. I’m a lot older now than I was in that photograph with Antonia. The porch swing we were on still hangs from our back porch, paint chipped, chains rusty. Safta made the dress with the daisies I’m wearing in it.

  The image of Antonia and me together keeps flashing in my mind. Wren said I was Antonia’s only living relative. How were we related? I don’t know if my mother has any family left. I’m a lot closer to my birth father’s family.

  My mom had only the one brother, Eli. My dad. Grandfather Bove was killed young in a hunting accident. My mom was three and my uncle barely one. When my grandfather was a boy, his entire family died in a house fire. He was lucky to make it out alive. Grandma Bove was an orphan and died seven years ago from a massive stroke.

  They’re all dead.

  “You’ll never know,” I tell my tired reflection and run my brush through my dark, tangled hair.

  You never need to be afraid; you hold more power than you know. Something Dad used to say to me. He said it often. Always emphasizing power.

  I glare straight into my hazel eyes. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me? What secrets were you hiding?”

  Tears dribble down my cheeks. I ca
n hear him in my head again.

  Someday, you won’t like me as much. He said that at our place by the riverbank on the rocks. I was upset with Jane. She’d taken my phone away for having an attitude at the dinner table. I’d asked Dad why she couldn’t be as kind as he was. Looking back, she was right to do it. I was such a brat.

  That’s impossible, I said to him at our place. I love you too much.

  The forced smile he gave me right before responding concerned me. Well, for now, everything’s perfect. But I brushed it off, thinking that maybe he was having a mid-life crisis or something.

  I place a shaky hand on the image of my face in the mirror. That was before the happy girl in our place was broken. Back when all she worried about was if Sean McCabe in third period math liked her or not. Before Dad died and left our place.

  If I survive tomorrow, if I survive the week, I’ll try to do better. Be a little bit easier on Jane.

  Be a little bit easier on me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marek sits at a table on the hotel restaurant’s balcony. He barely touches the breakfast in front of him. I join him, sitting across the table. The view of the city from our position is beautiful. The sky is almost a perfect blue. I lift my face toward the sun to soak in its warmth.

  “What are we doing?” I ask, bringing my eyes to him.

  He stares at the road below. “Making sure they didn’t track us.”

  “Should we change hotels?”

  “Maybe,” he says, his eyes not leaving the road. “But it’ll have to wait until later. We can’t waste time, or we’ll miss entry into the Vatican Museums.”

  “I thought we were going to the Sistine Chapel.”

  “We are. By way of the museum. It closes at six, so we need to go right away. Shona and Cain keep sleeping late, and it’s cutting into our time.”

  “Did someone mention my name?” Shona wears a blue patterned jumpsuit with flouncy long sleeves, a powerful necklace, and shiny rose-gold loafers. Hugging a tan trench coat and clutching a closed black umbrella, she gives me a look, then removes the sunglasses from her head and puts them on. “You are changing, aren’t you? It’s the Vatican. You should wear something more respectful.”

  “Is it going to rain today?” I ask, nodding at the rain gear in her arms.

  “It did yesterday.” She places the umbrella and jacket on one of the chairs. “It’s better to be prepared than sorry.”

  A chaos of storm clouds rolls fast over the buildings, lightning flashes, and not soon after, the cracking of thunder follows.

  “See,” she says.

  “Wow, talk about moody weather,” I say. “The sky was a perfect blue just a minute ago.”

  Sid prances in, wearing tight black pants with a blue silk jacket over a crisp white shirt. His makeup is subdued, but he gets in some flash on his fingers. There are so many rings stacked on each I don’t know how he moves them.

  I glance down at my jeggings, bomber jacket, and cropped top. It isn’t one of those short kinds. It barely shows my tummy with my high-waist pants.

  “All right,” I say, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m helping,” Sid says. “I’ve been dying to get at those brows. Can I use your supply, Shona?”

  “My foundation won’t match her,” she says.

  Sid gives her a look like she should know better than to make that statement. “Obviously, honey. Other than that zit forming on her forehead, she doesn’t need it.”

  I search my forehead with my fingertips, and sure enough, there’s a small bump forming just above my right eyebrow. “I don’t need help.”

  “Girl, there’s no getting out of this. Once I find a cause, I’m relentless.” He laces his arm through mine and leads me toward the door.

  “And backpacks aren’t allowed,” Shona calls after us. “Purses are, though.”

  Great. It’s not that I don’t know how to do my makeup or dress nice. I used to be into all that stuff before my dad died. It would take me two hours to get ready for school in the morning. I just prefer understated now. Plus, I get an extra hour or so of sleep every day.

  The lobby is busier than when Marek and I went out earlier. We weave through people bunched together around suitcases, waiting to either check in or out.

  When we arrive at my room, I remember I’d forgotten to take a pill earlier, so I down one and slip the bottle into my purse.

  Sid pats the bed. “Sit here. It’s time for the master to work his magic.”

  I shuffle over and drop onto the mattress with a sigh. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “Puh-lease, I’m a pro. This will take ten minutes. You can time me.”

  He plucks my eyebrows and shapes them with one of Shona’s pencils that almost matches my hair. He uses a light-colored contour to shadow my eyes and cheeks. After applying mascara to my lashes, he takes a step back and studies his work.

  “Not bad,” he says. “Would’ve been better with foundation. But I’m not mad at it. And. Girl. Those eyes are popping.”

  I can’t help but smile. Sid is full of energy and extremely confident. “Thank you, it looks great.”

  His eyes go to Shona’s bed, and he wrinkles his nose. The blankets are all bundled up, and her clothes practically cover the entire surface. “How do you room with her?”

  I shrug. “I try to ignore it.”

  “Do you have other clothes?”

  I show him my suitcase, and he searches the items inside. When he’s done, he frowns at me. “It’s as if a ten-year-old packed this.”

  I cross my arms and give him my best annoyed glare. “I packed for camp. Coming to Rome was a surprise.”

  He chooses a simple blue tunic top with small white flowers that covers my bottom.

  “I’m not wearing this alone,” I say, taking it from his outstretched hand.

  With a sigh, he tosses me my burgundy jeggings. “Give me more credit than that. We’re going to the Vatican, not a nightclub. Here.” He picks up my nude-colored ballet shoes.

  “Nope. Not happening. They pinch my toes.”

  “So why did you pack them for camp?”

  Vans will have to do, since I’m not wearing those ballet shoes. Courtesy of Jane. She bought them for me and insisted I bring them to camp for the final night’s dance. I take them and toss them aside.

  He sits on the bed. “Hun-ney, you’re killing me.”

  I dress quickly in the bathroom, and when I come back out, Sid is studying the box of Antonia’s stuff.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He looks up as if it doesn’t faze him that I just caught him snooping. “This is interesting. Is it some sort of experiment?”

  I practically tear Isabella’s record book from his hands. “It’s private.”

  “It’s morbid if you ask me,” he says, ignoring my outburst, shuffling over to the door and yanking it open. “The others are waiting.”

  Before following him out of the hotel room, I grab Dad’s lighter from my discarded jeans and slip it into the tiny front pocket of the jeggings. The hall smells like pot.

  “At least someone’s having a good time,” I mutter to myself while draping the strap of my purse over my shoulder.

  When I join Sid in front of the elevators, he’s holding his chin and scrutinizing a painting on the wall between the two doors.

  “That’s not an accurate depiction.”

  Stepping around to his side, I examine the artwork. It’s an odd piece to have in a hotel where you want to make your clientele feel relaxed. Not sure why he didn’t notice it coming up to the room. The thing is almost too big for the wall. The artist used a lot of red paint to create some sort of Roman battle.

  The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

  He whirls away from the painting. “Pompey’s horse was
black, not white.”

  We step inside. “What, are you some kind of history buff?”

  “I am history.”

  I flick him a confused look right when the elevator goes up and I grasp the railing. “What does that mean?”

  We arrive at the top, and the doors open.

  He walks out with me trying to catch up to his brisk steps. Back straight, chin up, you’d think he was strolling a fashion runway or something.

  Marek is still watching the road below when we arrive on the balcony.

  “That’s much better,” Shona says, swiftly rising to her feet. “Another masterpiece, Sid. Shall we be on our way?”

  Shall we? So formal. I mentally roll my eyes, slipping on my bomber jacket. She’s trying to impress Sid.

  “Where’s Cain?” I ask, noticing Marek adjust to look at me in my peripheral vision. At my quick glance at him, he shifts back around to continue observing the street.

  Did he just check me out?

  Shona raises a brow at Marek and then turns a smile on me. “Cain’s sleeping. He took a couple of PMs, so he’ll be out for a while.”

  Oh, so that’s what was under the pile of blankets and Shona’s clothes.

  “What if he wakes up before we get back?” I ask.

  “I’ve instructed him to remain in the room.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and heads for the door. “Why are we wasting time? The clock’s ticking. Tick-tock.”

  That annoys me. She isn’t leading us. We’re on equal ground here. I lean closer to Marek to tell him just that when he shakes his head and lifts his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Someone thinks she’s the boss,” he says only loud enough for me to hear. We trail her and Sid, staying several feet behind.

  I drop a laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  When we arrive at the Vatican Museums, the lines to the entrance are down the road and around the corner.

  “We’re never going to make it in,” I say, stepping out of the Fiat and joining Marek and Shona on the sidewalk. The Vatican’s vast brick wall soars into the sky in front of us.