The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  Charlie says, “We’ll eat at the kitchen table if you don’t mind. The dining room is temporarily housing a collection of Etruscan artifacts.”

  It’s amazing how easily we chat away. Hunter and Charlie are clearly the oldest of friends, and without the least bit of effort, they make me fit right in. I notice, however, that Charlie is careful to avoid the topic of what we’re doing here and Hunter avoids mentioning it.

  Despite our troubles, Hunter almost seems content.

  For a while, the two of them talk while I listen. As they do, I think back to Charlie’s earlier teasing—Don’t tell me you’ve found love at last. It was just a silly jest, of course.

  Charlie’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize he’s said something I didn’t hear.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “I thought you might be interested in seeing my antique piano. I understand you play.”

  He has a piano? Trepidation trickles down my spine, my arms, all the way to my fingers. To sit at the keys would be wonderful. But this isn’t like when I had my casts on. Then I could push aside my worries. Now my hands are free and this is the real test. Can I still play? Will the accident have changed me? My hands? Or is it my old fear?

  “I’d like to see it,” I say, tamping down my emotions.

  Charlie brews up some espresso, and I load plates into the dishwasher. We carry our espresso into the living room. There it is. An upright piano carved all over with sinuous leaves and vines, flowering ribbons, and birds darting here and there among them. It’s not from this century, maybe not even from the last. It’s known players’ hands for longer than I’ve existed. Had it come from a private home or a grand theater? Maybe it livened up some western saloon with girls in satin dresses and crowds of brawling drunk men.

  I touch a carved swallow. “It’s beautiful.”

  “1862, rosewood with ivory keys.”

  “Is it tuned?”

  “It is.”

  “You play, then?”

  “Oh no. Not at all. Have a go. Let’s get a professional opinion on whether this thing is worth all the fuss made over it.”

  I slide onto the seat and run my fingers across the keys. I pick out a few notes, and the instrument whispers to life. It speaks to me, telling me I haven’t lost it. I shut my eyes in relief, running one scale and then another. It responds under my hands as if it’s been waiting for a person to find it and revive it.

  “More!” Charlie cries from the settee. “A song!”

  I’d forgotten my audience. I glance at him, and my nerves flutter back.

  “‘Sweet Chariot,’” Charlie says.

  “I’ll play it. But only if you two sing with me.”

  “Me?” Hunter barks out a laugh. “Not on your life.”

  Charlie shoots him a beetling challenge. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

  Hunter pulls a face and grins.

  “‘Sweet Chariot,’” Charlie says. “Play on, maestro.”

  “All right. Everyone knows the words to that,” I say pointedly at Hunter.

  “Fine,” he says with a laugh, and sits down beside me.

  His warmth reassures me as my hands find the notes and strike their way across the keys. I don’t know what Hunter was worried about. His deep voice is wonderful, and soon the three of us are roaring out the song together.

  Swing low, sweet chariot,

  Coming for to carry me home,

  Swing low, sweet chariot,

  Coming for to carry me home!

  I looked over Jordan, and what did I see

  Coming for to carry me home?

  A band of angels coming after me,

  Coming for to carry me home.

  Once the two of them get going, there’s no stopping them. We play and sing until our throats are hoarse and Charlie is digging into a box of vintage music scores for more songs.

  There’s a bond between these two, so strong that my heart swells. Unconditional—that’s what family love is. It holds us safe through the ups and downs of life. It’s there for us when all else has fallen away. It’s there, no matter what.

  Like Dad. And Mom. I realize that’s my fear: Music is the magic line that anchors me to Mom. She loved to sing. She was good at it. Really good. We always sang together. Sometimes we even made up silly songs. She actually wrote them down as sheet music—because you’ll want them when you grow up, Ari.

  She couldn’t have been more right. I still have them, my envelope of faded, dog-eared treasures. Is that why I chose to make music my life? Because when I play, she’s there in every note? Her comforting voice, her fierce devotion, her passion for life. It comes alive, and I feel her hold me close.

  It’s late when we finally run out of steam and head for bed.

  “I’ll let you manage your own arrangements,” Charlie says. “I have some work to do down here.”

  “Good night. Thank you for a delicious dinner.”

  “Thank you, my dear, for making it the most lovely evening I can ever recall.”

  I beam at him, and as he bends to kiss my cheek, I see a sudden sadness in his eyes.

  “Good night,” he says as we head off.

  His unexpected melancholy sends my thoughts toward Dad and Sammy and Gage. As I head away from the warm candlelight, my stress and fear roll back over me. At the stairs, Hunter puts a hand on my arm, steadying me as I ascend the steep, narrow steps.

  Even though I can’t feel his emotions, even though he’s kept a wall carefully between us all through dinner, I can sense his heat at my back. He’s so close, his body almost presses against mine. My pulse begins to thrum in my throat.

  Then we’re at the top of the stairs. We make our way along another narrow corridor. Hunter stops at a doorway, turns the filigreed knob, and pushes the door inward.

  “Will you be all right in here?”

  The four-poster bed appears to have been torn straight from a Transylvanian castle. With the shutters drawn outside the windows, I can’t help a shiver of trepidation.

  “I’m not sure whether to feel safe or terrified.”

  Hunter grins. “It does look rather medieval, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re sure this isn’t Dracula’s New Haven abode?”

  “Quite. I’ll be down the hall. Scream if you need me.”

  But he makes no move to leave. He smells faintly of the lemon soap from his shower back at the hangar. A frisson of energy passes between us.

  “Aeris.”

  “Yes?”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder and brushes his thumb along my collarbone. His emotional guard slips, and I feel him through the veil. It’s fierce, passionate, overarching, and all-encompassing. “If something happened to you because of me, it would kill me.”

  “It won’t. I’m fine,” I say.

  His eyes are two veiled storms. He stares toward the shuttered window as if seeing something far off. I stand on tiptoes and lean into him, feeling the roughness of his jaw against mine. It’s so good here when I press my cheek to this tiny space.

  His lips brush softly across my skin, and then his firm mouth presses into mine. Even after this morning, it’s still a shock to be this close. Heat surges from my toes to the top of my head. Our blurred selves roll into each other in waves. As we kiss, we press against each other so tight it’s as if our contact could fuse us into a single being. Just by the mere touch of our lips and our arms that are wrapped tight around one another, we’re mirroring and merging until our edges meet and disappear. I don’t know where I end and he begins. It’s all mixed up and painfully good, and yet I stop myself before we can go any further.

  What am I thinking? How can I allow myself enjoyment when other people are in danger?

  I’m out of breath as I pull away.

  Hunter steps backward, dark and huge in the shadowed, narrow hall.

  “I should let you get some sleep,” he says.

  I nod.

  I see then that I’m not the only one with worries on
my mind. His brow is clouded. I watch him go, my hands clutching the doorframe.

  What demon hangs over his head? What horror is he keeping bottled inside? Is it just King that he’s worried about? Or is there something else? I sensed a vast, dark shadow inside him back at the hangar. A painful, roiling wound that lingers in the depths of his being. What horrible dread is he keeping bottled inside?

  Thirty-Two

  Morning light floods Charlie’s long, gently sloping backyard. I admire it through the polished kitchen windows, enjoying the warmth on my bare skin. I’m dressed in one of Hunter’s shirts, the cuffs pushed above my elbows.

  Every time Hunter and I pass each other, energy trembles between us. The air is supercharged. I try to empty the dishwasher, to get my mind in order, except I don’t know where anything goes.

  “Leave it,” Charlie says. He’s fussing over his Cuisinart, blasting up a batch of Hollandaise sauce for the simmering poached eggs.

  Unlike last night, he looks oddly disheveled; his faded red hair is flattened on one side. There are fresh creases in his lined cheeks, and shadows are smudged beneath his pale gray eyes. I can’t help wondering what project kept him up last night to have him looking so drained. As he removes the Cuisinart lid, it slips from his hand. Pale yellow Hollandaise drops splatter as it skitters across the floor.

  “Got it,” Hunter says, scooping it up and rinsing it in the sink. “Long night, old friend?”

  At this, Charlie turns sharply and gives him a fierce look. I’m shocked at the intensity of his affront to such a seemingly banal question.

  “Old friend?” he growls.

  A tense silence follows.

  Hunter says quietly. “We’ve known each other for a long time, that’s all I meant.”

  “Indeed we have.” Charlie continues to glare. “That’s what it is to be old. Take a good look. One late night and the whole world wants to know your business.”

  “Point taken,” Hunter says.

  “You’re not that old,” I say, trying to break the tension. “We all grow older.”

  Hunter clears his throat. “So. What can I do to help out here?”

  Charlie says, “Yes. Moving on. Slice some bread for toast. There’s orange juice in the fridge door.”

  At his command, I go out and arrange a Provençal tablecloth with a bright blue-and-yellow pattern over a round table in the backyard. We cart everything outside and set to eating among the flowers and the birds and the bees.

  “It’s beautiful back here,” I say.

  “I enjoy it,” Charlie replies. “I’m not one of those fastidious trimmers you see in magazines. Nature should be allowed to grow over a little. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I nod. Things have grown over more than a little. Forsythia, hyacinth, and other flowering bushes I can’t name sprawl across the lawn, surrounded by skirts of colorful fallen petals. The grass slopes downward, forming a lush green path between the blooms. In the distance, a low wood fence marks the bottom of the garden.

  “Is that a park on the other side?”

  “It is,” Charlie tells me. “Quiet on most days unless there’s a baseball game under way.”

  Hunter butters a piece of toast. “I’ll walk you down after breakfast.”

  Charlie wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Yes, do.” There’s a peculiar look in his eyes. “I’m sure she’d like to see what’s there.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  “Charlie’s teasing you. It’s nothing earth-shattering, unless he’s added something I’m not aware of?”

  “No, no, it’s the same old haunt.”

  “After that, I’m going to have to abandon you two for a few hours,” Hunter says.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Thought I’d head into town and find a mall. Grab you some proper clothes.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Me. Buy clothes. For you.”

  “Okay, caveman,” I say with a grin. “But I can’t make you do that. I should come.”

  “You don’t trust me? Ah, ye of little faith.”

  “No! I mean, well, you don’t know my size.”

  His eyes rake over me. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  I smirk. “I’d rather go myself.”

  “Yes, well, in a perfect world, you would. It’s just not worth the risk.”

  Charlie stands. “I’ll clear up. You two enjoy your walk.”

  “Absolutely not. We’re helping,” I say.

  Hunter loads at least two-thirds of the table’s contents into his capacious arms. “That was the best eggs Benedict you’ve made yet.”

  Charlie turns away. “Been working on the recipe. Knew you were a fan.”

  Clouds have rolled in from the west when Hunter and I step back outside. I’m surprised at how rapidly they’ve appeared. When we were eating, I’d seen no sign of a coming storm. In the distance, thunder rumbles, electric and tense.

  We walk together in silence, down among the broad bushes. I glance up at his face, so masculine and strong, and wonder what he’s thinking.

  At the bottom of the garden, we pass a shed so shrouded in clambering rose vines to be almost invisible. A door handle gleams in a shaft of sunlight that shoots from beneath a cloud. We keep walking until we reach the fence. It’s chest high and sturdy, if somewhat in disrepair. Hunter stops and leans, half sitting, against it with one foot on the lowest rung. His face is at my height now, and a shadow of stubble is just beginning to show. His hair is tousled and his amber eyes are warm. He couldn’t possibly be any more breathtaking if he were a god.

  “It’s pretty here,” I say, and then gulp at the wolfish look he gives me.

  His gaze strays to my mouth and back to my eyes again. “That’s for sure.”

  My skin tingles. I’m finding it hard to breathe.

  He brushes a hand along my arm and draws me closer. I melt against his chest. The veil between us slips a little.

  “Can you know how I feel?” I ask.

  In reply, his energy sweeps around me, and we plunge into the ocean of each other.

  “I could drown in you, Aeris Thorne,” he murmurs.

  It seems like eons, the two of us surrounded by fluttering dragonflies and cool gusts that promise coming rain. His lips are on mine and the mind-blowing sensations of outer and inner are exquisite beyond words. I wish I could stay with him like this forever.

  Charlie’s puttering around his dining room table, examining items in his Etruscan collection with the aid of a magnifying glass. He glances up as we enter. I swear I’m probably glowing as bright as the northern lights.

  “Off, then, are you?” he asks Hunter.

  “Just have to grab my keys.”

  “Will we see you for lunch?”

  “Can’t make any promises. Shopping isn’t exactly my forte. Any last-minute advice?”

  “No frills,” I say.

  “What? And here I’d planned to find you a Victorian gown with a lace skirt.”

  “I suppose just one gown would be all right. For special occasions, of course.”

  “Of course.” He captures my hand and plants a kiss on my palm. “Until then, my lady. Oh, by the way, don’t worry if you hate what I get. They’re temporary. Victoria’s picking up clothes from your dad’s and bringing them down next week.”

  “Speaking of my dad, I need to make sure he’s okay. And I have to find out if there’s any news about Gage.”

  Hunter glances at Charlie. “We know your dad’s safe. As for Gage, I promise, we’ll tackle looking into that when I get back.”

  I blow out a sigh. At least I know Dad and Sammy are fine. Hopefully, before long, I’ll know exactly where things stand with Gage.

  Charlie is wonderfully obsessed when it comes to his artifacts.

  “I could spend several lifetimes cataloging the pieces in this house and tracking their history and never grow tired of it,” he tells me.

  I pick up a slender glass object that reminds me of
a candlestick holder. “What’s this?”

  “That’s to hold perfume, a tear bottle.”

  “A tear bottle, what an odd name.”

  He tells me about it and some of the other things. His enthusiasm draws me in, sweeps me up in Etruscan fever.

  “Oh dear,” he exclaims, glancing at his watch. “I’ve just remembered an order I put in for two pounds of smoked trout. I hope you don’t mind if I leave you to nip out and get it?”

  “Not at all!”

  He brushes off his hands. “I won’t be long. Feel free to explore the house. You never know what treasures you might find.”

  I laugh. “I’ll do that. Take your time.”

  After he leaves, I poke around, but his amazing collection is unable to distract me. All I want to do is go back outside and stand by the fence and think about Hunter.

  Despite the heavy clouds, the back porch is dry and the air is still warm. I walk barefoot through the grass, the soft blades tickling my toes. I return to the bottom of the garden. It’s so beautiful. Like a fairy-tale garden, straight from a picture book.

  The old fence is soft and smooth with age. I climb up and sit on Hunter’s and my spot—or so I’ve already come to think of it.

  To my horror, the whole section groans and sinks to the ground. I leap clear and cringe as I survey the damage. I’ve ruined Charlie’s fence. Maybe I can lever it back up. I climb to the far side, crouch under the main post and put my back against it. One, two, three—I shove and the fence flies up as if it were paper. I spin to see it’s now flopped the other way.

  That’s odd.

  I pull on the fencepost. It wrenches up easily, too easily. Right out of the dirt. As I shove it back in place, I’m reminded of Gage’s display of strength on the road when he twisted the signpost into a pretzel. I’ve gotten stronger. A lot stronger. It’s baffling. Disturbing. The genetic modification is supposed to be growing weaker. So what’s happening to me?

  Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the fence is constructed of superlight wood?

  There’s only one way to find out. Among the tall grass lies the stained bowl of an old birdbath. I flex my fingers and then grab the disk on one side and brace my foot against the other. I pull up hard. Nothing. It doesn’t split or splinter or anything.