“Even if he is a ghost, he still might be there and we’ll still be able to confront him.”
“I like the way you think,” he says. “In the meantime, have you tried Rose yet? Can’t forget about her.”
“It slipped my mind,” I admit. Nearly dying at the hands of a dead witch in a shower stall at the gym will do that to you. I head into the living room to grab my phone from my coat (remembering now that I left my favorite water bottle at the gym), then come back into the den, scrolling through my contacts until I find Rose’s number.
It’s so fucking weird. The last texts I sent to Rose were over three years ago; I’d ended up sending five in a row after she stopped responding to me. I had first called her on the phone to deliver the awful message that Maximus had died. That phone call broke me.
Then after the fact, I tried to keep in touch, to know how she was doing.
My eyes drift over her last text to me: I knew he should have never left, never gone to New York. He’d still be alive.
AKA, if it wasn’t for me flipping out because Dex had gone missing, Maximus would have never come to help, and never would have died.
I responded to that, asking for forgiveness, telling her I was sorry.
I texted for a few weeks.
Nothing.
Now I’m about to text her again. Better news this time, I hope, but what the hell do I say? Your boyfriend’s back and you’re going to be in trouble?
I end up texting: Hey Rose, I hope this is still your phone. It’s Perry. I have some information about Max that you need to hear. Please let me know if we can talk on the phone.
I push send, wondering if it will reach her.
After I send the text, I decide to text the other blonde who won’t talk to me.
“What are you doing?” Dex asks, peering over at me.
“I’m texting Ada again.”
“She still not talking to you?”
“She is, but only one-word answers,” I tell him, blowing a loose strand of hair off my face in frustration. “I can’t get anything out of her, and the more I pry, the more she clams up. I know she wants to deal with this alone, maybe because she feels stupid, and believe me, when her pride is wounded, she gets rabid.”
“Oh, I know.”
“So maybe it’s for the best, but still. She’s been there for me through all the awful bullshit you put me through.”
His brows furrow. “Hey. No cheap shots. Dex 1.0 had a lot to learn.”
“Does Dex 2.0 have to talk about himself in the third person?” I ask. He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I just want to help. I hate the idea of her alone in that house.”
“She has your father.”
“You know he’s not doing well, either.” I sigh, resting my forehead in my hands. “God, there’s so much to keep track of right now. I can’t keep my head on straight.”
Dex gets up from the desk chair and sits next to me on the bed, forcing the dog to move over an inch, to which he loudly complains through various snarfs and snorts. He puts his arm around me and I rest my head on his shoulder.
“Let’s just focus on one thing at a time. That works better for me and probably works better for you. So, Samantha is the main problem right now. We deal with her first. Then Max. Then Ada. Then your father.”
“And the baby?” I whisper.
He moves his head back to look at me. “There’s no problem there. That will happen when it does. Don’t you worry about that, okay?”
I sigh, grateful to at least push that concern out of my head. He still wants that for us, no matter what’s been happening.
“We’re going to find Atlas,” he says. “That will happen.”
“And Max?”
“We’re going to help him too, the best we can.”
I raise my head and look at him, our faces close. “Isn’t it crazy? That he’s here? Maximus?”
He swallows audibly and nods. “Yeah. To be honest with you, it still feels a bit like a dream. Like he’s not really there. Like I imagined it all.”
“I felt the same way the first time. Now it feels more real.”
“And we’re sure it’s not the house fucking with us?”
I shake my head. “I definitely think it’s fucking with us, but after confirming with Jacob, I know it’s real. That he’s real.”
“It would have been a hell of a lot easier if Jacob had just finished the job. What happened to him being all powerful?”
I think back to what he told me, about restoring order. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he has all the power in the world. I think he can only do so much, whatever his role allows him to do. Which means he probably answers to someone else.”
“Fucking ginger conga line.”
“Either way, at least he brought Max back this far. I really never thought I’d see him again.” I pause. “I wouldn’t have gotten a tattoo of him otherwise.”
Dex laughs sharply. “He probably did this on purpose.” He exhales, running his thumb down my arm. “I will say, I’m relieved to see him again. I just…I don’t know if I can really relax just yet. What does this even mean? If we bring him out of the house, is he still a ghost? Is he human again? A Jacob? Where does he go, what does he do? How the fuck does someone go to Hell for years and then come back and be as right as rain? I just don’t know. As much as I know we need to help him, that we owe it to him, I think it makes sense to keep our guards up.”
I don’t want to agree with him. The Maximus in the house was the same that I remember. A bit of a dick, living to piss Dex off, overly casual until he’s not. Also surprisingly selfless. But Dex is right. We don’t really know what happened to him (not to mention he might not either), nor what will happen if we pull him free.
But I guess we’ve both committed to making it happen anyway.
* * *
It’s been four days since we learned that Harry died.
In those four days, not much has happened.
Rose never returned my text.
Ada continues to give me one-word answers.
My father hasn’t been any more forthcoming.
I’ve stuck by Dex’s side the entire time, not even leaving the house to walk the dog by myself.
At least I made a gynecologist appointment for next week.
Three days ago, there was an obituary for Harry in the newspapers and they also did a brief write-up about him and his “accidental drowning” in the lake. They mentioned that people had seen him walk straight to the shore, strip himself of his clothes, and then walk right into Lake Washington, swimming out into the middle where he went under.
I wish I could have talked to the witnesses myself. I would have asked them if it looked like Harry was trying to rescue someone, or if he looked like he was walking into the water in a daze, like he was compelled. I’m actually surprised they didn’t rule it a suicide, or maybe they did and didn’t want to put it in the paper.
Harry’s funeral is today at 2 p.m. at a cemetery in Bellevue. Obviously, getting a hold of Atlas hasn’t worked at all, so Dex and I are crashing the funeral in hopes of seeing him there.
I know that sounds disrespectful, but we’re also there for Harry, too. I never met the guy, but Dex did, and he did give us enough money to change our life, at least for a while. I just hope the man is at peace and that his death wasn’t at the hands of the very wife he loved so much.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Dex says to me as he parks the Highlander outside the cemetery. It’s pouring rain, the sound of the drops on the roof filling the car, and in the distance, people with umbrellas have gathered in the middle of the graves.
“Do what?”
“Be the mysterious person at the funeral lurking in the background, holding the big black umbrella.” He reaches around into the backseat and grabs the black umbrella, giving me a devious grin.
Figures.
He exits the vehicle and then comes over to my side, opening the door and holding out the giant umbrella so it s
hields us both.
Unfortunately, we end up doing just as Dex wanted his fantasy to play out. We lurk in the background, trying to look respectful while also looking deeply suspicious, our eyes searching for Atlas.
And that’s when we spot him.
Actually, it’s rather hard not to.
After one person finishes speaking by the open grave, Atlas, dressed in all black, naturally, steps out of the front row and takes his place in front of the crowd.
He doesn’t have an umbrella at all, and is getting absolutely drenched by the rain until the priest comes over, using his own umbrella to shield him.
“Well, I’ll be,” Dex muses. “The ghost has an audience.”
“I don’t think he’s a ghost, Dex.”
We can’t hear what Atlas is saying, obviously talking about his stepfather, and it’s not long before he’s sitting back in the crowd and a woman goes up to speak, maybe an aunt.
“What should we do?” I ask Dex.
“Wait and see.”
So we wait. It’s cold and I’m huddled under Dex’s arm, clouds of our breath rising in the air, the rain rhythmic on the umbrella.
Finally people start to disperse.
Atlas solemnly greets a few people, shakes a few hands, and suddenly I feel kind of bad that we’ve been hating on him (or assuming he’s a ghost) when he just lost his stepfather. For all we know, he might not have his biological father around anymore, and now he has no family at all.
“Hey.” I nudge Dex in the ribs. “Be nice to him, okay?”
He nods, seeming to understand.
We watch until Atlas leaves the crowd and then starts walking in the opposite direction from most of the attendees.
We start walking after him. I don’t think he’s seen us, but even so we don’t want to lose sight of him either.
He’s almost out of the cemetery gates when Dex yells, “Hey, Poe!”
So subtle.
Atlas stops in his tracks, glancing at us over his shoulder. He doesn’t run, but he does look resigned to see us.
We quickly catch up.
“I knew you were here,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“We’re really sorry about your stepfather,” I tell him. “I can’t imagine how hard it is.”
“Is that why you’ve been calling me all day and night?” he asks, eyeing Dex.
Dex shrugs. “We wanted to offer our condolences.”
“But we also have questions and we really need you to answer them,” I tell him. “Please,” I add, practically begging.
He eyes the both of us, then pushes his wet black hair off his face. His green eyes match the color of the cedars today. “Okay,” he says with a tired sigh. “I knew this was coming.”
“What else do you supposedly know?” Dex squints at him.
“More than any man should,” Atlas answers. “I saw a coffee shop around the corner,” he says and then starts walking.
“You don’t want the umbrella?” Dex asks, though I’m momentarily horrified that if he’s offering his spot, that means I have to share it with Atlas.
Atlas waves his hand dismissively. “I like the rain. It’s cleansing.”
He keeps going.
I exchange a wary glance with Dex, and we follow.
Fifteen
In hindsight, walking wasn’t the best idea. It would have been better to drive, and by the time we finally get to the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop turned diner, my jeans are splashed with water and I’m freezing. Of course Atlas looks like a drowned rat, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
The shop is dim and almost empty except for an elderly couple in a booth in the corner and a blue-collar type man at the counter, talking to the waitress.
We take a booth by the window and Atlas excuses himself to use the restroom.
“He better fucking talk,” Dex practically growls as Atlas walks away, though the minute the waitress comes by he turns on all the charm.
“Hello, Flo,” he says to her, though her nametag says Kim. “What kind of pie do you have on this beautiful day?”
I kick Dex under the table but it does no good.
She gives him a wry look and absently taps her nametag. “Apple.”
“What kind of apples?”
“Apple,” Kim repeats, looking at him like he’s stupid. “Like from a tree.”
“We’ll just have two coffees,” I tell her quickly, smiling big to make up for Dex. “Cream and sugar.”
“Okie dokie,” she says, walking away.
“You never let me have any fun anymore,” Dex whines. “You know I’m particular about my pie.” Then he straightens up when Atlas walks back.
For whatever reason, Atlas is mostly dry now. Like his hair is only wet at the ends.
“How the hell are you dry?” I ask him.
He slides into the seat across from us and gives me an odd glance. “Huh?”
“You were soaked.”
“Oh,” he says, trying to catch the waitress’ attention. “I used the hand dryer.”
“In two minutes?” Dex questions.
Atlas gives him a tight smile that does not meet his eyes. I swear the color in them is different than earlier, not so much a cedar but the blue gray of a spruce on a cold day. “I suppose you want to get down to business.”
We do. But I mean, I’m also intrigued by how he dried off so fast, like there’s no way that’s possible.
But the waitress comes by with our coffees, which look thicker than motor oil, and Atlas puts in an order for green tea.
“What do you want to know?” he finally asks, folding his hands in front of himself. He has a lot of silver rings on his fingers, something I never noticed before. Maybe because I’ve never been this close to him in the daylight, inside a public building.
I look at Dex, trying to figure out who should go first. He gives me a nod to take the lead. I guess it’s mainly my story now.
“Atlas…” I begin. “I’m not really sure how to say this, but I think your mother is haunting me.”
Of course the waitress picks this moment to drop off his green tea, giving the three of us quite the look before she quickly leaves. I don’t think she’ll be by to offer us a refill.
He picks up the string on the tea and moves the bag back and forth in the hot water, not saying anything for a minute. Then, “How do you know it’s my mother?”
“What really happened to her?” Dex asks, plowing on through. So much for me taking the lead. “You lied to us.”
“I never lied to you,” he says simply in that vacant tone he does so well, staring down at the mug.
“You fucking did. You said she drowned. You left out the part about her drowning in a pool of her own blood. Did she kill herself? Did someone kill her? What happened in that house?”
Dex’s leg is starting to bounce, the adrenaline running through him, and I put my hand on his thigh to remind him to calm down. He’s already in a mood.
Atlas finally looks up, meeting Dex’s eyes. “Harry said she drowned because he couldn’t face the truth of what she did and what she was. He never could. That’s why he killed himself.”
“You think he killed himself?” I whisper.
His eyes go to mine but they give me nothing. “What is the alternative? That he went for a swim?”
“That he was compelled to do so,” I offer.
The tiniest smile creeps up on his lips. “So then you know about her.”
“I have theories,” I tell him. “But we need to hear the truth from you, about all of this. Both of you were lying to us from the start and we need to know why.”
His eyes flutter closed, his lashes dark, and he inhales and exhales deeply, like he’s suddenly meditating.
“I will tell you everything,” he says in a low voice, enough so that Dex has to lean in to hear him. “And when I am done, I won’t say anymore. I can’t. You have to trust me on that.”
I automatically push my hand
into Dex’s thigh, silencing him, knowing he has a rebuttal to that.
“Okay, we will,” I assure him.
“And no matter what I say,” he says, his eyes still closed, “you should choose to believe me, for your own sake.”
His eyes open and now they’re not green at all but grey. The dull, desaturated gray of the Veil. My hand on Dex’s thigh turns into a fist.
“Dude,” Dex says in a whisper, “do you know that your eyes just changed color?”
“Did they now?” he asks, not looking amused. He looks to me. “I come from a long line of witches. This is one of the traits passed down.”
Witches. So Maximus was right.
“Your mother was a witch,” Dex says.
“She still is,” he says. “Just because she’s dead, that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Are…you a witch?” I ask. “Can a guy be a witch?”
Again, not amused. His eyes go dull. “I’m not your focus here. This is about the women. It’s about the line. I wasn’t lying when I said I was related to Edgar Allan Poe. He had a child out of wedlock, two years before he died. The woman, Jacinda, a witch, took his name regardless of the fact he wanted nothing to do with her. She then had a son and that son married a witch. And then they had a son and that son married a witch. And so on, and so on. Blood passed down through the generations, mixing with power.”
“So you really are a son of a witch,” Dex comments, running his hand over his jaw.
“Yes,” he says dryly. “Can’t say I haven’t heard that one before.”
“So your mother, a witch, then married a descendent of Poe. Obviously not Harry,” I say.
“No. She married my father, Victor.”
Both Dex and I stiffen in unison.
Atlas eyes us uneasily. “I take it you’ve seen him in the house?”
Dex clears his throat. “Uh, part of him.”
Atlas nods. “I see. So that was Victor. He was an awful person. Just awful. Abusive to me, to my mother, overly cruel. Hated animals, people, hated me especially. Hated everything and delighted in hurting others. He was a psychopath and there wasn’t a moment growing up where I didn’t feel like my mother and I could die any day at his hands.”
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