Enid raises a skinny arm and gives me a half-hearted wave that I return just as enthusiastically.
Jerod whistles across the room to Griffin. He’s piled on a small loveseat near the sliding doors in the sunroom, his girlfriend squished between his body and Logan’s. “Keep your hands to yourself, bro!”
Logan lets out a loud, obnoxious cackle that grates my insides.
Griffin laughs and holds his hands up by his ears. “You know I’m a gentleman.”
My grandmother watches us leave from the kitchen, her small eyes steely and void of light.
Once we’re back outside, Griffin gives me an apologetic grin. “Sorry, I had to tell them we had plans. I figured you didn’t want to stay.”
A grateful smile spreads across my face. “You could have stayed if you wanted. I can call a car.”
He takes the box and tucks it safely behind the passenger seat. “I’m over here all the time.” He holds the door open for me.
I didn’t know that. It would seem he’s closer to my grandparents than I am. That’s not surprising. “Well…if you’re not doing anything, why don’t we actually go somewhere?” I’m pretty sure I’d rather just go back to my place and stuff my face with Doritos while I read some more of that journal, but the words tumble out so easily.
“Where do you want to go?”
I slide down into the seat. “Somewhere no one else is.”
He laughs. “Let’s see what we can find.”
16
Tell Her
Mere minutes after sunrise, I grab a coat and head for the tunnels. I don’t even bother to change out of my pajamas. The moment I enter the cavern-like area holding Aric or whoever’s prison, I start talking. “I want you to tell me about Alara.”
The energy inside the metal box stirs. Was he resting? Does he even need to rest? I wanted to come down here as soon as Griffin dropped me off at the office, but he insisted on walking me all the way up to my unit, and by then, I realized I was too tired to trek through the tunnels.
“Alara…” Something knocks against the handleless door and green smoke curls around the bars. “What would you like to know?”
“Did she ever come down here?”
“No…I told you. It has been many years.”
“You had to know you were making her sick.”
Hissing echoes off the stone walls around me. “If there was another way, I would use it. But only those with the gifts can hear me. I tried to console her, your aunt, but she was so poisoned against me…there is only so much I can do from this place.”
I pace in front of the stone slab. Why is this thing here anyway? It can’t be a table. Who in their right mind would eat down here?
“You are anxious.” Hot air emanates from the crypt. I back away from it. “You still don’t trust me. You still believe I am…a figment?”
“No…I don’t know.” I think about what she wrote in that journal. How could they have been so sure she was schizophrenic with only one symptom? I was never given the opportunity to question my diagnosis either. I was too young when they gave it to me, and they gave me the experimental meds soon after.
After the identity complex spiel when I was five, the doctors pushed sunlight and therapy. A few years later, when I was eight, and wasn’t “growing out of it,” the psychiatrists called it early onset psychosis and recommended I be sent to a specialized clinic in Boston to be studied.
By ten, my father convinced them to diagnose me with schizoaffective disorder, which they changed to full blown schizophrenia two years later. I was pulled out of school, away from everyone I knew, and tutored alone for two years. I didn’t get to come back home until my parents were convinced I wasn’t lying about my head being silent. But I still didn’t really get to go home. They moved me into Holy Mary’s, and home became bleached walls and locked doors. And the whispers in my head were replaced by hushed gossip in the halls.
Anger boils behind my ribs. That’s so fucked up. What did my dad do? Pay them off?
“Jade…”
I close my eyes. Think. When did I start feeling crazy? Do crazy people even feel crazy? Alara never did. I open my eyes. I’m pretty sure I haven’t either. I only thought I was. Because I had to be.
The voice sighs close to my ears. “I never wanted to hurt Alara. Or Sahra. Or Megara. Or Alys. Or any of them. Did you ever believe for a moment that I was dangerous and would hurt you?”
I search through the archives of my past, but I don’t find any fear there. The only time I felt it was yesterday, standing in front of his chained prison. And if I’m being honest with myself, I feel a little bit of it now, humming just under the surface of my skin. If I’m crazy, there very well could be an empty box in front of me, and I’m imagining everything else. But if I’m crazy, there’s no harm in opening it and seeing that nothing is there. At least then I’ll know. And I can go back on the medication and be done with it.
If I’m sane, and I have a bad feeling that I am, then whatever is in that box is dangerous. It feels dangerous. And scorching. Like lava. Like it will swallow and burn everything it touches.
“Let me help you set your doubts aside for good.” His voice brushes against the insides of his cell. “I can prove that your father has been lying to you. I can prove that I am as real as you are. Meet me in his office.” The voice travels away from the box and along the floor behind me.
My heart races as I hurry after it. There’s a strange echo in the tunnels that sounds like a cross between dripping water and a snake slithering along the uneven stone.
When the utility elevator opens on the office floor, I hesitate for a moment and take a long, deep breath. The halls are dark and empty. My father sometimes dashes in on Sundays. I hope he stays out playing golf or something since his brother is in town.
I unlock the door to his office and take slow steps inside.
“Here.” The voice hovers around the large and round medieval-esque shield behind my father’s desk. It’s painted to look like aged iron. I always thought it was real, but the real one is underground.
“Alara wouldn’t let herself trust me. Please, don’t make the same mistake…don’t let your family steal your light. There is so much to this wonderful world that’s been kept from you.”
It’s colder in this office than normal. Or maybe I’m just scared. A shudder rolls over my shoulders as I make my way to the back of the room. My eyes graze over the corner I sat in when I first heard the voice. My throat tightens, and I turn away from it to focus on the shield.
It’s an amazing replica, painstakingly recreated in all its former glory, right down to the diamond-shaped notches adorning the outer rim. Even the paint is faded in places. I lightly trail my fingers over the raised replica of the Pendragon coat of arms: a dragon, rising out of flames. My grandfather would tell us that the flames represented victory over our enemies.
Behind the shield is a replica of the famed Excalibur. The gleaming silver hilt rises over the top and a bit of the steel tip sticks out from the bottom. My father pulled it out for us a few times when we were young. Back then it was taller than we were.
This has also been designed to perfection. The blade looks like it was forged from real iron, and the main body of the hilt is wrapped in distressed black leather. I run a fingertip over the rounded top and then over the sides. Indistinct lettering and runes were carefully carved into the surface.
“Is this what it really looked like?”
The voice stirs beside me. I can feel it, almost as if it’s breathing. “Yes…it’s very close. There are paintings of it underground if you would like to look at them.”
I nod. And then, remembering he can’t see me, I say, “Is it true what my grandfather told us about it? That it was cursed so they threw it into the sea?”
“It was…a very dangerous object. Very old magic lies within. The family suffered while they held it. Arthur died at the hands of his nephew Mordred, who in turn died himself from wounds sustained in thei
r fight. Arthur’s wife, Guinevere, could not bear him children, and though she survived that senseless battle for the throne, she died shortly after of an unknown disease. It was for the best for the family to be rid of it. It brought them great prestige, but it also brought great heartache. It was not safe to keep on land, for it harbors a terrible curse that will pass to any man or woman or child who touches it.”
“Hmm…” Curses. It’s all so old school. I wrap my hands around the sides of the shield and pull it away from the wall. It’s heavy, but it swings out smooth and silent. I’ve never seen this side of the shield before. The sword is tucked into brackets along the back, and there’s a long strip of metal that hinges it to the door of the safe behind it.
The safe is also round, though quite a bit smaller than the shield. An antique brass combination lock sits in the center and that’s it. There’s no handle or knob or button.
“How do I open this?” I’ve seen similar locks on briefcases, but this is quite heavy and mechanical. There are seven slots of numbers, all set on the number three. I press on the first number and start to slide it up.
“Wait.”
I drop my hand.
“If you put in the wrong numbers, and in the wrong order, it will trigger an alarm. If the alarm goes off, everything inside drops to a second safe. The only way to remove that safe is to drill it out of the building.”
“Oh.” That’s a bit extreme. “How do you know that?”
“I listened to them while they were setting it up.”
I guess that should have been obvious.
“Likewise, if the safe is opened without the code having been put in, that will also set off the alarm. You have to have the combination. There is no other way inside.”
Now that’s interesting. It makes me wonder if it was built to safeguard against an “energy manipulation ability” that opens locks. Maybe my great-grandfather should have put one like it on the office door. Aric/Merlin wouldn’t have told me to come here if he didn’t know how to get it open.
“Follow these instructions carefully. You put the code in backwards, but the code reads from left to right.”
I rub my hands together for a moment to warm them. They’ve grown icy cold in the few minutes I’ve been in this office.
“Céidse…” Hissing fills the room.
“What is that?”
“That is the word that unlocks the combination. Your great-grandfather was a number of irritating adjectives, but he was clever. It’s Gaelic for cage. Scottish-specific Gaelic, of course.”
I scan the lock. “There are just numbers here.”
“That is the code.”
I massage my temples. “How do you spell that?”
“The English phonetic spelling is c...e…i…d…s…e.”
“Problem number two. There are seven numbers.”
“That is the code.”
I sigh. Fine. Totally fine. I count the letters out on my fingers. C is three, I is nine…What is S? I spin around and jot some letters and numbers down on a post-it note. CEIDSE is 3594195. Backwards, that’s 5914953. I peel the note off and hold it in front of my face as I put the combination in from right to left.
The very instant the three is in place, the entire lock retracts into a small compartment, and the door slides open. Incredulous laughter leaves my lips. “I can’t believe that worked.”
“I’m offended.”
I smile. It’s hard to tell between the hissing and drawn-out vowels, but I think he might have said that in a slightly sarcastic tone. “What do you want me to call you?” I stick my head inside the dark interior and squint at the contents. Everything is organized into neat stacks.
“Since you asked, I would like to be called Aric. Merlin is an assumed name.”
“Assumed for what?”
“Protection.”
Against what? But instead I ask, “What am I looking for?”
“A paper, crumpled or torn. I can’t help much more than that.”
I lift up different folders and boxes. This could take a while. I pull out a medium-sized box and rummage through it. Nothing but crisp papers in this one. I put the box back and retrieve a long and flat one. Nothing matching the description of crumpled in this either. I sift through a couple of folders. Nothing crumpled, but I do find my birth certificate. Relief settles into my bones at the sight. One less barrier on the path to getting a passport. I fold this and tuck it away in my coat. I reach inside the safe again, and my hand lands on a velvet box. Why not?
I pull it out and flip it open. Inside is a silky purple headband with a giant flower on top. Faint, floral-scented perfume wafts up to my nose. I set it aside and underneath is a folded, crumpled, and torn piece of paper that looks like it’s been ripped and then taped back together. I lift this out and gently unfold it.
To my brothers, Arthur and Owin,
By now you’ll know what I have done. I dare even to hope that you’ll understand why. I’m sorry I couldn’t defeat the demon inside of me. Please know that I tried. I fought with everything I had, but I’ve come to realize that all my fighting will always be in vain. He will never stop trying to communicate with me. And I can’t say that I blame him. I would do the same if I was in his position.
Our grandfather and parents have lied to us. There is no curse of madness on the women in this family. There is only the voice. And it belongs to someone real. At least…he was real once. And alive. Before our forefathers betrayed him and sealed him up somewhere. They smothered his power. Smothered the flame of his existence. So often he speaks of tunnels and a tomb, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I find him. I feel him next to me sometimes, and he is so much stronger than all of us.
Aunt Sahra whispered of such things after the madness consumed her. She whispered many terrible things. She said our grandfather killed his twin sister, Megara, because she was straying too close to the truth. She said Megara left her a letter, that it was hidden away in her jewelry box—a jewelry box that had a secret compartment hidden in the bottom—a compartment that had Sahra’s name etched into it.
Sahra said the letter was addressed to her and that it explained how our grandfather poisoned Megara slowly and claimed to be doing it for her own protection. In the letter, Megara said she was writing it because she knew it was too late to save herself, but she wanted someone to know the truth and continue the work she had she done. When our grandfather found Sahra with the letter, he ripped it from her hands and burned it. The voice speaks of clues that Megara kept locked in a box that only she could open, but I don’t know where to find it.
I know what you must be thinking. Who is Megara? Is this our little sister losing her mind? Trust me, brothers, I am weak and exhausted and miserable, but I am not crazy. And I don’t think Sahra was either. At least not until she was driven so by our parents and grandparents.
I asked our father about Megara once, and he said it was proof that Sahra was insane, because Grandfather never had a sister. That it was only him and Elijah. Father said if she existed, wouldn’t someone have pictures of her? Wouldn’t there be a record of it? But the voice says he’s wrong. The voice tells me Grandfather paid someone a lot of money to destroy any record of Megara’s existence.
Again, I know what you’re thinking. Our poor, crazy sister. But Sahra saw the letter. She said it was all the proof she needed. The very fact that Megara knew of Sahra’s existence meant that Megara was still alive when Sahra was born. She was alive, and she knew that we were cursed. Megara was trying to heal this family. And she was killed for it.
I’m not writing this letter to expose our grandfather. I’m not writing this to explain my actions. I don’t want to do what I’m about to do, but I’m not strong enough. I’m not strong enough to fight the voice in my head, and I’m not strong enough to push against Grandfather and Father anymore. Father thinks the curse can be broken by chants and rituals, but it can’t. It goes too deep and back too far. It affects us all.
Owin, I kn
ow you’re on our parents’ side. I know you think I’m crazy and need to be locked up in a nice padded room on the rocks. But it’s okay. I forgive you. I understand. You just want me to survive.
And Arthur, I know you will blame yourself, but please don’t. Please. You are the only one who ever believed me, however little. And I want you to know how much that’s meant to me.
If anyone is to blame it’s our grandfather. He’s the only one living who knows the truth about what’s going on with this family, and I know in my heart he will take those secrets to hell. Without the notes Megara left behind, the only other place we can get answers is from the voice. And I don’t trust him. And you guys can’t hear him.
I’m writing this letter for one reason only. If either of you have a daughter, out of respect to me, please pass this on to her so it can give her the strength that I didn’t have.
Tell her that she’s not crazy. Tell her the voice is real. Tell her she’s not alone and that she doesn’t have to suffer. Tell her to be strong.
I want her to have a full life. And I know you will both want this as well. There is a plague stalking this family, and I want it to end with her.
I’m sorry.
—Alara
17
Perfectly Silent
My hands shake as I lower the letter. Anger burns quietly in my gut.
“Jade…”
“Shut up.” I feel sick. It starts in my stomach, then expands out and up to my head. How hard is it to give me a stupid letter? I spent six years on a heavy dose of drugs that I didn’t need, just so my father wouldn’t have to tell me the truth? Which is what? That my family locked some sorcerer or some crap in a crypt? Okay, sure, that sounds completely plausible.
Regardless, her last wish was for me to have that letter, and from the looks of it, he had every intention of flushing it into the sewer.
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