by Элисон Ноэль
I swallow hard, my gaze darting between the front door and him, pulse quickening, heart racing, knowing without asking, knowing deep down inside that this is where they stayed-this is where Romy and Rayne lived for the last three hundred and some-odd years.
But still needing a verbal confirmation, just to make sure, I say, "Did-did you say the twins?" My mind reeling, as I take in the plain familiar cottage, an exact replica of the one I saw in the vision the day I first found them squatting at Ava's when I grabbed Romy's arm and watched their entire life story unfold-all of it racing toward me in a jumble of pictures-this house-their aunt-the Salem Witch Trials she was determined to shield them from-and it all led to this.
"Romy and Rayne." He nods, looking me over with cheeks so red, a nose so bulbous, and eyes so kind he seems almost manifested, fake, a lifelike replica of the quintessential jolly old Englishman on his way home from the pub. But since he doesn't waver or fade in and out, since he remains right there before me with that same friendly grin on his face, I know he's for real. Maybe living, maybe dead-can't be too sure about that, but definitely, positively, the real deal. "Them's the ones you's looking for, yes?"
I nod, even though I'm not sure. Was I looking for them? Is that why I'm here? I glance at him, wincing when he gives me a look so odd I can't help but let out a nervous giggle. Clearing my throat and attempting to pull it together when I add, "I'm just sorry to hear they're not around, I was hoping I could catch them."
He nods, nods as though he completely understands and sympathizes with my predicament. Leaning with both hands on his cane as he says, "The missus and me grew quite fond of 'em, seeing as we all arrived around the same time. What we can't decide is if they finally decided to cross the bridge and be done with it, or if they's made the trip back. What do you think?"
I press my lips together and shrug, not wanting to let on that I already know the answer to that one, and relieved when he doesn't press further, just nods and shrugs too.
"Missus swears they crossed the bridge, said the little 'uns got tired of waiting for whomever's they's waiting for. But I say different. Rayne might've gone, but she'd never convince that sister of hers, that Romy-she's a stubborn one all right."
I squint, sure I misunderstood, shaking my head as I say, "Wait-you mean Rayne's the stubborn one, right? Romy's the kinder, gentler one."
I nod, expecting him to nod too, but he just gives me that same odd look and digs his cane deeper into the dirt. "Meant what I said, I did. Well, good day to you, miss."
I stand there, watching him walk away, head up, spine straight, cane swinging happily, hardly believing he's chosen to leave it like that and wondering if my question somehow offended him.
I mean, he is kind of old, and the twins do look exactly alike, or at least they did when they lived here and wore those private-school uniforms every day, and I can only imagine how they dressed before Riley got ahold of them. But something about the way he said it, so sure, so confident, I can't help but wonder if I've got it all wrong. Or if that mean, bratty, resentful side of Rayne is reserved just for me.
Hoping he can hear me before he gets too far away, I call, "Sir-um, excuse me-but do you think it's okay if I go in and take a look? I promise I won't disturb anything."
He turns, waving his cane jauntily as he says, "Help yourself.
Ain't nothin' 'ere that can't be replaced."
He turns, continuing on his way as I push the door inward and step inside, my foot meeting a simple, red, braided rug that softens the creak of my weight on the old wooden floor.
Pausing long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dim light as I peer into a large square room dotted with a few uncomfortable-looking, straight-backed chairs, a mediumsized table, and a large wooden rocker beside a stone hearth full of ashes from a fire that was recently burned. Knowing I've just walked into an exact replica of the world Romy and Rayne both fled in 1692 only to re-create it right here-minus the hypocrisy, lies, and unabashed cruelty of course.
I make my way through the room, gazing up at the heavy wood beams lining the ceiling as my fingers trail along the plain, rough walls, the tables piled high with leather-bound books, along with an assortment of candles and oil lamps used to provide reading light. Unable to shake this sneaky, guilty feeling that I'm prying into something, peering into a private life I'm not sure I should see.
But, at the same time, I know it's no accident that I'm here, I was meant to find this, of that I've no doubt. Because if nothing else, I know enough about Summerland to know that events are not at all random. Somewhere in these walls is something I'm meant to see. And as I wander into a small, plain bedroom I immediately recognize it as a replica of the bedroom of the aunt who raised them-the one who urged them to hide out here in Summerland in order to spare them from the Salem Witch Trials-the ultimate source of her own gruesome demise. The bed is narrow, uncomfortable-looking, offset by a small, square table holding a large leather-bound book and some dried flowers and herbs resting on top. And other than another braided rug and a tall, slim wardrobe in the corner, its door cracked just enough to glimpse the brown cotton dress hanging inside, the rest of the room is left bare.
And I can't help but wonder if Romy and Rayne ever manifested her into existence like I once did with Damen.
Can't help but wonder just how long they fought to hold on to their life as they knew it before finally giving up, and settling for this-an imitation of what was.
I close the door behind me and head for the short ladder that leads to the loft, ducking my head against the dramatically sloped ceiling and wincing as the wood groans loudly under my feet. Quickly moving to an area where the ceiling rises higher, I straighten up and take in the narrow twin beds, and the small wooden table between them holding a pile of books and a well-used oil lamp-pretty much the same setup as their aunt's-except for the walls that are littered with new millennium, pop-culture references that could only be the result of Riley's influence. Every square inch of space covered with a collage of Riley's favorites, who, knowing Riley, the twins had no choice but to pledge their allegiance to.
My eyes dart around the room, surrounded by the happy, shiny faces of former Disney stars turned teenaged tycoons, a lineup of American Idols, and just about anyone else who once graced the cover of Teen Beat magazine. And when I see the piece of notebook paper tacked to the door, I can't help but laugh, knowing this class schedule, this roster of their manifested boarding school events, could come from no one other than my ghostly little sister.
1st period-Fashion for Beginners: Do's & Don'ts & Mustn't Evers
2nd period-Hair 101: Basic styling techniques, a prerequisite to Hair 102 Break-10 minutes: To be used for gossip & grooming
3rd period-Celebrity Basics: Who's hot, who's not, and who's not at all what they want you to think
4th period-Popularity: A comprehensive course on how to get it & keep it without losing yourself in the process Lunch-30 minutes: To be used for gossiping, grooming, and eating if you must
5th period-Kiss & Makeup: Everything you ever wanted to know about lip gloss but were afraid to ask
6th period-Kissing 101: What's ick, what's sick, and what makes him tick A full roster of Riley's usual obsessions, the last of which I'm sure she never got a chance to experiment with.
And just as I'm about to leave, sure there's nothing more to see, I spot a beautiful, round jeweled frame, perched up high on the armoire, and I rise up on my toes to get it. Knowing it can't belong to Romy and Rayne since photography wasn't even invented until long after they left Salem, and gasping audibly when I take it all in, my eyes sweeping over a picture of us.
Me, Riley, and our sweet yellow Lab, Buttercup.
The mere sight of it eliciting a memory so clear, so palpable, it slams like a punch in the gut. Forcing me down to my knees and onto the floor, paying little notice of the rough wood scratching my skin, paying no mind to the tears that stream down my cheeks and onto the glass, leaving it streaky, blurry,
but I'm no longer looking at the picture, I'm watching the event in my head. Replaying the moment when Riley and I leaned all over each other, smiling and laughing, and hamming it up as Buttercup barked excitedly and ran circles around us.
All of it just moments before the accident.
The very last photo ever taken of us.
A photo I'd forgotten about since Riley died long before she ever got a chance to download it.
I gaze around the room, my vision blurred by tears, my voice tentative, squeaky, as I call, "Riley? Riley-are you-watching this?" Wondering if she's here, if she set this whole thing up, if she's off in a corner somewhere, observing me.
Using the hem of my sweater to wipe first my face, then the glass, knowing that even though she fails to respond, even though I can no longer access her, this is her doing. She recreated this picture. Wanted me to have yet another reminder of what we once shared and who I once was, just one year before.
And even though I'm tempted to try to take it back to Laguna, I leave it right where I found it instead. It's a Summerland thing. It'll never survive the return trip home.
Besides, for some strange reason, I like knowing it's here.
I make my way down the ladder and back through the great room, sure I've seen all I was meant to and preparing to leave.
Almost at the front door when I notice a painting I missed on my way in. Its frame simple, black, crudely crafted from a few strips of painted wood. But it's the subject that grabs my interest, a finely honed portrait of an attractive yet somewhat plain woman-or at least by today's standards anyway. Her skin is pale, her lips are thin, and her dark brown hair is scraped severely off her face, pulled back into what was probably a tightly coiled bun. But no matter how serious the pose, no matter how stern the expression, there's something much lighter shining in her eyes, as though she's merely playing the part of a proper, subdued woman of her time, posing this way for propriety's sake, while inside lurked a fire few people would've guessed at.
And the longer I stare into those eyes-the more sure I am.
Even though I try to talk myself out of it, convince myself it's not possible, not in the most remote way-that subliminal hint that's been edging at me, persisting off and on for the last several weeks, has now manifested before me, in a way so clear, so startling, it can't be ignored.
My whispered gasp, echoing through the room but heard only by me, as I flee out the door and back to the earth plane.
Eager to get away from the face looming before me-away from a past that has just, remarkably, come full circle again.
nineteen
I don't even think about it. Don't even stop to think twice. I just make the portal, land back in the earth plane, and head for Damen's.
But then, just as I'm pulling up to his gate, I think better.
The twins will be there.
The twins are always there.
And this is definitely something that shouldn't be discussed in their presence.
But since the gates are already in motion and Sheila is happily waving me in, I drive right through and head for the park instead. Parking my car at the curb and heading straight for the swings, I settle onto the small bucket seat and propel myself forward with such force, I actually wonder if I'll loop all the way around before coming back down. But I don't, I just sway back and forth, enjoying the rush of wind on my cheeks as I fly ever higher, and the slight dip in my belly when I come crashing back down. Closing my eyes and calling Damen to me-using whatever powers I still have before the monster can awaken and begin its favorite pastime of sabotaging me.
Adding up the seconds, and not even getting to ten before he's standing before me.
The air has changed, ignited by his presence, his gaze sending a delicious warm tingle over my skin. And when I open my eyes to meet his-it's like the first time we met in the parking lot at school-mesmerizing, magical, a moment of complete and total surrender. The sun at his back, enveloping him in a blaze of bold orange, golds, and reds so brilliant, it's as though they're emanating from him. And I hold on to the moment, hold it for as long as I can. All too aware that it's just a matter of time before it dulls and I become numb to him again.
He takes the swing alongside me, gliding high into the sky and instantly matching my pace. The two of us swooping to such deliriously, wonderful heights, only to plummet right back down again-an analogy of our relationship for the last four hundred years.
But when he gazes at me with an expectant look on his face, I know I'm about to disappoint him. I'm not here for the reason he thinks.
I take a deep breath, speaking past the lump in my throat when I say, "Listen." I turn toward him. "I know things are kind of-strained-" I pause, knowing that hardly describes it but continuing anyway. "But, well, after you left, I came across something so extraordinary, I rushed here to tell you. And if we can just push all this other stuff aside, at least for now, I think you're gonna want to hear this."
He cocks his head and drinks me in, his gaze so deep, dark, and intense it halts the words right in my throat.
Forcing me to gaze down at the ground, marking a series of small circles into the dirt with my toe, pushing the words from my lips when I say, "I know this'll probably sound crazy, so crazy you probably won't even believe it at first-but I'm telling you-no matter how far-fetched it may seem, it's totally and completely real, I saw it for myself." I pause, sneaking a peek and seeing him nod in that encouraging yet patient way that he has. Then I clear my throat and start again, wondering why I'm so nervous when he's probably the only person I know who would truly understand. "So, you know how you always say the eyes are the window to the soul and the mirror to the past and all that? And how you can recognize someone from your past lives simply by looking into their eyes?"
He nods, unhurried, noncommittal, as though he's got all the time in the world to see where this leads.
"Anyway, my point is-" I take a deep breath, hoping he won't think I'm any crazier than he already does when I blurt, "Ava-is-Romy-and-Rayne's-aunt!" The words rushing out of me so quickly it sounds like one very long word, as he just continues to sit there, looking as cool and calm as can be.
"Remember when I told you how I had that vision where I watched their life unfold and I saw their aunt? Well, as crazy as it sounds, that aunt is now Ava. She died during the Salem Witch Trials and came back in this life as Ava." I shrug, not really sure how you follow up a statement like that.
His lips curve ever so slightly as his gaze lightens, pushing his swing slowly back and forth when he says, "I know."
I squint, unsure if I heard him correctly.
He moves, veering so close our knees nearly touch, looking at me when he says, "Ava told me."
I jump out of my swing so hard and fast the chains slam together and spin in on themselves-winding all the way up before dropping back down, circling around and around in a fury of movement that makes a horrible, dull, clanking sound.
My knees wobbly, unsteady, as I narrow my gaze and slowly take him in-wondering how this guy who claims to love me for all of my lives could possibly befriend her, endanger the twins, and betray me like that.
But he just looks at me without the slightest trace of concern. "Ever, please." He shakes his head. "It's not what you think."
I press my lips together and avert my gaze, wondering where I've heard that before. Oh right, Ava. It's pretty much her favorite, most oft-repeated phrase and I can't believe he fell for it.
"She saw it on a visit to the akashic records. And today, when I was unable to find a way to help you, I confirmed it.
She's been getting her place ready, trying to find the right time to tell them, and, well, even though I believed her, I wasn't really sure what would truly be best for them. And so, today, when I asked for a little guidance, what the best course for them would be, the story was revealed. In fact, they're with her right now."
"So, that's it then." I look at him. "Ava's no longer evil, she's reunited with the twins, and
we get our lives back." I try to laugh, but it doesn't come out quite the way I intended.
"Do we? Get our lives back?" He cocks his head to the side and looks at me.
I sigh, knowing I've no choice but to try to explain it, it's the least I can do.
I drop onto my swing, fingers twisting and looping around the thick metal chains as I look at him and say, "Today-in Summerland-despite how it looked, it wasn't at all what it seemed. And I was going to explain it-explain everything that's been happening-but when you disappeared so fast I-" I press my lips together and look away.
"So, why not explain it now?" Damen says, eyeing me closely. "I'm right here. You have my full attention." His voice so stiff and formal, my entire heart breaks. Just crumbles into a million jagged pieces as he sits there beside me, so handsome, so strong, so well-intentioned-wanting only to do the right thing, no matter what it costs him.
And I want so badly to just reach out and hug him tightly to me, find a way to explain it away. But I can't, the words are held hostage by the monster within, so instead I just shrug and hear myself say, "It-it was totally and completely innocent.
Seriously. I did it for us-despite how it looked."
Damen looks at me with so much patience and love-I can't help but feel guilty. "So tell me, did you get what you set out for?" he asks, the question so loaded I can only guess at the real intention behind it.
I pause, trying not to wince under his dark, probing gaze, palms slick with sweat when I say, "You know how bad I've been feeling for attacking him and all-and so, I thought that if I took him to Summerland, then maybe he could be healed and-" "And-?" he prompts, voice laced with the patience of six hundred years, and I can't help but wonder if he ever gets tired of it-of being so tolerant, so long-suffering-especially when it comes to dealing with me.
"And-" I try to say it, try to tell him what's happening to me, but I can't. The beast is awake, the dark magick's taking hold, and I'm barely hanging on as it is. I shake my head, nervously picking at the faux tortoiseshell buttons lining the front of my sweater, as I say, "And-nothing. Seriously, that's it. I just hoped it would heal him, and apparently it did."