Phantom Eyes

by Scott Tracey

  “Where were you?” I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth before I could catch them. “Why weren’t you here?”

  I expected him to disappear or to walk away without answering. But Jason stopped short, and it wasn’t until then that I realized I’d yelled at him, accused him, blamed him, but never once in the last three days had I ever just asked him.

  “I … should have been here,” Jason admitted, just as quietly.

  “I tried to save him.” It was cold enough outside that I could see my breath. I focused on that, instead of him. “I deserve what happens to me. I deserve all of it.”

  Jason lifted a hand and reached out, but I flinched. Backed away. Some part of my brain expected to be hit. To be attacked again. Hurt. But Jason looked like I’d been the one to attack him. I realized my mistake too late, but before I could apologize, or—I didn’t even know—Jason’s phone rang.

  “I have to take this,” he bit out. He didn’t wait for me to respond, just spun around on his heel and kept his back to me.

  I couldn’t even play nice with Jason for an hour. What was wrong with me? I ducked my head low and went inside, figuring that the sooner I got inside, the sooner I could find someplace to hide.

  The Harbor Club was a paragon of elegance. Gleaming marble tile floors, rich, creamy white walls. Spaced around the lower floor were blown-up images of a much younger Uncle John—school photographs, birthday parties, family portraits, and pictures with Jason and a salt-and-pepper-haired man I took to be my grandfather.

  I sifted through the crowd like a piece that didn’t fit, sinking to the bottom while they all rose. A bar was set up at the far end of the room, and I made my way there. A pair of women dressed all in black reclined against the bar, talking to each other but both were more focused on the crowd. More interested in who spoke to whom, and where everyone was positioned.

  I reached out, snagged a glass of white wine just as the bartender dropped it off for one of the women. Meeting her eyes, I took a sip, challenging her to argue. The wine burned going down, but I refused to let it show. She knew who I was—it would surprise me if there was anyone here who didn’t.

  She didn’t say anything, and my lips quirked up in a faint half smile. I could have poured the drink over her head, and she wouldn’t have raised her voice. She might later, in private where there was no one important to listen in, but not now. Not when she was face to face with me. Not when her friends and neighbors were only a few footsteps away, ready to turn on her in a moment’s notice.

  “So sorry to hear,” the woman murmured, so quiet I could barely hear her. But I ignored the wasted sympathy. I didn’t deserve it. John’s death was my fault. All of this was my fault.

  So I drank. When the first glass was drained, I replaced it with a second. The bartender eyed me, but didn’t hesitate to pour.

  It was easy to tell when Jason arrived. Crowds parted when Jason Thorpe walked into a room. His mask and armor were on full display, cold and aloof and utterly untouchable. He could have been getting his taxes done, not burying his brother.

  Almost immediately, he was besieged with thinly veiled condolence calls. There were tears, handkerchiefs, and trembling, but very little truth. He accepted each bit of sympathy like he was a stone. Everyone knew the brothers weren’t close, that John had fled years ago, but that didn’t stop their attempts at seeking favor. All in all, it was quite a performance. Jason was impassive because nothing could ruffle his feathers.

  Well, other than me. I was insanely good at driving him insane.

  I watched him for a couple of minutes, the burning in my gut bringing a surprising amount of relief. I should feel something, so if it had to be pain I’d caused myself, then that would have to do. Jason mingled his way through the crowd, taking time to talk to everyone who approached. I saw a dozen different variations on “We appreciate your concern” and “Thank you for coming.”

  As Jason continued to mingle, I dropped my glass on a table and slipped through the crowd. At the far end of the room was a staircase leading to the second floor. A week ago, it was where I’d had one of my first real confrontations with Catherine Lansing—where she toyed with me while pretending not to know why girls were disappearing in her city.

  From my second-floor vantage point, I scanned the crowd for her. There was no way she wouldn’t show up. It wouldn’t be a victory if she couldn’t lord it over the competition. I hadn’t seen her since the night John did.

  The night she killed him.

  I should have been looking for Lucien, the demon in the three-piece suit, because there was no way he’d miss it, either. For much different reasons, I was sure. Lucien had been manipulating events in Belle Dam for a long time, and I’d become a thorn in his side. It was one of the few things I was proud of since I’d come to Belle Dam.

  But today wasn’t about me, and it definitely wasn’t about demons. It was about John, and the bitch who had taken him from me. I’d promised to kill her. It was only fair. When John tried to kill Catherine’s husband, she retaliated by killing my mother. At least that’s what the stories say. The papers suggested a different story. That my mother was “sick.” That there was an “accident.” Coded words that implied a suicide that might not have been self-inflicted at all.

  I felt the shadow closing in on me before he appeared at my side. I could see both stairways from where I stood, which meant he hadn’t come from there. He must have been on the balcony outside, the one that faced that city instead of the bay. Waiting for me. I don’t know how he knew, but he did.

  I spoke over my shoulder, not trusting myself to turn around. “You can’t be here.”

  “You need me,” he said quietly. I closed my eyes. If I looked to my right, I knew what I would find. A boy, only a few years older and a few inches taller. Strong and solid. And nothing like his mother.

  “Go away, Trey.”

  “No.”

  “Please.” It was a whisper.

  His response was just as soft. “No.” A hand reached out, hesitant, and grabbed the back of my coat. My eyes flew open at the same moment that Trey started pulling me backwards, away from the prying eyes downstairs. He dragged me into one of the corners, half hidden by a potted ficus. I focused on it, the way the leaves curled down, like they were shamed.

  He took one of my hands and set it against his waist. Then the other. And then he carefully wrapped his arms against me, pulling me tight against him.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, his cheek pressed up against my ear.

  But it wouldn’t. He knew that. I knew it too.

  I counted to ten. It’s all the time I allowed myself to have. Long enough to memorize the way his arms slid over me, familiar and new all at the same time. His head pressed against mine, his breath on my skin.

  I pulled myself and pushed at him until there was an icy hollow between us. All my fault. If I’d done what Lucien wanted in the first place, none of this would have happened.

  But Trey would probably be dead. Would I have traded their places if I could? Sacrificed Trey for John?

  I couldn’t do this. It would be too easy to fall under Trey’s spell. To forget that I was supposed to suffer. I had to remind myself, and him. I had to make it hurt. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” I asked, licking my lips as the blood rushed to my head again and tore at my balance.

  “Braden, don’t.”

  But I didn’t listen. That was the price of getting what you wanted. You had to serve penance. The words had to be said out loud. “I see her. I see the look on her face when she killed him. I see the way he hit the ground, and I can hear that last little gasp of air, the one that said he was dead already.”

  Trey was marble, sharp and perfect, his face expressionless.

  “He’s dead because of me. Because I was weak.”

  “That’s not true,” he whispered.

  “Your mom’s going to come for me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her,” I said. “I’m all used u
p inside. She won’t even have to break a sweat.”

  “She won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.” I shrugged. “I’d do it if I had the chance.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” he pressed. “You’re better than they are.”

  “I’m really not.” I walked back over to the landing, looking down at the party. Because that’s what it really was. Everyone may have been dressed in shades of black, and there might have been a hint of melancholy in the air, but this was a party with eager eyes and electric anticipation in the air.

  “Don’t you get it? If I had my power, I wouldn’t care. From here,” my voice was so calm, “I could stop her heart. I wouldn’t fight fair—Thorpes never do.”

  “You’re not a Thorpe.”

  I pretended I couldn’t hear him. Kept talking. Musing on all the ways I would commit murder if ever given the chance. “I could take a page out of her book and poison the food, but that would take time. I’d need to see her eyes catch in surprise, that last imprint before she’s gone.” John’s eyes, widening just a fraction as he fell. I used to read his face like a magic eight ball, deciphering his mood from the lines on his face.

  “Stop,” Trey implored.

  Anytime Jason and Catherine shared the same air it was jarring, like a sharp, piercing sound that shattered a moment of Zen. It was an energy that the town thrived on, moments of utter possibility. Anything could happen. So many opportunities to get ahead, to push someone else down, adults all jockeying for position like a high school election. Belle Dam denizens scurried beneath me, climbing over one another for favors. No one cared that he was gone. Except me.

  “I remember what she did,” I said casually, over my shoulder. “I saw it. What it looked like, how it felt. So effortless.” I snapped my fingers. “And then it’s over.”

  “Braden … ” But he didn’t have anything else to say. I knew it wasn’t fair to him, knew that this had to be hard on him, too. He’d watched his mother kill John the same as I had. Penance, though. It had to be done.

  “Where would you be right now, if that night had gone differently? If John was still alive and their plan had failed?”

  I could feel him staring at me, knew his expression would be perplexed. His fingers were probably tapping against his pants, a restless rhythm betraying his nerves.

  “If things had gone differently, we’d still be dressed in our funeral finest,” I said it casually, like were discussing nothing more than the weather for all the emotion in my voice. “This might have been her wake.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  I closed my eyes. “No. You’re a good son. You’d be with her.” I opened them again, took off the sunglasses, and faced him. I had to squint—unfiltered light was still hard to handle during the day. “But you don’t have to worry about that. She’s not the one that’s going to die.”

  He lunged forward, put his arms on my shoulders. Trey went to speak, but I cut him off.

  “You need to pay more attention.” I looked to my left, down below us. “She’s here,” I said quietly.

  Down below, on the first floor, Catherine Lansing had made her entrance. I knew they’d come together, but even still, seeing Lucien’s thin-lipped smile as the pair of them stared up at us made my stomach churn.

  All of the Lansings were blond, but Catherine made it somehow … more. Maybe it was her presence, the innate sense of entitlement that she shared with Jason. That’s what happened to warlocks in a town full of plebeians. Belle Dam had been taught to adore what it feared, and it had never adored anything as much as Catherine Lansing in the spotlight.

  She wore a black pantsuit, the jacket’s sleeves coming up short and exposing the cuffs of her white business shirt. Her collar had been pulled over the top of the suit coat, a flare of white against her skin.

  Lucien, unsurprisingly, had gone black on black. His pinstripe suit gave just a touch of whimsy, a humor that no one else seemed to share. If possible, his dress shirt was even darker than the suit that surrounded it.

  Grace said that Lucien was still in hiding, licking his wounds. But he wouldn’t miss this. Neither of them would miss this. They’d gone to so much trouble to make today possible. I looked down at my watch and almost started to smile. Had Grace known? Had she planned this out from start to finish?

  Trey reached for me again, like he needed to prove to me that he was no longer his mother’s pawn. But I’d used Catherine’s arrival for the distraction it was and darted out of his reach.

  I was halfway down the steps before anyone realized what was coming.

  six

  Even a week ago, dramatically descending the stairs without my sunglasses would have made an impact. The witch eyes had been physically devastating, but it was how they looked. They were ever-changing—eyes that could be cobalt blue, amber, and then a vibrant viridian all in a matter of seconds. Never the same shade from one minute to the next, the same way I never saw the same sights twice.

  That was then. Ever since the power had been ripped out of me, my eyes had settled on just one color: an unnatural, pale green like limestone battered by the sea. People still stared, my eyes still called attention to themselves, but now they were just a cry for attention.

  I flew down the stairs, moving faster than I thought I could. The rest of the world had slowed, and I’d been quickened to move faster than ever before. Trey called my name from the stairs, but he’d hesitated too long. By the time he realized I was gone, I was already at the bottom.

  On the way down the stairs, I’d slid my watch over the bones of my wrist and onto the lowest part of my palm, where my fingers could dig into the leather band with ease. There was a countdown in play, all I had to do was to keep them busy long enough for the payoff.

  I strode up to the two of them, defiant and unafraid. For the first time, I met Catherine’s stare eye to eye. I expected to see something in hers, something vicious or cruel or mocking. She’d drawn her line in the sand. But her eyes were blank—walled off and empty. Just like Jason’s. Revealing nothing. Up close, I saw the differences in her from the last time. Her skin was more pale than I remembered, and the makeup around her eyes was thick, but it didn’t disguise how sunken her face had become.

  “They’ll let anyone into these things,” Lucien murmured in a low drawl at my approach.

  I didn’t break my gaze. “Pipe down—the humans are talking.”

  Catherine raised an eyebrow at me. “Are we now?”

  I spread my arms, inviting. The international symbol for “come at me, you psycho warlock bitch.”

  “Braden, come on.” Trey was suddenly between us, his hand pressing against my chest. Pushing me backwards. “Don’t.”

  “You’d better kill me,” I said, not caring how my voice carried. Actually, I wanted it to carry. I wanted the crowd to hear me. I wanted them to know. When the time came and someone found my body, I wanted them to know without a shadow of a doubt who was responsible. “Come on, Catherine. What are you scared of?”

  Like a volume switch had been pressed, the conversational din surrounding us had almost completely diminished. My words rang throughout the club.

  “This is everything you’ve been waiting for,” I shouted, not caring that I was throwing myself right into the path of predators. My skin was hot, my insides burned, and I just had to do this. “Kill me, Catherine.”

  Several seconds passed. No one in the room even dared to breathe. Everyone waited on Catherine’s reaction. I could feel them all around me, people who’d been raised in this town and had never before seen a confrontation between a Thorpe and a Lansing quite like this, where there were no agendas to hide behind, no minions mouthing words written by someone else.

  The city held its breath.

  Catherine, of course, was not one to disappoint. “Deal with this,” she said, framing her voice just loud enough to carry to the ring of observers around us. They would eagerly spread her response for her, and Catherine wouldn’t
have to resort to shouting to match my fury. When she turned back to me, it was with the cold, empty mask I’d seen her wear before when she was dealing with people of no consequence. Like I didn’t matter.

  “I came to pay my respects,” she said clearly. “A pity if that offends you.”

  Trey stayed by my side, one hand still braced in front of me. “You are unbelievable,” he breathed.

  Catherine couldn’t have missed the utter contempt in his voice, but she pretended not to notice anyway. She took a step forward, her eyes measuring mine. “You are a very stupid boy,” she said softly, her lips barely moving, and her whisper just loud enough for me to hear. There was no chance anyone else would.

  Upstairs, I’d told Trey that if I had the power, I would have turned it on Catherine. Killed her with as little mercy and care as she had killed John. But being in front of her like this, seeing her breathe, and blink, and the faintest hint of anger blossoming in her cheeks … it was too much. Catherine was alive, and John was dead, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Oh no. Tears that I had spent three days expecting suddenly sprang up, and my vision shimmered for once because of weakness and not because of magic. My face grew hot and my skin felt too tight for everything that was trying to force its way out. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Now in front of them.

  “A pleasure as always, Gentry,” Lucien said, rubbing his thumb up and down the surface of his glass. He acted like he hadn’t just witnessed my verbal assault on his pet human. Or that he cared. “You and I should get together. We have something to discuss.”

  “You’re insane,” Trey said with a sneer.

  The crowd parted around Jason as he strode towards us, a smooth pace that suggested his timing was more coincidental than planned. His arrival halted things before they could degenerate even more. Relatively speaking. “Lucien,” Jason said, greeting the man as if he was just any ordinary business associate. Pleasant, but flat. “I’d heard you were dead.”