He did not dive into the mouth of the cave, though he wanted to. He paused and peered deep into the dark passage, first listening and then smelling the opening. Before the sulfurous odor entered his nostrils, he saw the tendrils of oily air shining in moonlight, and knew that the lair would be abandoned, but not deserted. The Vepars did not play at vengeance. They destroyed everything if it meant the death of even one of their enemies. He gulped a lungful of fresh air and raced inside, hurtling himself deeper, willing his eyes to see through the blurry mess of gas. He saw Victor and Abby seconds too late as the floor exploded beneath them and they both vanished.
The Vepars had dammed the water flowing above ground into the caverns below, but Oliver found the dam quickly and began to throw the enormous boulders aside as if they were merely pebbles. The water trickled through and then exploded, washing through the tunnels.
****
Tobias joined Vesta and Wrath. They stood in shadows and Vesta bounced from foot to foot, her hunger nearly overpowering her.
"The witches Abby and Oliver?" he asked again, stretching his clownish red lips wide. His black eyes gleamed with pleasure.
"And one more," Wrath added. "The artist from Chicago."
"Interesting," Tobias murmured, lifting his long, pale fingers absently to his right shoulder. Vesta knew that he touched the place where one of Oliver's arrows had ripped through his flesh only months earlier, ruining their sacrifice of Abby.
"But so much has changed since then, my dear," Tobias told Vesta. She shrunk away from him, fearing his new ability to read the minds of those he sired.
Vesta knew little of what had changed in the clan of Tobias. He had stopped consulting her completely and conspired only with Alva. Vesta had fed on nothing but humans for nearly two months. Her bones grew brittle and her skin sallow, but she dared not complain.
Tobias, however, appeared stronger every day. His teeth grew sharper and more pronounced. He moved so swiftly at night, she started to think he could fly. He watched her, amused, and she realized that, again, he read her thoughts.
"Don't think so much my child." He petted her hair gently. "You will hurt yourself."
"What now?" she muttered, praying that he would take pity on her and allow her to feast.
Again he smiled, but his eyes lost their mirthful sheen.
"We are not here to eat tonight, my darling. We are here to collect the snakes..."
****
Oliver did not have to swim far into the hole that Abby and Victor had fallen into. Already their buoyant bodies had begun to rise. He retrieved Abby first. Before his head broke the surface, a chill ran the length of his spine, lighting up at the base, but when he followed the feeling, he felt confident that no Vepars were near. He thrust his head above the surface for an instant, took in a gulp of fresh air and dove back down.
A sharp prick lit up his forearm and then another on his leg. He searched with his hand and clamped down on the slithering body of a snake. He thrust it way and plunged deeper. This time he grabbed Victor as well. He held both witches sandwiched together beneath each arm until he felt Abby begin to wriggle beside him. In her element, she recovered quickly, but he also felt her panicking at their submersion. He locked eyes with her briefly and mouthed "stop." She quit resisting and he sensed the caverns around them. He followed the cave walls until he found a sense of empty space. There he knew they would find air and an opening of some sort. They swam deeper first and Oliver felt more snakes brush against him. Finally, they came into a large circular room where the water had already begun to drain away. He pushed Abby up so that she could breathe. She held onto a hunk of jagged wall. Then he wrenched Victor's face above the water and began to breathe into his slack mouth. He felt the air push into his belly and tasted the oily gas still on his lips. He gagged and spit as some of the water projected out of Victor's mouth and into his own. Soon both Abby and Victor clung to the wall, sputtering and disoriented.
"What's your element, Victor?"
"Air," Victor choked, his throat raspy and swollen.
"Well, I'd say this is the best we can do right now," Oliver sighed, slipping under the water for a moment to find the floor. He re-emerged. "About another two feet and we'll be back on solid ground."
The water level lowered more and soon all three of them could stand. Abby already felt better. She sensed the gashes along her back and arms healing quickly. Victor, on the other hand, grew paler as time passed and a wound on the back of his left thigh bled heavily. Oliver created a tourniquet with his sweatshirt and secured it around Victor's leg. The bleeding slowed, but did not stop.
Despite the water, Abby's strength diminished. The fall and the poisonous air had damaged her and most of her energy went towards detoxifying her lungs and organs. Both she and Victor leaned heavily against the wall.
****
When the car miraculously started, Sebastian could not believe his luck. When it sputtered, stalled and then stopped completely, on a dense, forest road that left little hope in either direction, he couldn't imagine the day getting much worse. He turned the key and listened as the motor cried out a final time. He stepped from the dead car and irrationally kicked the tire before loping off in the direction of the sun.
A half mile down the road, he swore aloud, realizing that he might have fit into some of the clothes piled in the backseat. They likely smelled pretty bad, but they would protect him against the chilly afternoon breeze. He started to turn back and then a wonderful feeling of hope washed over him as he heard the distant sound of an engine.
Sebastian saw the shape of a car in the distance. He stepped into the center of the road and, when the driver drew close enough to see him, he waved his arms eagerly.
The little car drifted to a stop and a young woman with light, hazel eyes rolled down her window.
"Avez-vous briser," she asked, smiling up at him.
"I..." He started to speak and then stopped, suddenly not sure what to say. The words that had been so clear in his mind just moments ago were gone and nothing moved forth to replace them. It was as if someone had reached into his brain and wiped his memory clean.
"Not French?" the woman asked. "American?"
Was he American? He had to think about it, but yes, he felt sure that he was American, but who was he in America? His mind was blank and he felt his chest constrict as he searched the contents and found nothing.
Why was she speaking French? Was he in France? Why would he be in France?
"No? Not American?" she asked again, this time her face growing concerned. Her wide-set eyes took in his strange attire, the remnants of a costume perhaps.
"I can't remember," he told her, rubbing his hand across his forehead like he might be able to bring it back. "I'm American. I think I am, but..."
"Were you in an accident?" She asked, her words heavily accented.
He looked down at his body, shocked by the odd attire clothing him. He wore tight-fitting black stretch pants and a tight black t-shirt. Both pants and shirt were dotted with splotches of paint in hues of red and orange. He rubbed his hands over his torso, along his legs and finally probed his head with his fingers. Nothing hurt and there was no blood, but why couldn't he recall anything?
"What's my name?" he suddenly asked out loud. He looked at her, alarmed. "I don't know my name."
She wrinkled her brow and paused, seeming to consider whether or not she trusted this confused stranger. After a moment, she stepped from the car and guided him around to the passenger side.
"Get in. I will take you to the infirmary."
He sat in her passenger seat and patted his body with growing panic, searching for a wallet, an I.D., anything. He pulled out a tiny silver ring. Strange designs were engraved on the interior, but nothing that might identify him, such as initials.
"Isabelle," the woman told him, holding out her hand.
"I'm sorry," he said shaking her hand hastily. "I don't know what's happening to me."
Chapter 12
August 6, 1908
Dafne sat in the tiny cottage by the water and cried. Solomon's baby face moved in and out of her vision as the tears soaked her soft cotton dress. Dafne's Aunt Patty, the midwife, had delivered the infant Solomon and now it would likely be Dafne's father, the minister, who laid him in the ground. Despite the unseasonably chilly August morning, she felt the heat of their work still coursing through her. How much fire they had conjured trying to burn the demon out of him? But to no avail.
The flimsy door swung in and Tobias walked into the single room, surveying her in silence. She turned her sodden eyes to his, but he looked far away and almost unconcerned with her pain. He turned and left without a word. His behavior, though unusual, did not alarm her. He struggled with great shows of emotion. His own mother had perished at a young age and so he had been raised by men and the sea. The soft freedom that women brought into the lives of boys, rescuing them from the rigidness of their masculinity, was lost on him. Still, she was never left wanting. He supported and loved her with every ounce of his being. He simply showed it in other ways.
Chapter 13
Abby had not told anyone that she was returning to Sydney's house. She had not truly believed it herself, but as she had wandered dazed and embarrassed out of the Vepar's caves, something urged her to do just that. She had left Victor wounded and Oliver watching her in disbelief, but she hadn't cared.
Her escape ended at a bus station where she boarded a bus for Trager City. She traveled to Sydney's home through the woods. The run to her dead aunt's house took only minutes and Abby, so distracted by memories, felt not even a twitch in her hot muscles. Her body was like a machine and she found that she rarely had to direct it—it already knew where to go.
She stood at the forest's edge and watched the house. The autumn leaves lay in heavy dark masses beneath the trees. A large, bright blue sign read 'Ronda's Realty' in tacky red lettering. The dock had been removed and hastily stacked on the shore and the patio furniture was gone, stored by some crew that Abby's mother had likely hired to do a fast job. Overhead the gray sky seeped a cool drizzle onto the earth and Abby, sick of the cold and the forlorn look of Sydney's house, jogged across the lawn and up to the patio door.
It was locked, but one forceful jerk and it shot open, sliding with a crash into the frame. The house was warm; the heat kept on for home showings, but from what Abby's mother Becky had told her, there weren't many potential buyers. It wasn't just a down market. People didn't want to vacation in a house where a woman had been murdered. Nor did everyone in the city believe that Sydney was the victim of her young lover.
According to Becky, a whole cropping of lore and suspicion had arisen after Sydney's death, including the widely held belief that a vampiric cult had killed Devin, Sydney and possibly another young woman several counties away who disappeared without a trace earlier that summer.
Abby dropped her bag on the counter and walked through the house, flicking on lights and breathing through the tightness in her chest. All of the pictures had been removed and much of the house contained new furniture. Calming beachscapes lined the walls, and the tables and shelves were adorned with glass bowls of seashells and little nautical trinkets. None of the décor reflected Sydney, but the house did. It breathed her. Abby could feel her in the sigh of the floorboards and the groans of the roof overhead.
She walked the interior, pausing in every room, repressing the memories that wanted to greet her. She could not afford to let the agony out—she might create a freak thunderstorm and flood the house. The already gloomy day did not need an additional downpour. The freshly vacuumed carpets and polished wood floors distressed her as she moved through each room. The refrigerator held only gleaming clear shelves and two bottles of white wine. Abby grabbed an open one, plucked the cork with her teeth and took a gulp that drained a quarter of the bottle.
"Ugh, that's good," she told the room and continued outside to the garage.
She was relieved to see that the garage was less together than the rest of the house. Sydney's water skis hung on the wall, along with a frayed badminton set and couple of tennis rackets. Several boxes sat on a small folding table in one corner, a note taped to the side.
This is the last of the personal mementos. Couldn't really organize them, but nothing of value found – Best Ronda
Abby left the note and peeled back the cover on one of the boxes. She lifted out two notepads scribbled with Sydney's small cursive, glancing at grocery lists, which mostly included wine and chocolate, and various phone numbers. The packer of the box had put in a few paperbacks, probably random reads that Sydney had tucked away and forgotten in funky places like behind a box of cereal or on top of a cabinet. There were pictures bound by rubber-band and the first that Abby saw made her stomach lurch painfully. It was Abby as a young girl, maybe five, with her hair twisted in a french braid. She sat on Sydney's lap, her arms tight around her aunt's neck while the woman whispered conspiratorially in her ear. Abby could not see the picture taker, but she guessed it was Harold by the slightly lopsided image, as if he'd taken the shot to capture the boat on the lake behind them, rather than his wife and niece.
Outside, the wind began to pick up and Abby shuddered at the branches scraping across the garage's single window. As a witch, fear felt different. She didn't fear people anymore, but other things, darker things.
As she stood in the lonely garage, Abby realized that she had hoped to encounter Sydney's ghost in the house. Spirits, though still unnerving, at least offered contact. Abby wanted so much to see her aunt, but it was only the memory of Sydney that the house contained. Her spirit had departed.
She had no idea what she was looking for, but the sense that she was close grew inside her. Claire had told her to follow the smoke. Abby did not know what she meant, but she knew that something drew her to Sydney's home.
She pulled out a jumble of keys and looked at the little colored tags attached to each—house, speed boat, storage shed and Rod's loft.
"Rod's loft," she said, touching the key.
Abby had only visited the loft twice. Both were short trips running in to grab Sydney's forgotten bathing suit or sandals.
Now she felt an almost magnetic pull toward the small silver key.
After she pawed the contents of both boxes, she wandered the house aimlessly, fighting the urge to call out. There were guides she knew, guides in the spirit realm, and those energies conjured by the elements, but Elda had explained them in a very peculiar way.
'The spirits are often mischievous, arriving at the most inopportune time with some jumbled message that you spend so much time deciphering, you lose sight of your task. The other energies, those of the earth, arrive only in your most desperate hour, like the lake pulling you during the Vepar's death ritual. It called out to you and your body called back. It doesn't listen to your voice, but to your spirit.'
Elda had been attempting to discourage Abby from too much blind faith in forces beyond herself. The lesson was in self-preservation and Abby had listened closely. Brushing death made one a diligent student.
****
Oliver stared into the fire, sipping his scotch, and ignoring Dafne who'd followed him in. He had not chased Abby into the woods despite every atom in his body screaming to do so. Instead, he had taken Victor safely back to his car and stayed with him until morning. Abby knew that he would, otherwise she never would have abandoned her friend. Oliver tried to talk to Victor, but the witch had been poisoned and, in his groggy state, could barely remember Abby's name. Oliver finally left him when the young witch grew clear and alert and insisted that he was fine.
"She's not gone forever, Oliver. Surely you know that," Dafne said, staring him down from across the room.
He said nothing, but continued to watch the flames dance and pop wildly. He had told his coven nothing about the night before.
"Elda believes that she probably reconnected with some of the witches that she met at Sorciére. Apparently she made some f
riends there." Dafne snorted as if that were hard to believe.
He shot her a dark look and drained his glass.
"What do you want, Dafne?"
She threw her hands up and walked closer to him.
"I want you to be you again. I want you to stop sulking and obsessing over Abby. I want our life before Abby and Sebastian!" Her voice rose as she spoke and Oliver noted the faintest edge of hysteria.
He could have calmed her. He had done it a thousand times in the past because Dafne lived just one crank away from panic twenty-four/seven. Instead he ignored her.
The library door opened and Lydie walked in. She looked disheartened.
She sat on a pillow between Oliver's legs and rested her head on his knee. He stroked her hair and ignored Dafne who looked even more exasperated.
"Any word?" he asked Lydie who had been hovering around Faustine since Abby left.
"No. He told Elda earlier that he's struggling to make a connection with any of us, even here in the castle. He thought it was All Hallow's, but now..." Lydie trailed off and Oliver heard a tremor in her voice.
"It's okay, Lyds," he reassured her, continuing to pet her hair.
The fluffy orange cat that Lydie had named Garfield jumped from a couch and planted himself in Lydie's lap where it rolled belly up and purred a demand that she pet him.
"Hi, Garfield," she said to the cat lifelessly, running her fingers over his soft fur.
"This is ridiculous," Dafne started again, pacing in front of them. "Witches do this their first year, you guys. They try different things until they find what fits."
"Yeah, but Abby's boyfriend died," Lydie interrupted. "Sebastian died, Dafne. She left because she's sad."
Lydie was not aware that Oliver had killed Sydney, which was also why Abby had left. Faustine and the others would never reveal it. Only Oliver could disclose that secret and the mere mention of Sydney's name made him shudder remembering that night. He tried to shake the memory, but suddenly it fell on him again as it so often did in his nightmares...
Born of Shadows- Complete Series Page 44