I dropped to the ground and yanked the birdcage sleep-cover from Red’s cage. Thankfully, his cage had been in the kitchen, where the smoke hadn’t been as bad as the living room and hall, but I feared his measly sleep-cover wouldn’t have been enough to protect him from the fumes. They say the smoke will kill a bird before the fire will. But once I laid eyes on him, my worries alleviated. I’d gotten him out in time. He was a little listless, but still alive. He’d be okay.
I stood and looked around again. Fear didn’t grab hold of me the way it should have. I was numb, standing outside in the cold, my house aflame, a roaring bonfire in front of me crackling ashes into the sky. The whole thing was unreal, almost darkly beautiful.
In my mind, it was summer in Keota. The wildfires had come. Mother held me close as we stared out the window to the home of our unfortunate neighbor, their crops a ruin of charred stalks and ashes.
Somewhere far away—somewhere closer than my memories, closer to my Grandfather’s house—fire engines blared. I turned around. The light came on in the Jackson’s house across the street. Mr. Jackson stared out his front window with worried eyes.
The scripture from Mrs. Franklin’s most recent note scrolled through my mind.
For, behold, the Lord will come with fire, and with His chariots like a whirlwind, to render His anger with FURY.
And I thought of her warning, what felt like ages ago:
You can either get out of that house, or we’ll take you out of it.
I never would have expected she meant this.
“Witch!”
I turned toward the accusing voice. Mrs. Franklin stood at the end of the street, oil spots staining her paisley dress and soot dusting her cheeks. Hatred and anger contorted her face.
“You did this!” she shouted, throwing her hand so hard in the air to point at me that she stumbled. “I saw you with them, with those demons! Your magic brought them here.”
“Mrs. Franklin?” I asked, trying to reach the woman behind the madness.
“Oh, Sophia, Sophia. Jezebel is the spirit that claims you!”
What the fuck was she talking about?
“I burned away your magic, Sophia. I’ve burned away all you’ve cursed that house with—cursed our town with—and those demons will return to their graves!”
Beside Mrs. Franklin, the spirit of the young woman who’d been following me appeared, arms hanging limp at her sides. She stared at me with her usual blank expression. Within moments, two more spirits joined her: one a young boy with blond hair and, with him, another woman, this one tall and thin with short, dark-red hair.
Then something blurred around Mrs. Franklin, and the spirits burst into black particles that flurried to her feet. Mrs. Franklin’s eyes started bleeding. She fell to her knees, screaming, and the blurring whipped away into the distance as she tumbled forward, her face slamming onto the pavement.
I darted toward her, a gasp escaping my lips as though I’d inhaled no oxygen at all. “No,” I begged. “No, no, no.” Please don’t let this woman die.
The Cruor must have done this because she learned of their existence, because she’d been shouting her convictions for all to hear. But no one would have believed her.
If I hadn’t been so stubborn about selling her the house … if I hadn’t gone storming through strange alleys, seeking out strange addresses I’d found in an even stranger book … maybe Mrs. Franklin wouldn’t be dying in the middle of my street, blood seeping from her mouth, her nose, her ears.
I sank beside her and looked around. Looked for anything—for someone to help her, for whoever had killed her. Anything at all.
The streets were empty, only the roar of distant fire engines carrying on the cold night air. Even Mr. Jackson had left his window.
Did Mrs. Franklin’s attacker see me? Would I be next?
I sat for an indefinite amount of time—perhaps only moments—staring down into Mrs. Franklin’s blood-filmed eyes, crying. Someone touched my arm, and I turned. A young fireman stared, concern etched on his face.
“Is that your house?” he asked. “Is she—holy shit.” He stepped back, hesitated, then called over his shoulder. “Tony, we need a medic! Now!”
A taller man rushed over and began assessing Mrs. Franklin while an older fireman crouched beside me. “What happened?”
“She set my house on fire,” I said. “Said it was the house of God.”
His brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
Realization set in: he must have thought I’d hurt Mrs. Franklin. “Oh.” I shook my head, wishing to erase the events of the evening. “I didn’t do this.”
The cops came. They took me in their leathery car down to the station. Everything happened so fast. Not until I was in handcuffs, in the police station, sitting beneath harsh lights with Red’s birdcage at my side, did I sober from the moment.
* * *
MY ERRATIC BEHAVIOR at the scene had led the police to believe I was responsible for the arson, that perhaps I had harmed Mrs. Franklin, too. No one had taken into account I might be in shock over my house burning down.
A detective showed up with the tin of Mrs. Franklin’s notes I’d been keeping. One side of the tin had blackened, but the letters were unmarred.
Sherriff Locumb came into the room and sat across from me, picking at the skin on his lips. After a long time, he spoke.
“She’s alive,” he said, his voice gentler than usual.
Relief washed over me. “She’s going to be okay?”
“Yes.” Sherriff Locumb sighed heavily. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I … I don’t really know. I woke up to the fire, and she was outside, and … and—” And she started screaming at me and her eyes began bleeding? Some supernatural being tried to kill her?
“Your neighbor said you didn’t run over to her until after she fell. But I’ve got to tell you, Sophia—this doesn’t look good. Wasn’t there another case involving you … a few years back? Mr. Petrenko? Strange situation, that. Do you remember?”
How could I forget? I swallowed. “I’m telling you everything I know,” I said. Everything I can, anyway.
“Mrs. Franklin said you weren’t responsible,” the sheriff said, assessing me with suspicion in his eyes. “She kept mumbling about being free.” He lowered his head, tsking. “This world we live in … it’s such an odd place.”
You’re telling me.
“I can go?” I asked. I didn’t mean to sound callous, but my thoughts were spiraling out of control.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind coming back tomorrow to give a full statement. We’ll stop by if we need anything else.”
The subtext was pretty freaking clear: We can’t hold you, but we’re not done with you yet.
“Yeah,” I said. “No problem. I’m more than happy to help.”
I left, bringing my anxiety with me. The reality of the situation was quickly catching up. I would have to tell Mother the house burned down. Burned down, nearly with me inside. And the woman she idolized was to blame. My grandfather’s house was gone. Most of my belongings … gone.
Unable to return home, I took a cab to Charles’ house. I held Red’s cage and rapped on Charles’ door. I told him everything that happened, but it was like I wasn’t even speaking. I was on autopilot. He called Adrian, and Adrian hurried over. I could barely absorb the explanations they offered.
Adrian had but one answer: mortuss phasmatis.
Morts, they called them. Spirits of supernaturals who had met their final death but were stuck between this world and the afterlife. The Universe tasked the Ankou with moving these spirits—either to new lives or to the afterlife—but if the spirits remained too long, they sometimes possessed humans. Adrian believed that was the case with Mrs. Franklin.
How long had she been possessed? Adrian believed the other spirits had been there only for support, to feed the leading spirit’s energy. The dark-haired woman, he suggested, might have been following me in hopes of using my body
as a medium. An Ankou trying to remove the spirit from Mrs. Franklin’s body easily could have injured Mrs. Franklin in the process, or the spirit occupying her body might have caused the injuries as it tried to keep hold.
Still, even after all this, I couldn’t regret withholding what I’d known from Charles and Adrian. I’d had my reasons.
Perhaps I’d always had one foot in the supernatural world, but over the last few months, things had been shifting. Now here I was, being thrust further into the darkness, my fingernails gripping helplessly to hang onto these last threads of the world as I’d known it.
Mrs. Franklin couldn’t be anything more than a crazy woman. My mind could not accept this idea—the idea that I’d spent months judging her for things over which she had no control.
Charles suggested I move in right away, but I couldn’t. Not now. Lauren picked up Red and me, and, as we drove away, all I could think was how much I wanted to leave the supernatural world behind.
All of it.
{chapter nineteen}
I DIDN’T PRESS CHARGES for arson, and Mrs. Franklin was admitted to a hospital. A couple months later, just days after her release, I spotted her in the grocery store. I ducked behind a display of Apple Jacks cereal—the last thing I wanted to do was talk to her. But at least she seemed more … peaceful. Her church had dissolved, and I’d thought that would make the whole town more peaceful as well, but that much I’d been wrong about.
Shortly after the fire, I sold the land for next to nothing. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with repairing the physical damage. The personal damage was bad enough, and having zero homeowner’s insurance was worse.
Though my name had finally been fully cleared by the police, the rumors had already spread across town. Whispers trailed behind me wherever I went.
It’s that witch-girl.
Do you think she did it?
Well they couldn’t find a cause. Mrs. Franklin’s eyes were bleeding. Sounds like voodoo or something.
She was the only one there. Just like with Mr. Petrenko.
Something’s wrong with her, for sure.
February was coming to a close. It’d taken nearly three months for things to return to normal. Normal for me, anyway. I stayed with Lauren because she wasn’t the type to talk about problems, which made it easier for me to get over things. Or at least live in denial over what had happened.
Though I hadn’t made much selling my land, I decided to take an indefinite leave from work. I wasn’t going to make any tip money right now anyway. I’d return eventually, but for now I needed to distance myself from the town. I spent all my newly freed-up time poring over books from Adrian, looking for more answers about my ancestor and how to tap into her gift. I needed to be able to protect myself. Charles couldn’t be there to protect me all the time.
Adrian’s books provided minimal support. The information on fire scrying—using fire to see visions—was useful, but the books addressing magic of the mind talked about telepathy and telekinesis and other things of little-to-no help.
Charles and I had been together for nearly six months, though the time felt more like a lifetime. Moving in no longer seemed so daunting. In many ways, I was relieved. Though Lauren was a great friend, her unprotected house left me in a constant state of stress, and there was no way for me to Cruor-proof without her asking if I’d officially lost my mind. Charles reminded me that I’d be fine, that they wouldn’t risk exposing themselves to her to get to me, but his words did nothing to pacify my fears.
I’d learned some important things from the experience. One: I didn’t want anything to do with Charles’ world. Two: I wanted everything to do with him. And three: I couldn’t have it both ways.
In the end, I decided to move in with him. Today would be the day. And within a year, we’d move again, together. Move somewhere new, where no one knew who we were—not the townsfolk and certainly not any local Cruor coteries.
I dressed in the only outfit I hadn’t already packed—pink sweater, jean skirt, thick cream leggings, and my brown Eskimo boots—then stuffed my few moving boxes into my Jeep. Most of my belongings had been ruined by the fire, but thankfully I’d already had half my wardrobe at Charles’ place, which he’d dropped by Lauren’s house for my stay there. I thanked Lauren and took off for Charles’ house with Red in the passenger seat.
I tried to reach Ivory on the phone, but there was no answer. When I drove past her house, her driveway was empty. She was clearly avoiding me. I didn’t blame her.
On the way to Charles’ house, I stopped by the woods, took Red from his cage, and lowered him to the ground.
“Here’s your chance. Get on with your little bird life. This is a good place for you—just be sure to build yourself a nest and stay there at night. Maybe decorate your little birdy home with daffodils.”
Red walked across the cold ground, stared out at the muted clearing, then hopped back to the perch in his cage.
I crouched to peek inside. “Don’t you want to be free?”
After several failed attempts, I let out a sigh and headed back to my Jeep with Red still in tow. “Let’s hope Charles likes birds,” I said, shifting my Jeep into drive.
As though my current stresses weren’t enough, the voices had amplified. I contemplated telling Charles. He’d need to know eventually; if not now, when? Was I ready to tell him these things, even at the risk of losing him?
I parked in front of his house.
Our house.
Charles leaned against the doorjamb of the front entrance, arms crossed. Despite the thin, cold air, he wore nothing more than jeans and a fitted black t-shirt.
“You should have let me help.”
“Guess you were right,” I said. But the reason I hadn’t was simple: I needed those last few moments to mentally prepare. I lifted the bird cage. “Red wanted to come.”
“We’ll keep him in the living room.” He walked over to my Jeep and grabbed one of the boxes. “Go ahead in.”
After finding Red the perfect spot right beside the front window, I grabbed a box from my Jeep and deposited it into the bedroom. When Charles first invited me to move in, he’d offered me a separate room, but by now we both knew I’d end up in his room by the end of the night. I bit back a smile at the sound of his footsteps behind me—footsteps I’d memorized and loved for their reliability. The kind that echoed with a dull, non-threatening thud.
He set another two boxes on the floor beside me. “I have a surprise for you.”
I arched my eyebrows in reply and followed as he led me to the spare room. He swung open the door and stepped back, allowing me to enter first. The entire wall to my left had shelves, wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor, packed with books. Beneath the window, candles scattered across the surface of a small desk. I smoothed a hand over the arm of a microfiber love seat near the door.
“Charles.” I shook my head, smiling. “I can’t believe you did this!”
The beginning of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “Adrian and my mother donated books to your collection.” He stepped fully into the room. “Do you like it?”
“Like? Charles, I love it!” I wrapped my arms around him, locking my lips with his. He murmured against the kiss, and I pulled back. “What?”
“I forgot to tell you—my parents are stopping by tomorrow evening for dinner. They called right before you arrived. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Of course not. Should I make plans with Lauren?”
He squinted, and his eyebrows pulled together. “That’s why I was telling you.”
“To let me know not to be here?”
“No.” He chuckled. “What are you talking about? They’re looking forward to meeting you.”
“Oh,” I said. I sunk into the loveseat, and Charles sat beside me. “I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before.”
Actually, I’d never done anything more than date a guy for a few weeks here and there in high school, which had amounted to little more than hand-hol
ding in the school hallways or kissing in the back corner booth at the local ice rink.
Charles wrapped his arm around me. “You have nothing to worry about.”
But I did. I had a lot to worry about. I was going to meet Charles’ parents—the people I would be stealing him from if he ever became a pure Strigoi and started aging with me.
Was it now, more than ever, important to tell Charles about the voices? Or was now the worst time to bring up my secrets? If I didn’t say something soon, should I never say anything at all?
* * *
I SPENT THE DAY organizing my clothes and getting the house in order for tomorrow night’s company, then decided to tackle the basement. It was huge and bare—the perfect place to hold rituals. The floor stretched out in an unwrinkled slab of concrete, only chipped in a few places along the walls.
Charles made a run to the hardware store to purchase some paint. When he returned, he set the two buckets on the bottom step. “You’re cute when you’re determined.”
Cute. Not a word most women like to be called, but better than crazy.
Charles cut in the wall edges using the antique white paint, and I rolled out the rest. Within two hours, we’d completed the task, thanks to Charles’ incredible speed.
We headed to the kitchen for a break, leaving the cellar doors open with a rotating fan circulating the air to dry the paint. Charles served peach cobbler and lemonade, but while the cobbler was warm and sweet, the room was cold and heavy with silence.
My basement project was a foolish attempt for distraction. Painting over the imperfections did me no good: waiting for the paint to dry forced me back to my thoughts—forced me to think about Charles’ parents coming to visit and whether I needed to open up. There was one major problem with sharing secrets, though. Once the words left my mouth, I could never take them back.
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