Cross My Heart

by Natalie Vivien

  “Oh, God, give me some time, tiger. I'll sweep you off your feet. But first things first—hang on.” She navigates the glass-strewn sidewalk carefully; then she reaches out with her arm and takes my hand. “Su ghost es mi ghost—got it?”

  I place my fingers beneath her chin and gaze deeply into her shadowed eyes. “I'll never forgive myself if you get hurt. What if—”

  “What if the sky falls? What if the earth breaks apart beneath our feet? What if everything in existence just winks out, just like that?” Trudy kisses my fingertips carefully, lingeringly, her eyes hot and bright and piercingly alive. “Anything could happen at any time, anywhere. All we can do is follow what makes us happy. And you, Alexandra Dark...” She presses her full length against me, and I slide my hands over the curve of her lower back, teasing at the edge of her panties. “You make me happy. So I'm sticking by your side. Whether you like it or not.”

  “I like it.” I kiss her—so hard and so long that we pant against one another for long moments once our mouths part. I try to focus on this, on us. All that matters is this moment—here, now, my body and my breath bound to Trudy. Her paper-and-sugar scent, her warmth, all that she is surrounds me, soothes me, and I can only hope that, in some way, my presence reassures her, too.

  Forehead tilted against hers, I whisper, “I like it so much that I feel like my heart is breaking.”

  Her lips curve. “That isn't breaking, silly. That's healing. And sometimes the healing part hurts more than the breaking part. It's happening inside of me, too,” Trudy says, placing one of my hands upon the left side of her chest, over her heart. “See? But my not-so-scientific deductions suggest that the pain's going to be worth it in the end. Really, really worth it.” She brushes my hair back from my eyes and smiles at me as if I'm her favorite person in the world.

  I realize then, in a world-tilting rush, that Trudy is my favorite person in the world. And we never would've been drawn together—well, again—if it weren't for my scary old haunted Victorian.

  Everything happens for a reason...

  What if I had laughed off my sister's suggestion to buy this place? I came so close to doing just that. I would still be in Cairo, still spending long, wild nights with Lucia, still leading a disconnected, disinterested existence. It scares me, how much impact one decision can have on the fabric of a person's reality...

  I suppose that's how Elizabeth felt when she realized that Xavier had poisoned her, that he had, in a single, mad moment, spirited her whole future away.

  Heart hammering, I remove the black velvet pouch from my pocket. I'm hesitant to open it again, to share its contents with Trudy. It's what we suspected, but to hold this evidence in my hands, to take it in with my eyes, makes everything feel too real, too horrible.

  But I can't withhold it from her; Trudy has a right to know.

  “I found these in Xavier's dresser,” I tell her simply, and then I lay the photographs, face up, on her palm.

  There's no mistaking who the figures are. We've encountered Bess and Victoria often enough now to be able to recognize their shapes in any context. And the jagged black oval surrounding the images makes it clear that the photographs were taken through the peephole in Xavier's bedroom. The setting is, unmistakably, the adjoining bedroom, with its fancy bed coverings, the silken robes slung over the bedpost.

  As we guessed, Xavier watched Bess and Victoria make love.

  Worse, he took pictures of them making love. Lovely pictures—if they weren't evidence of his sickness, of his obsession.

  Trudy's face contorts into a red-cheeked expression of rage. “What a disgusting, repulsive, slimy—”

  “I know. Here, let's put the pictures away.” I slide them back into the pouch and return the pouch to my pocket. “Are you all right?”

  “Right as rain. I'm actually kind of excited—to bust that ghost's revolting ass. Anyway, c'mon, love—we're holding up a séance.” Trudy tugs at her tank top and grins sheepishly. “And I'm standing outside in my underwear. I kind of feel like the mom in Poltergeist right now. Is she hotter than me?”

  “You're hotter. And—thank God—I don't own a TV.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Constance Reed arrived prepared.

  I guess she keeps an emergency séance kit in her hatchback, because she draws item after item out of her Mary Poppins-esque carpet bag, transforming Xavier's shoddy bedroom into a spiritualist den within a matter of minutes. In lieu of a table, she drags the short dresser into the middle of the room and drapes it with a heavy black cloth. And on the cloth, she places a collection of white candles, which she lights one by one. Then she takes a bundle of dried herbs and holds her lighter to the ends of them until they're smoking.

  “Sage, to cleanse the space,” she explains to Trudy and me as she walks around the room, waving the herbal wand at the ceiling, at the walls.

  We watch, silent, flashlights clenched tightly in our hands. The candles cast eerie shadows on our faces, and I can't help but train my light along the floorboards, anxious that one of the mirror shards from the other room might have, somehow, bounced over here.

  “Need any help?” Trudy, clad in her Ghost Team jumpsuit once again, offers Constance a small, tight smile.

  “No, dear. I'm nearly through.” The medium finishes circling the room and places her burning sage in an abalone shell shaped like a bowl. “All right, then. Could the two of you step up to the dresser, please? We'll have to hold hands.”

  I turn off my flashlight, putting it on the floor, by my feet. Then I slip my fingers between Trudy's; her hand is cold, colder than mine. But Constance's skin is warm, almost hot, and that reassures me somehow, convinces me that she knows what she's doing. The temperature in the attic is at least ten degrees cooler than the temperature in the rest of the house, so I think Xavier is nearby. He hasn't made his presence known since he exploded the downstairs window. Maybe he's resting, spent for the night—or maybe he's just preparing himself for the big show...

  Either way, my heart is beating so hard, I feel as if I've just run a marathon.

  Somehow, I keep forgetting to breathe.

  Constance closes her eyes and begins to speak in a low, somber voice: “I call upon the four corners—Air, Fire, Water, Earth—for your guidance this dark, still evening. I call upon the white light of the Goddess. Shroud us, Goddess, with your love, with your white light of protection.”

  My throat is too dry to swallow, and I have to resist the urge to cough. I feel odd, strangled, like I'm choking...

  “We call upon the spirits now. Are you here, spirits? Speak to us. Use this vessel”—Constance indicates herself with a nod of her head—“to speak. I welcome you freely. I welcome you to use my tongue to tell us your tale. There is nothing to fear. Within this circle, you are safe, protected—” She cuts her final word short, purses her lips. “Does the name True—no, Truman—does Truman mean anything to the two of you?”

  “What?” Trudy's jaw drops.

  “I'm hearing from someone named Truman. Is he the entity in this house? I don't believe that's the name you used in your voicemail—”

  “No, no. Truman...” Trudy pauses, swallows. “Truman is—was my brother. My twin.”

  “Ah. That explains the resemblance.”

  “You can see him?”

  “Of course. He's standing right behind you.”

  Trudy spins around, letting go of our hands, but there's no one there. She waves her arms, as if she's hoping to grasp hold of him. “What does he look like? What is he saying?” Her voice is thick, as though she's trying to speak around her emotion. I reach out to take her hand again, and she squeezes it gratefully.

  “He's blond, and he has magnificent purple eyes. Almost as magnificent as yours, my dear.”

  Trudy, flushed, ducks her head, lips curving softly. “Well, he had a prettier smile than me. And longer lashes. I was always jealous of his lashes.”

  Constance takes Trudy's hand, too, and she leans toward her, whisper
s in a low, soothing tone, “He wants you to know that he's sorry for leaving so soon—”

  “Oh, God...” Instantly, Trudy sobs; tears stream from her eyes, gleaming in the firelight.

  “—but that he hasn't left you, not really. He says, 'I'm still here, DeeDee.' Maybe you've noticed something, a scent of cucumbers?”

  Speechless, Trudy can only nod her head.

  “That's him, dear. He's here. And he's not going anywhere without you.'”

  “Alex,” Trudy whispers, falling into my arms. Her shoulders rock with her sobs as I smooth her hair, kiss her temple. Constance makes eye contact with me above Trudy's head, her lips drawn into a strange, enigmatic smile.

  “Your parents are here, too, Alex,” she says softly, almost inaudibly.

  I stare. It's all I'm capable of doing; everything within me feels as if it's stopped, paused. I'm holding my breath; my heart has ceased beating.

  Could it be true? I've waited so long to know that they're all right, that they're in peace. Cordelia told me Jack had had encounters with Dad, and, frankly, I don't doubt that at all, but I never dreamed that I might encounter him, or Mom, myself.

  I lick my lips, summon a voice, croak, “They're here?”

  “They love you, Alex, so much, and they want you to know that they never felt any pain. There was only light. They don't regret anything; they were happy to go together—though they miss you deeply. And your sister. And Jack. Or—no, they say that they visit Jack. Is Jack in spirit?”

  “No. He's...he's their grandson. My sister's son. And”—I laugh hoarsely—“he sees dead people.”

  “Ah, an angel child.”

  “What?”

  “It's what we call the young mediums. But, my dear, if your nephew is psychic, perhaps the trait is genetic. Maybe you have some natural psychic ability, too. It might explain why you were drawn here, and why the spirits have been so active in your presence.”

  Cordelia had suggested something similar when she first arrived at V. Rex. But I shake my head, confused, my mouth downturned. I'm overwhelmed by this séance already, and we haven't even delved into the dark, scary stuff. Dread crawls, cold and sharp-nailed, over my skin. What if summoning Xavier's spirit only makes him angrier, stronger? Could a ghost commit murder? He's already proven that he can inflict physical harm...

  I don't know what I'm doing.

  I don't know what to do.

  “Your parents are asking you to move on, to let them go. 'Let us go, Axle.' They have lingered for you; your grief has kept them here. But it's time for them to advance to the next stage of their cycle.”

  “Cycle?” I blink at Constance, uncomprehending.

  “They'll be born again, reincarnated. And if their spirits are bonded, as it appears that they are, they'll find one another again. Maybe they'll even find you.”

  “Find me? But...they'd be children.”

  “Yes.”

  This is too much. I'm not prepared to restructure my personal philosophy again, not here, not now. I've come to terms, more or less, with ghosts, but pondering the concept of rebirth will have to wait for another, more suitable time. Still, I have to admit—Constance's communication from my parents has altered something inside of me. When they died, a void took up residence in my chest. I could feel it, could almost see it. It was black, jagged, a vacuum, impossible to fill.

  But I place my hand over it now, and I know it's different, smaller: a mouse hole rather than a black hole. And if I don't concentrate on it, it almost feels as if it's no longer there at all...

  Trudy wipes her face and rests a cool hand on my cheek before returning to her place behind the dresser. “Sorry for the sobfest.”

  Constance smiles. “No apologies required. But, yes, we should move on. Let us summon the spirits of the house.” She squares her shoulders, and her shadow on the wall behind her, unaccountably, appears to grow taller, wider. “Spirits, we know you are here. We know you are listening. Now is your opportunity to speak, to bridge the gap between the living and the dead. Tell us—”

  “Oh!” Trudy gapes at the medium. “Something...” she mumbles, but the word sounds muffled, as if her mouth is stuffed with cotton. She turns her startled gaze toward me, and I lean toward her. “Al—” she begins.

  “Trudy, what's—”

  “Not Trudy.” Every hair on my body stands on end. Because the voice coming from Trudy's mouth is not Trudy's voice, but it is a voice I've heard before.

  “She's possessed,” I whisper, gasping. My lungs feel as if they're being squeezed by invisible hands. Every breath is a struggle. I begin to wheeze.

  “Tell us your name, spirit.” Constance is trying to regain control of the situation, but she sounds strained, and her palm, I am anxious to note, is now ice cold.

  Trudy's lips part, but they look all wrong. Everything about her looks wrong. She isn't moving like Trudy. She doesn't even look like Trudy anymore. She looks like—

  “Victoria. My name is Victoria.”

  “Hello, Victoria.” Calmly, Constance nods her head, sloping her body in Trudy's direction. “We're glad that you've joined us tonight. You are welcome here. What is it that you need to say? Go on. You can speak freely now.”

  Uncomfortable, I shake my head, try to twist my hand free from Constance's, but she holds it fast. “No. No, Trudy never agreed to this. What if—”

  “Trudy is safe, well,” Victoria informs me with my girlfriend's mouth, even as she focuses her steady blue gaze on me. Blue, true blue, not blue-violet. “She is still here, listening. Don't be afraid, Alex. I would never harm her, nor you. Never.” Her eyes soften, and her voice becomes low, husky, thick with emotion: “You remind me of my Bess.”

  “Your Bess...” The way that she spoke the words—quietly, reverently—made my heart skip a beat. Despite the tight feeling in my throat, I force out, “Why are you and Bess trapped here? Why can't you leave?”

  “We were lovers. Sweethearts. Just as you and Trudy are sweethearts.” She narrows her brows. “But it was different for us. We had to hide. We couldn't let anyone see us together. We had to be so careful—and, oh, we were.” As I watch, her jaw clenches, and her gaze grows hard. “But he was always watching Bess. And he saw us. He watched us. Secretly. Through that hole.” Victoria/Trudy turns slightly and points toward the Peeping Tom notch cut into the wall. “We made love in the attic, and he watched us. Again and again. Oh, he hated me.” Her lower lip trembles. “Because he loved her.”

  I'm about to open my mouth to ask Victoria how we can help her when my last breath is stolen from my lungs. I feel as if I've been punched in the stomach by a wrecking ball. I gaze down at myself, expecting to find that my chest has caved in, that my ribs have collapsed, but, no, I'm okay. I look all right. I just can't breathe.

  “Alex? Alex!” I hear Constance calling out my name, but she sounds far away, as if she's in another room, or maybe I'm in another room, because suddenly everything looks strange, unfamiliar. No, wait—my eyes aren't working properly. Or...

  A deep, spine-chilling voice fills my head, so loud that it makes my eardrums vibrate: “Thanks for the ride, Alex.”

  “No,” I say, or try to say, but my mouth won't cooperate, doesn't even open—until it does open, and, horrified, I listen to it cackle, in Xavier's voice, “I'll do away with you, whore—this time, for good!”

  “Stop! Wait!” Constance shouts, and I try to turn toward her, try to move at all, but my every gesture is directed by him. Oh, God... I've been possessed by Xavier Manderson. The Peeping Tom. The probable murderer.

  I've never felt so violated, so filthy from the inside out.

  Frantic, I scrabble for control. It's hard to focus on my senses when they're being intruded upon, overridden, and though I can't fully manipulate them, I manage to gain access to my sight again.

  And I'm outdoors, standing in the backyard. How did I get here? How long was I struggling for my vision? The night is chilly, quiet, and I stare at my feet, watch in half-despair
, half-fascination as they tromp through the mud of their own accord. Tromp, tromp, tromp...until they pause beside the pond in the vacant lot. It's only then that I lift my gaze, that I see that my hands—my hands—are stretching out, reaching for Trudy's neck. No, Victoria's neck. No, Trudy's neck.

  If Xavier hurts Victoria, it's Trudy who will feel the pain.

  No.

  No, this isn't going to happen.

  I summon every atom within me, every moment of strength I have ever known, or witnessed, every memory of something miraculous—

  And my feet stumble backward, away from Trudy/Victoria, who stands glaring in my direction, her arms crossed demurely, her chest heaving with every breath. Constance rushes up behind Trudy and rests her hands on her shoulders. “I banish you, Xavier—”

  “Do you?” Xavier, using my throat, my tongue, only laughs. “Well, I'd like to see you try, hag. And, oh, you're a saucy one, Alex. I expected that. But the trollop was only a distraction. A lark. It's all she's good for. No, you're the one I'm after. We were fine here, the three of us, until you came and set it all topsy-turvy. Well, time for the valet to take out the trash, hmm? Fancy a swim?”

  Cold water soaks my legs. I realize then that Xavier has waded into the pond; the water laps at the top of my thighs, at my waist. How deep does the pond go? Suddenly, my head is plunged underwater—deeper, deeper. I can't fight this. I can't move my arms or my legs. I can't even close my mouth or hold my breath.

  I'm going to drown.

  Please...someone...Elizabeth...

  And just like that, I'm free.

  With a rush of warmth, I realize that Xavier is gone.

  Gleeful, I expel the air and water from my lungs, and something—a gentle, coaxing something—urges me to swoop upward, aiming for the air.

  When my head surfaces, I gasp, breathing too hard, too fast. But not for long.

  “Alex!” The voice is a strange combination of Trudy's and Victoria's, but its panicked tone is unmistakable.

  I blink water out of my eyes just in time to see a liquid funnel rotating before me, rising furiously out of the pond. The funnel takes shape, thickens in some places, separates in others, until, at last, it resembles a man. A man made of water, of a hundred-thousand reflections.