by Hilary Duff
“That’s horrible. How old was Nico’s brother when he died?”
“He made it to three. And his sister—totally random. She was sixteen and driving for the first time when this freak thunderstorm came out of nowhere. She didn’t feel comfortable driving in the storm so she turned around to come home, and she’s, like, two hundred feet from home when a tree branch gets struck by lightning and lands on her car. Crushed her. She decides to be safe and come home, and gets killed. Wild, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, but it didn’t sound wild to me. It sounded cursed.
“How old was his dad when he died?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Just curious—everything else is so awful, I’d like to think he at least had his dad for a while.”
It was clumsy, but it was the best I could do. Luckily, Rayna was so into the drama of Nico’s tragedy, she didn’t seem to notice.
“Not even,” she said. “His dad died right after the youngest brother was born. He was twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-eight? How old was he when they had Nico?”
“Nineteen. His parents started young.”
Of course they did, I thought. That’s what you do when you know you’ll be dead by the time you’re thirty.
“Nico gets depressed about it sometimes,” Rayna said. “I mean, of course he does, but . . . he gets superstitious, too. He talks about his dad, and his brother and sister, and apparently his dad told him stories about other people in the family who died super young. . . .”
“His dad told him that when Nico was nine?”
“And younger. I know, right? It’s amazing he’s not completely messed up.”
“Totally.”
This was where I was supposed to say Rayna was good for him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not when I knew what I knew.
“I bet it makes him feel good talking to you,” I said. That at least was true. I doubted he would risk being so honest unless he felt like he needed to.
“Thanks,” Rayna said. “I think it does. And if he won’t let me jump him yet, at least I feel like I’m doing something good by making his life better. He’s Maddox to my Angelina Jolie.”
“That was so almost touching.”
“Which is exactly my problem most of the time when I’m with Nico.”
“Check it out,” I said. “Makeover Woman’s about to walk into her reunion.”
“She looks hot,” Rayna said.
“Totally.”
We both focused on the screen, which was perfect because I could barely sit still and I didn’t want Rayna to notice. I forced myself to make it through the rest of the show.
“Think Nico’s at the stables?” I asked as casually as possible. “I kind of want to go for a ride.”
“Let’s find out.”
No good. I needed to talk to Nico without Rayna.
“You know what, I think I just want to take a ride alone. I’ll try to get some information before I go.”
“Love it. Plus I get to finish the popcorn. I’ll text him and tell him you want him.”
“Cool. And I’ll talk to him and tell him you want him.”
“My God, if he doesn’t know it yet, he is a stag.”
She picked up the phone to text him, and I strolled out of the house, then practically sprinted to the stables. Nico was there, just slipping his phone back in his jeans.
“Oh hey, Clea,” he said. “Rayna said you were coming to ride. Want me to saddle up Buchanan?”
“Nico, cut the crap,” I said. “I know who you are, and I know what you’re doing. I don’t even give a shit that you’re stalking me, but fucking with my friend is not okay.”
Nico shifted uncomfortably from leg to leg. “I don’t know what she told you,” he said, “but we’re not . . . I mean, we haven’t . . .”
“I don’t mean literally. You’re with CV. Sloane had you get a job here when I came back from Japan, but it’s bullshit. Your real job is spying on me. Messing with Rayna’s head, not in the job description.” My eyes grew wide as I realized. “Unless . . . Oh God, is it part of your job description? Did Sloane tell you to hook up with Rayna so you could get to me?”
“No! No, she didn’t.”
I expected that once I called Nico on his double life, he’d morph completely, but he didn’t. His voice and mannerisms were the same as they’d always been. . . . Now he was just telling the truth. He plopped onto a stool and worked his hands.
“You’re not gonna tell Rayna, are you?”
“She’s my best friend.”
That wasn’t the same thing as saying I was going to tell her, but Nico didn’t realize that.
“Aw, man . . . ,” he said, “she’s gonna think the same thing you did, and then . . .”
He hopped off the stool and walked around in anxious circles.
“You really like her?”
“Honestly, Clea . . . I love her. I hate lying to her, and I hate keeping her a little distant, but I had to stay focused. You’ve met them now. Sloane told me. All those people, cursed for something they didn’t even do. That’s the most important thing.” Nico smiled. “But now, with you helping, we have a chance. We can get rid of this thing, and—
“Oh shit,” he said, realizing he was talking to me about killing the love of my life. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, Clea. That was awful to say to you. I mean, Rayna told me some things about you and Sage—not that she’s talking about you or anything, just stuff about how in love you are, not the stuff I know because of . . . you know . . . and I just . . . This has got to be so hard for you.”
It was the most sympathy I’d ever gotten from someone who was as deeply involved with the Elixir as I was. I almost cried. It was twisted. I would do anything in the world to keep Sage alive. That hadn’t changed. But at the same time I desperately wanted Nico to be rid of the curse he’d done nothing to deserve. He’d be good for Rayna, and she was already good for him.
I wanted Sage, and I wanted Nico, both with long lives ahead of them. The fact that I would never get both . . . I understood now why kids throw tantrums. I was about a second from falling on the floor in a kicking, screaming mess.
“It’s got to be hard for you, too,” I said.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything else. I figured anything he tried would be the greatest understatement in the world.
“Did you really want to ride, or was that just to talk to me?”
“It was just to talk . . . but now I do want to ride.”
“Want company?”
I smiled. Another time I might very much like Nico’s company, but right now I wanted to be alone.
“No thanks. Not today.”
He took Buchanan out of his stall and tacked him. I offered to do it, but Nico said it was his job—at least part of his job—and he wanted to do it himself.
I hoisted myself into the saddle and prepared to head out.
“Clea?”
“Yeah.”
“If it comes down to it . . . you know, if we get the chance . . . to end the curse . . . I promise I won’t be the one to do it.”
Chills washed over me from head to toe.
“I can’t ask you to promise that, Nico,” I said. “It’s your life.”
“I know. And I can’t say that I don’t want it to happen, or that I won’t do my part to help so someone else can do it . . . but it won’t be me.”
I felt tears threatening behind my eyes.
“Thank you.”
I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t hold him to it, but I saw in his eyes that he didn’t want to hear that. He was telling the truth.
I clucked to Buchanan and started the long ride to the memorial I’d made for my father. I went at a slow trot, letting my mind clear so it could solve the puzzles rolling around it.
I thought of Nico being willing to sacrifice his shot at ending the curse, sacrificing it because he loved Rayna, and Rayna loved me, so he didn’t want to hurt me. It was moving, but s
o absurd that I nearly laughed out loud. I imagined a new line of Hallmark cards: “Thank you for not killing my boyfriend, even if it risks killing you.”
There probably wouldn’t be a huge market for them.
The bigger problem was that even with everything I’d learned, I still had no idea where to find Sage. Goats. I knew there were goats. And huge pastures. Mountains in the background. Big wooden chairs. And what Rayna called the Girly Room.
It sounded like New England, a charming inn in New England.
Perfect. I’d narrowed it down to six states.
Time is short, the message had said.
How short?
Petra had made it clear that the visions she brought me were real, and happening in real time. That meant Sage had been alive and well not long ago for the goat feeding frenzy. The dagger would only work at midnight, so if he was alive earlier, he was alive now.
I dismounted once I could see the rock caduceus laid out on the ground.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, walking to the memorial. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t bring you anything today. I kind of just needed to talk.”
I noticed it from several feet away, but I couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing. I walked to the largest stone and knelt down right in front of it. I even ran my hand over its surface, as if it could have blended in, chameleon-like, and I just didn’t realize it . . . but it wasn’t there. Rage washed over me.
My necklace was gone.
seventeen
* * *
I CHECKED THE OTHER ROCKS OF the memorial, then scoured the dirt around them. Crawling on all fours, I ran my hands through the grass surrounding the site. I even looked up into the nearby tree branches, as if a small, targeted tornado might have come through this swath of land, then disappeared.
No luck. The necklace wasn’t anywhere.
The logical part of me knew there were a million perfectly reasonable excuses. Birds like magpies collect shiny things. One could have grabbed the necklace and flown it up to a nest. It could have rained while I was in Cincinnati, and the necklace could have been washed off somewhere. A hiker could have come through and picked it up from the memorial. Any one of these and a million other options were possible . . . but I didn’t believe any of them.
My necklace had been taken.
By Petra, maybe? Amelia?
I didn’t know, but I felt a chill. Whoever took my necklace, I was certain it was a sign of bad things to come. I needed to do something, to lash out and take action. I wanted to see Amelia. She knew the answers. She wanted to help. If I could talk to her . . . if I could call to her . . .
But I couldn’t. She’d said herself she’d get in trouble if the others knew she’d been with me. I didn’t know what the rest of her family could see or not see, but if I screamed out for her, it seemed like there was a pretty good shot they’d take notice.
How could I reach her?
Could I reach her?
Maybe not . . . but I could try to reach someone who wouldn’t get in trouble for speaking to me.
“Petra!”
Petra might not be on my side, but she definitely knew more than she’d said. She would come if I called. I felt it. I screamed her name again and again, sounding as frantic and out of control as I felt.
“PETRA!”
I kept screaming, pleading to the sky, the trees, the ground. . . . I didn’t even know if I was calling her as much as I was just screaming it out—Sage being gone but so close in my dreams, feeling helpless about how to save him, my fears about Lila and the cosmic unfairness of Rayna finally finding the perfect guy for her, who would die unless the love of my life was destroyed forever.
“PETRA!”
I felt so out of control. I fell to my knees by my father’s memorial and started crying. I cried even after the tears stopped coming. I ended up curled on the ground, staring at the largest stone of the caduceus I’d laid out in the grass.
“Daddy,” I whispered. “I wish you were here. I wish you could help me. I miss you so much.”
As I reached out to touch the stone, a familiar lilting laugh sounded in my ear.
“Oh, sweetie, don’t you know you can’t count on family? They’ll just disappoint you.”
I bolted upright. “Petra?”
“You’ve seen it yourself, haven’t you? Look at Sage. If you can’t trust your soulmate to do right by you, you can’t trust anyone, right?”
It was just her voice in my head this time, but I knew I could address it out loud. “Petra,” I asked. “Where. Is. Sage?”
“That’s the wrong question. The right question is this: Is Sage worth this? Look at you. Screaming, crying, losing control, rolling in the dirt . . . is that who you are? Is that the person you want to be? This man is taking your dignity, Clea.”
“I love him.”
Her laughter echoed inside my head. It sounded like church bells.
“That would be sweet . . . if he felt the same way about you.”
“He does.”
“‘There are none so blind as those who will not see.’ Poor, trusting Clea. You’ll follow your heart, even if it leads you off a cliff.”
“Why does it matter to you? How do you even know about Sage? How do you know about me? How am I supposed to trust you when I don’t know what you are?”
“I’m someone who cares. And you don’t need to trust me. Trust your eyes. You know the things I’ve shown you are real. I’ll show you more, too. We’re not even close to done.”
“Wait—don’t leave! What about my necklace? Petra!”
But she was gone.
I climbed back on Buchanan and rode through the trails, then back to the stables.
Riding put me into a meditative zone. It stripped away my emotions, leaving me to see things more clearly. Once I did, I knew things weren’t as tangled as they seemed. It didn’t matter who Petra and her family were, I decided. They were part of the Mystery of the Elixir, and that wasn’t my concern. That mystery was for my father, and for Ben. My goal was to find Sage. I had Nico to help me, and I had the rest of the CV, even though I knew they’d turn on me once I got Sage free. Petra and Amelia may have had their own agenda, but that only mattered if it helped me. And it did. By taking me to Sage, Petra had given me clues that pointed to a New England inn. It was vague, but it was something, and it was something I’d seen. I could do research online; I could look at pictures and maybe find the exact place I’d been in my dreams.
I brought Buchanan back to the stables and handed him off to Nico. I didn’t stay to talk. I liked him, and I loved him for Rayna, but if I spent too much time with him, I’d have to deal with the fact that if I got what I wanted—what I needed—I’d be signing his death warrant.
Not my fault. I couldn’t take it on. He had nine years before his thirtieth birthday. There was a chance I’d have time to find another way to end the curse . . . after Sage was safe.
I spent the rest of the day on the computer, using everything I knew about the place I’d seen Sage in to try to find him. I was wired and knew I could stay up, but Petra had made it sound like she had more to show me, which meant I had to be asleep. I decided to go to sleep the minute the sun went down, hoping she’d bring me something that would help. I wanted to go downstairs and make myself a large pot of chamomile tea, but the idea of dealing with Piri, Suzanne, or even my mother was just too exhausting to bear. Instead I did some research and found a guided relaxation thing on the computer. It said it was a “calming, sleep meditation video.” I tried it . . . but the guy telling me to “breathe in the white light of energy through your crown . . .” sounded too much like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs. He also breathed heavily when he called me a “beautiful, shining being.” It freaked me out.
Okay, so relaxation videos weren’t the answer. I needed something that would exhaust me.
I walked down the hall to my father’s office and opened the door. I was prepared for its barren landscape this time. I walked over to one o
f the moving boxes and opened it, pulling out the thickest medical journal I could find. I opened it to a random page. Assessing the Feasibility of the American College of Surgeons’ Benchmarks for the Triage of Trauma Patients.
Perfect.
I hugged the book to my chest and brought it back to bed. I started reading it . . . and within minutes I was fast asleep.
Ten hours later I woke up.
That was it.
No visits from Petra. Nothing from Amelia. Nothing.
I didn’t even dream.
It took me a while to realize it. I’d been so sure Petra was going to come get me that I expected to open my eyes at the inn. I was positive I’d be there, and kept looking around at my room, confused that it looked so different from the vision of white wicker I’d expected. When I understood what had happened, I buried my head under my pillow and tried to force myself back to sleep, but there was a thin line of light blazing through the annoying crack in my curtains. Besides, I was more rested than I’d been in ages. There was no way.
Fine. If I didn’t have more search fodder from Petra, I’d use what I already had.
First, a Sage check. Had he survived another midnight? I grabbed my camera, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, whipped my hair into a pony, and ran downstairs to grab tea and breakfast. Piri was already at work—I could smell pancakes and bacon, and my mouth was already watering. I called to her even before I walked in.
“Mmm, smells amazing! Did you make enough for me?”
But it wasn’t Piri at the stove. It was Ben. He wore an old apron someone had given my mom as a gag gift that said POLITICIAN’S KITCHEN. He held the skillet high above the stove and looked like he was about to try to flip the absurdly large pancake inside it when he looked up and saw me. The joy in his eyes turned cold.