by Kristi Cook
Eternal love.
I took a few steps forward, my legs feeling wooden and stiff. Slowly, I made my way toward the table—what Gran called a piecrust table—and the arrangement there. The vase was tall, nearly a foot high and rectangular in shape. The milky white blossoms were still attached to their stems, nestled between the sturdy green leaves. They were fresh, not yet wilted and still full of scent. They could only be hothouse flowers this time of year. But how did they get here?
Mystified, I glanced over at the flower-strewn bed, noticing now that what I’d originally thought was a white throw pillow amidst the pile of blue and gold tasseled ones was actually paper—a sheaf of papers with an envelope on top. My heart was in my throat as I hurried over to the side of the bed and reached across the duvet, sliding the papers closer. My name was scrawled on the envelope in a familiar hand—Aidan’s. I ripped open the seal and took out the slip of heavy, cream-colored paper. Unfolding it with shaking hands, I began to read.
Violet,
I haven’t much time, so this will be regrettably brief. I’ve deeded this house and all of its contents to you, held in trust for you until your eighteenth birthday. Additionally, I’ve made provisions for taxes and upkeep. Trevors will have taken care of the paperwork, which you will find accompanying this letter. As soon as you receive this, contact my attorney here in New York—you’ll find his contact information with the paperwork—and he’ll go over the specifics with you regarding the housekeeping schedule, gardener, security, etc.
I wish I had more time to tell you what you’ve meant to me, what joy and light and happiness you’ve brought into my life. Suffice it to say that I will never forget you, not as long as I walk this earth.
Eternally yours,
Aidan
Tears burned behind my eyelids as I refolded the page and returned it to the envelope. I took a deep breath, digesting his words in silence, trying to make sense of it all. He’d deeded the house to me? The house and all of its contents? I glanced around the room in wonderment. What was I supposed to do with it all?
I took the sheaf of papers and removed the clip, leafing through them without understanding much of what I was reading. It was paragraph after paragraph of legalese, occasionally interrupted by lines with signatures, Aidan’s and someone else’s—the attorney’s, I supposed.
I swallowed hard, completely overwhelmed. The town house itself was worth millions—a plum piece of Manhattan real estate. Add in the antique furnishings, the artwork . . .
Thanks to my art history class, I now recognized several of the gilt-framed paintings throughout the house as originals, some by masters. I was pretty sure that the pretty landscape above the fireplace was a Seurat, the portrait by the staircase a Gainsborough.
But I didn’t want any of it, Aidan’s possessions. I wanted him. Here with me. Now.
I dropped the sheaf of papers to the bed and rose, hurrying over to the chest of drawers in the room’s corner. I opened one drawer, then another. There were jeans, T-shirts, all familiar and folded neatly inside, abandoned. I picked up a shirt—a worn, black tee—and lifted it to my nose. It smelled clean, like fabric softener, not a trace of Aidan’s scent remaining. There must be something, some hint of him somewhere.
I tried the dressing room next, peering inside the heavy armoire. Several button-down shirts hung there, all in shades of blue, a color that Aidan seemed to favor. There were also several hoodies stacked on a shelf. I lifted one sleeve to my nose, again inhaling deeply, searching for his scent. Once more, I was disappointed. The soft cotton smelled freshly laundered, entirely sanitized. It might have belonged to anyone.
There was a hamper in the corner opposite the fireplace, but upon inspection, I found it empty. Obviously, the entire room had been cleaned and put in order after he’d left. But then . . . I saw something, a hint of color wedged between the wall and the hamper. My heart racing, I bent down and reached into the space, my fingers closing around something soft.
It was a T-shirt, I realized. A dark gray one, one of Aidan’s vintage punk-rock shirts. Somehow, whoever had cleaned the room and done the laundry had missed it. It still smelled like him—just barely, but still . . . I would recognize it anywhere. Nearly weeping with relief, I clutched it to my chest as I hurried out.
Back in the bedroom again, there was one more piece of furniture to inspect, a beautiful desk with a large, roll-top compartment on one side. Glancing wistfully at the framed picture that sat atop the desk—me and Aidan at last fall’s Halloween Fair dance, the same photo I kept on my dresser at Patsy’s—I pushed open the rolling lid and peered inside.
There were several small boxes, one with an engraved pocket watch and another with several pairs of cufflinks. A third held a small signet ring with a crest. I flipped through a brown leather address book, mostly filled with foreign addresses that meant nothing to me. In the back was a larger wooden box—a jewelry box, I guessed. I opened the lid.
Nestled inside was a treasure trove of jewels—his mother’s and sisters’, I supposed. I lifted the top tray to reveal a second layer, which held nothing but a small blue velvet pouch along with another envelope with my name on it, again in Aidan’s script.
The rush of blood through my veins was near deafening as I removed the card inside and read the words scrawled on it.
This was my great-grandmother’s wedding ring, passed down to my father from his mother. Someday, it would have been yours. I hope you will take it and wear it—something to remember me by.
There was no signature, just the letter A in the bottom right corner. I just sat there staring at the card, reading it over and over again, the words blurred now by my tears. One rolled down my cheek and fell onto the card with an audible plop, leaving a wet splotch.
Finally, I set the card aside and reached for the pouch, almost afraid to open it. I took a deep breath before loosening the strings and dumping the contents into my palm. For a moment, I closed my fingers around the treasure, holding it there with the metal biting into my hand as I waited for my breathing to slow. Finally, I opened my hand and stared down at the ring, my eyes widening in appreciation.
It was a delicate piece, set in pink-tinted gold. The center stone was a rectangular-shaped diamond, set sideways. Flanking it on either side were smaller oval diamonds, also set sideways. It was simple but beautiful, and clearly very, very old.
I slipped it on my finger, surprised to find it a perfect fit. But how could I ever wear something like this? And yet . . . it felt so right there on my finger, a link to Aidan and his past, his history. I reached down to remove it, but stopped myself, not wanting to break that link. Instead, I tucked the velvet pouch and the card into my pocket.
And then I broke down. A sob tore from my throat, and I hurried over to the bed, still clutching the gray T-shirt. Tugging down the heavy duvet, I climbed between the covers, scattering the orange blossoms as I did so. Curling up into a ball, I buried my face in the downy pillow and cried, my tears soaking the soft cotton linens.
I have no idea how long I lay there crying—fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour. Eventually, my sobs gave way to sniffles and I forced myself to get up and head to the master bathroom, where I washed my face with cold water, avoiding my reflection in the mirror as I did so. I didn’t need to look to know that my face would be red, my eyes puffy and swollen.
I needed to get back to Sophie. I was sure she was worried about me. Besides, we could come back tomorrow, after the museum. Maybe she could help me go through his stuff, decide if there was anything else I wanted to take back to school with me. I also had to figure out what I was going to tell Patsy.
Quickly, I remade the bed and tossed the throw pillows back where they belonged. Operating on autopilot now, I gathered up the legal documents with Aidan’s note and his T-shirt, flipped off the light, and headed back downstairs. I made a quick circuit around the ground floor, shutting off all the lights before retrieving my coat and bag from the front hall. I stuffed the T-shirt an
d papers into my bag and then reset the alarm.
I stepped outside, pausing to pull on my coat and lock the door. I just needed to send a quick text to Sophie and then I’d walk back to Patsy’s. I needed the extra time to cool off, to get my emotions under control before I had to face anyone.
But as soon as I turned toward the street, I froze, a scream stuck in my throat. There was someone there, sitting on the top step. I stumbled back against the door, reaching into my bag for my stake when the figure turned to face me. “Hey, you okay?”
“Matthew!” I gasped. “What the hell? You scared the crap out of me!”
“Did you really think I was going to let you come here by yourself?”
I shook my head. “How did you even know where I was?”
“A vision. Come on. Sit down for a second and catch your breath. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He took my hand and drew me down beside him.
I sat, the stone step cold and hard beneath me. “A vision? I don’t understand—nothing bad happened to me in there.”
“I know, but I knew you’d be upset afterward. I can’t explain it, Violet, but this is the way it works for me now. My visions, I mean. They’re linked to you. Apparently, any sort of strong emotion on your part is enough to trigger one now.”
I just nodded, unable to speak. I was suddenly glad for his company, happy that I wasn’t alone. I leaned my head against his shoulder, allowing him to wrap a comforting arm around me.
We sat like that for several minutes in silence, listening to the sounds of the city. A car horn honked, brakes squealed. A couple walked by hand in hand, laughing. In the distance, a siren blared. I took a deep, cleansing breath, filling my lungs with the brisk winter air.
“You going to be okay?” Matthew asked.
I swallowed hard before replying. “I think so. This was just . . . not what I was expecting.” I had no idea what I had been expecting, but certainly home ownership hadn’t made the list of possibilities. I glanced down at the ring on my finger, the diamonds glinting in the dull yellow lamplight from the street.
“It’d be easier if you just tell me where you’re going,” Matthew said, drawing me out of my reverie. “You know, rather than making me rely on my visions. They’re pretty damn inconvenient, to tell you the truth.”
“I know,” I murmured. “Sorry about that. I was afraid you’d tell me not to come.”
“As if that would stop you,” he said with an easy laugh. “You want to talk about it? What you found in there, I mean.”
“Not right now,” I said. “Later, okay? I’m assuming you’re here for the weekend, too.”
“If you are, then so am I.”
“Then I guess you might as well come with us tomorrow to the museum—you know, that new exhibit on vampires, werewolves, and zombies at the Museum of Natural History?”
“Sounds right up my alley. It’s a date.” He made a quiet sputtering noise. “Not a date date. I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, I knew what you meant,” I said, bumping him with my shoulder. “Sheesh.”
He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable now. “You ready to head back to Patsy’s?” He rose, holding out a hand to help me up. I took it and stood unsteadily, dropping his hand as I reached for my cell.
“Just let me text Sophie and tell her I’m on my way,” I said. My fingers numb from the cold, I clumsily typed out a message—on my way home now—and then glanced over at my Megvéd. His cheeks were reddened, a knit cap pulled low over his dark hair. He wore a thick fleece jacket zipped up to his chin and warm-looking boots, but his hands were bare, like mine.
It occurred to me that he’d probably been sitting out in the frigid cold this whole time, waiting for me, giving me the space to do what I needed to do without complaint. My heart swelled, and I reached for his hands, rubbing them between mine to warm them.
“I’m glad you found me,” I said, surprised to realize that I meant it. “Let’s go. I think I owe you a cup of hot chocolate, at least.”
10 ~ Invisible
As soon as Sophie and I returned to campus on Sunday, we headed over to the café to meet up with everyone else. Our group had grown so large that we actually had to push two tables together. I found myself at one end with Cece and Joshua on one side of me and Tyler and Sophie on the other.
Kate, I noticed, was sitting at the far end of the table with Marissa and Max, as far away from Tyler as possible. Which, of course, made me wonder what I’d missed over the weekend.
When Jack came in, my curiosity was ratcheted up a notch. He sat a couple of tables away with his football buddies, but I noticed him sneaking glances in Kate’s direction every few minutes, causing her to blush.
“I still think Violet should let Cece try,” Joshua said, drawing my attention away from Kate. “Just a quick astral sweep of Mrs. Girard’s office. In and out, and I can cover her.”
I rolled my eyes. “How are you going to cover her? You can’t even see her when she’s . . . you know. Astral.”
“I can sense her,” he insisted.
“Really?”
“Yeah, we’ve”—he cleared his throat loudly, his cheeks reddening—“you know, tested it out.”
Cece giggled, then tried to cover it by reaching for her mug and taking a long, noisy gulp of whatever she was drinking.
“I don’t think I even want to know what you mean by that,” I said, shaking my head. “Anyway, what were you planning to do? Turn into fog? How’s that going to help?”
Joshua fixed me with a level stare. “I can do way more than turn into fog.”
“What exactly can you do?” Tyler asked. “No disrespect, dude. I’m just curious. No one’s ever explained it to me before. The shifters at Summerhaven kept to themselves.”
“And they don’t here?” Sophie asked.
Tyler leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Uh, last time I checked, Joshua was sitting right there.”
“Because he’s got good taste,” Cece said, smiling coyly. “Anyway, Josh, tell them what you told me. About the shifting.”
Joshua nodded. “Basically, a shifter has two options, distortion or camouflage. Distortion is what you call the fog. It’s not all that different from what micro-telekinetics can do—manipulating matter. Body cells, in our case. And then with camouflage, it’s just an issue of manipulating the cells to blend into your surroundings. Simple, really,” he added with a shrug. “Like a chameleon.”
“I wish you could show them,” Cece said. “You know, just something really quick.”
Joshua glanced around furtively and then nodded. “Blink and you’ll miss it. Camouflage, okay?”
We all nodded. And then . . . for a split second, Joshua was gone, blending into the background, as if his chair were suddenly empty. And then, just as quickly, he was back again.
“Did you all catch that?” Joshua asked, grinning now. “If I’d stayed shifted longer, you probably would have noticed that something wasn’t right. But from ten, fifteen feet away? The illusion is seamless.”
“Okay, that was so cool!” Sophie said.
“I know, right?” Cece was beaming now.
Even Tyler looked impressed. “Way cool, dude.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Joshua quipped.
“Hey, what’d we miss?” Marissa shouted down the length of the table.
“We’ll tell you later!” I shouted back, but she wasn’t listening now—Max was nuzzling her neck, making her giggle softly as she made a halfhearted attempt to push him away. My gaze slid over to Kate, who was turned sideways in her seat, still making googly eyes at Jack. Then there were Cece and Joshua, obviously a couple now. I wasn’t sure, but I thought they might be holding hands under the table.
And Sophie and Tyler . . . I didn’t know what the heck was going on with those two. They were both acting really weird around each other, and Sophie had been very careful not to mention him once over the weekend, which was odd in and of itself. Bitching
about Tyler was part of our repertoire now. At least, it always had been.
Somehow, I felt suddenly alone. I tried to push aside the thought, telling myself that I was crazy—that I was just feeling sorry for myself. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling, even with—
That thought cut off abruptly as I gripped the edge of the table, my vision tunneling, the familiar hum in my ears drowning out the café’s din.
I was in a ballet studio. There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall, a long wooden barre on the opposite one. In the room’s corner, a gray-haired woman sat behind an enormous grand piano, playing what sounded like a slow waltz.
I looked around, trying to orient myself, to figure out why I was there. And then I saw Whitney, third from the end. She was wearing a black sleeveless leotard and pink tights, her blond hair pulled back severely in a bun. The sunlight streaming in through the long, rectangular windows told me that it was daytime, but there were no clues to mark the season. No holiday decorations, I noted. No calendar on the wall.
I turned my attention back to Whitney, who looked markedly pale and thin as she slowly lifted one leg up toward her ear. I could sense her struggle, her jaw clenched tightly as sweat poured down the sides of her face. And then her standing leg buckled. She collapsed to the floor, the back of her head striking it with a sickening thud.
Chaos ensued as girls in leotards surrounded her, looking terrified. An older woman—the dance teacher, maybe—knelt by her side, checking her pulse. “Is she breathing?” someone asked.
“Yes, but it’s shallow. Someone call 911!”
One girl nodded and ran toward the door.
“Does anyone know if she’s eaten anything today?” the older woman asked.
“I . . . I don’t think so,” a tall, dark-haired girl answered. “She just had some coffee at lunch.”