by Amber Benson
“I was just thinking what a shame it was not to get to really know you, Lyse,” he said. “Especially because you’re the only family I have left now.”
Lyse went with this train of thought.
“I wish you’d known my mom. She was magical. And Eleanora, too—”
“Oh, I met Mother. Only for a few moments, but I was there with her at the end.”
“Wait, what do you mean?” Lyse asked, confused, and then she felt the tip of the blade pressing into her side. It seemed as though just the mention of Eleanora’s name was enough to put him on edge.
“I was there,” he whispered in her ear. “I helped her out. She wanted me to.”
This statement froze the blood in Lyse’s veins—and now she didn’t want to know any more.
“But don’t you want me to tell you what it was like?” he asked, his breath hot and foul against the side of her cheek. “What it felt like to put my hand over her mouth and nose. To watch the life flicker out of her eyes—all at my own personal whim.”
Lyse began to cry. She tried to hold it in, to do what she could to not give her uncle cause to kill her, but she couldn’t help herself. The image of Eleanora alone with this man—her own flesh and blood—as he smothered the life out of her made Lyse sick to her stomach.
“How?” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “How could you do that?”
He shrugged, still easing her down the path toward the Lady, the knife pressed against her side, making her wince as its tip dug into her skin through the flimsy material of her dress.
“I never knew the woman. She was nothing to me.”
“Am I nothing to you?” Lyse asked.
He stopped walking, holding her in place. She didn’t think he was going to answer her, but finally he spoke:
“She gave me away, Lyse. She did the same to your mother, and to you, even. She never wanted any of us. She was cold as ice.”
Lyse shook her head.
“I don’t think that’s true. I know she had reasons for what she did—”
He shook her roughly.
“Shut up, or I’ll stick this blade into you,” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lyse kept her mouth shut, taking him at his word.
“Start walking,” he said. “My car is just across the way. You’re going to be a good girl and get inside without a word—and then we’ll go somewhere a little more private. Where we can conclude our business in peace.”
Lyse could imagine where he would take her. Probably back to the abandoned tunnel. He could strangle her there at his leisure and no one would ever be the wiser.
You’re almost there.
Eleanora sounded as though she were standing beside them. Lyse crooked her neck, trying to see if her uncle had heard the voice, too, but his rugged face was like granite, impassive in the moonlight.
“I’ll go with you,” Lyse said. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hold that knife so close to my side.”
He laughed and let the blade drift away from her skin.
“Your wish is my command.”
Run, Lyse!
Lyse did as Eleanora said, breaking free from her uncle’s grasp. She heard him inhale sharply, felt his anger reaching out for her, but she didn’t look back, just ran as fast as she could toward the Lady of the Lake.
“Help me!” she cried.
Where there had only been calm skies above her, now a flash of lightning shot across the inky night. She could feel her uncle gaining on her, the blade of his knife itching to find the softness of her belly.
Thunder boomed, shaking the ground. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, the atmosphere thrumming with electricity.
“Eleanora!” Lyse yelled. “Help me, please!”
Lyse reached the statue the very moment the third and final bolt of lightning raced across the heavens and embedded itself into the base of the statue. The stone exploded with an earsplitting crack, and the Lady of the Lake toppled forward. Lyse watched in horror as it fell on top of her uncle, crushing him into the ground.
“Oh my God,” Lyse whispered, falling to her knees, eyes glued to the ghostly white hand protruding from underneath the Lady of the Lake.
“Lyse?”
Lyse dragged her gaze away from the ghastly sight of her uncle’s body and stared at the ghostly young woman who stood before her.
“Eleanora?” she whispered, incredulous.
The young Eleanora looked so much like the image on the Saint Anne candle that the woman in the bodega had given her that Lyse could hardly believe it.
“You’re so beautiful,” Lyse said. “So young.”
“I’m here, Lyse,” she said, smiling as she knelt beside her granddaughter. “I’ll be with you whenever you need me.”
“I miss you,” Lyse said, trying not to cry.
“Don’t,” Eleanora said—but Lyse couldn’t help it. It’d been an overwhelming night, and she was beaten.
She covered her face with her hands, wanting to curl into a ball and sob herself to sleep, but Eleanora’s next few words washed over her like a tidal wave.
“The Flood is coming, Lyse. Prepare yourself.”
The silence that followed Eleanora’s last words was long and unbroken. When Lyse finally found the courage to open her eyes again, her grandmother’s ghost was gone.
“Eleanora?” Lyse whispered—but there was no reply.
Finally Lyse crawled to her feet, her body aching with exhaustion. With an unsteady gait, she began the long, lonely walk back to the empty bungalow on Curran Street.
* * *
Lyse sat up in bed, her entire body drenched in sweat. She looked around the room, frantic. She wasn’t sure where she was and it scared her. But slowly, the darkness bled away, and the space came into focus. She was in Eleanora’s house, tucked away in her childhood bed.
Alone.
Outside the bedroom windows, the wind whistled and skittered like buckshot. Lyse lay in her bed thinking as she listened to the outdoor sounds.
Was it a dream? Her aching body and stiff limbs told her it was not. The Lady of the Lake was gone—and she and Eleanora had murdered a man. Albeit one who would have killed her had she not gotten him first.
She put away the image of her uncle’s ruined body, filing it in a part of her brain she naïvely hoped she would never have to access again. It was all just too much to process—though she knew it was only the beginning. That, like a tidal wave, Eleanora’s secret life was about to swallow her up.
After what seemed like ages, Lyse threw off the blankets and got up. She realized she was still in the black sheath dress from the memorial, and she yanked at its hem, ripping and tearing it as she pulled the fabric over her head, then threw it on the floor. In her bra and panties, she ran to the closest window and opened it wide, daring the storm outside to spirit her away. When this didn’t happen—and she got tired of the rain lashing at her face—she sat in the middle of the bedroom floor and wrapped her arms around her naked knees. Her fingers played with the bandage on her calf, yanking at the gauze until she’d torn it away from her skin.
I am alone in Eleanora’s house, she thought—and she started to cry.
She thought about Eleanora and the twin babies she’d given up, thought about her uncle crushed underneath the stone Lady of the Lake, thought about where she, Lyse, fit into the unfolding story. She sat within the feathery tendrils of the wind as it blew in through the windows, reaching out for her with grasping fingers. She sat in darkness, rocking back and forth, hands clutching at her ankles.
It wasn’t until close to dawn that she finally fell asleep, curled in the fetal position on the rag rug, the rain singing against the roof of the house as it lulled her into unconsciousness—her decision finally made.
Sitting on the side tabl
e next to her bed, the Saint Anne candle flared to life, its flame flickering like a signal fire in the night.
Eleanora was pleased her granddaughter had decided to stay in Echo Park.
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