Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  Roses. Death.

  A high pitched giggle.

  “It’s so pretty!” Grace laughed.

  Chucky’s talons dug deeper, pricking me.

  I jerked my hand away.

  Chucky had shredded the towels but had only lightly scraped my skin in places.

  What. Was. Up?!

  Lucy panted, eyes glistening, staring at me.

  “Well? What did you hear? Anything?” She licked her lips.

  I shook my head. Baffled. “I honestly can’t say, Luce. I heard Grace . . . laugh. Like she was super excited about something. She said, ‘It’s so pretty!’ She didn’t sound distressed, and she clearly didn’t reply to us. It makes no sense.”

  Lucy’s bottom lip trembled and she turned away, swiping at her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, Luce.” My shoulders sagged. “I wish I knew what was up. Let me think about it for a moment.”

  She waved a hand at me. “I-It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I just wish I knew where Grace was.” Sorrow. Fear.

  Lucy turned away and walked over to the windows, staring out at the setting sun. She wrapped her hands around her upper arms, as if to shield herself.

  I pulled the shredded towels off my arm and grabbed my glove, pulling it on.

  “Help me talk this through, Lucy. Grace didn’t seem like she was in trouble. She sounded excited.”

  Lucy sniffed but didn’t turn back to me. “You’re thinking you’re not hearing her real time?”

  Loved my smart girl. “Exactly. I’ve touched the cake pan several times before and haven’t heard Grace. So for many obvious reasons, least of which being that Grace has never been in this apartment, the cake pan isn’t directly connected to her. The fact I’m hearing her now indicates that perhaps I’m picking up the echo of something.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucy turned to face me. An expanse of wood floor and furniture between us.

  “Maybe the objects are all connected.” I swept my arm wide, encompassing the Chucky-fied things on the counter. “What if each time they catch the reflection of something else, it basically creates a portal that Chucky can traverse.”

  “Or there could just be a lot of Chuckies.”

  “That is also a possibility, though each time I encounter him, it feels and smells and sounds the same.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what if the linking also connects objects together?”

  “So you could be hearing Grace’s voice from another linked object?” Lucy angled her head in question. “Has that ever happened?”

  “No, but we’ve already drawn connections between my family’s silver teapot, objects in Roberto’s office and Gruncle Jack’s palazzo. It’s not too much of a stretch from there.”

  Lucy gasped. “The Little Mermaid music box.”

  “Exactly. The item that Roberto gave Grace.”

  “Shiny with a mirror inside—reflective things that could have become infected with Chucky.”

  “Precisely. If the music box were linked too, then I could be hearing noise from it somehow, from Grace’s reaction to it.”

  “It all comes back to Roberto. Do you think he cursed the music box? Chucky-fied it?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “And it makes the bloody handprint on Grace’s dresser even more chilling.” Lucy bit her lip again, trying to control its trembling. “I just need to know Gracie’s okay, Branwell. That’s all. I keep trying to hold on to Tennyson’s vision, but I know he only sees possibilities of the future. Nothing is set in stone.”

  Ah Lucy.

  She stood so resilient but so alone.

  It took everything in me to not cross the room and draw her into my arms. If I did, I might not ever let her go.

  “We’re going to find her, Lucy. Let me text Dante and have him look for Grace again.” I grabbed my phone. “That should give you some peace of mind.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy whispered, rubbing her upper arms again.

  I walked over to the couch and sat down, texting my brother with a gloved finger.

  When I finished, she still stood in the same place, eyes downcast. Obviously wanting comfort but hesitant to intrude. A lump in my throat threatened to choke me. How could I ever deny Lucy anything?

  “Come here.” I scooted sideways on the couch and extended my arm along the back, creating a perfect Lucy-sized space for her to cuddle into.

  She came willingly, sniffling, sagging her entire weight into me—head on my shoulder, knees tucked against my hips, rubbing her nose into my chest.

  I wrapped both arms around her, pulling her close. Ruthlessly ordering my rebellious heart to slow down. Not that it listened.

  I wanted to drag her onto my lap and kiss her until all tears had fled.

  But that wasn’t going to help this situation. And Lucy needed more than a libido-driven brain right now.

  So I merely held her, running a hand up and down her back, murmuring comforting sounds.

  The insistent buzz of my phone ringing startled us both.

  Dante. Calling. Not a good sign.

  I held the phone away from my ear, careful not to touch it to my skin.

  “Pronto,” I answered in Italian, hoping Dante would catch my hint and reply in the same language.

  Lucy sat up, pulling away from me, staring with those blue, blue eyes of hers. Wide and terrified.

  “You’re going to have to tell me what prompted your text.” Dante’s voice sounded agitated, even in Italian. “I looked and Grace is . . . visible.”

  My heart plummeted to the bottom of my feet. “What do you mean . . . visible?”

  Lucy covered her hand with her mouth.

  “Is she dead? Is my Gracie dead?” Panic edged into Lucy’s tone. I knew she couldn’t understand our Italian entirely, but her terror and grief pounded through me.

  I held up a finger, asking for one minute.

  “Just that,” Dante said. “I can see her. Only the tiniest smidge, mind you. She’s not solid—”

  “Okay,” I breathed. “That makes me feel slightly better.”

  Lucy clasped her hands and bounced in her seat. So anxious.

  I shot her a weak smile to indicate that Grace might be okay.

  “She’s wispy. Like the faintest outline of a ghost. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Except for Jack?”

  “Yeah. Jack looked similar, but he was less wispy than Grace. He was more ghost-like. Grace is even more faint. Just barely visible.”

  A pause while I absorbed everything.

  “Jack died two hundred years ago. This makes no sense. How can a little girl be just a wispy bit dead?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What is going on, Dante? Is your GUT morphing too, making you see things differently now? It’s like the entire supernatural world decided to short circuit.”

  “I know, bro. I’m with you. I don’t know that we can make assumptions about anything anymore. I’m sick for that little girl. How’s Lucy?”

  I looked at her. She was still clasping her hands under her chin, tears streaming down her face.

  “Lei non sta bene,” I whispered, never once breaking eye contact with Lucy. She’s not doing well. “She’s hanging in there as best she can. She’s fighting to stay positive.”

  “I’m with her. Call me later so you can fill me in. I’ll keep checking on Grace to make sure she doesn’t get more solid on us.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  I hung up and tossed my phone on the couch.

  Lucy collapsed onto my chest, crying.

  “He s-saw her, d-didn’t he?” She hiccupped, huddling against me, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Shhh, Lucy. Yes, Dante saw her, but she’s super wispy and faint.”

  Lucy cried harder and harder. “N-no! No!” she gasped. “T-Tennyson had that vision . . . Grace has to be okay—”

  I gave up fighting my instincts. Wrapping my arms fully around her, I pulled Lucy completely onto my lap, cradling her against my c
hest. One arm bracketing her waist, the other stroking her hair.

  And still she cried. Her heart breaking. Despair and grief crashed through me.

  “Hush, cara.” I kissed the top of her head. “I wouldn’t draw definite conclusions. Dante and I are starting to wonder if something isn’t up with our GUTs. There are just too many unusual things going on here. Don’t you dare lose hope.”

  I pulled back and used my teeth to yank my glove off my right hand, desperate to touch her, to feel. I threaded my palm into her hair, massaging her scalp. Anything to bring her comfort.

  “H-hold me,” Lucy pleaded. “Please.”

  I flexed my arms, pulling her a fractional inch closer. Her arms wrapped around my chest, hands fisting into my shirt at the small of my back.

  “Don’t believe Dante, Lucy. He isn’t sure what it means.” I pressed my lips to her head again. Stray red curls lapped at me, sizzling with sensation. “Everything is haywire.”

  Lucy clutched my body, crying, nuzzling her nose into my throat.

  “Shhh, it’s okay. Grace is okay. Trust what Tennyson saw,” I kept whispering. Over and over. Stroking Lucy’s hair, her back, hugging her tight and dropping kisses on her head.

  Every sob and shake of her shoulders was a whip across my heart.

  Sunset faded into twilight, color lethargically melting into the western horizon plunging the sky into blue-black night. Accent lighting popped on, bathing the room in warmth.

  I held her through it all.

  Eventually her sobbing quieted to mere sniffles, shoulders heaving intermittently. She stirred in my tight hold, lifting her head. Blue eyes bloodshot and despondent.

  “We’ll find her. I promise.” My voice low in the dim room.

  “Y-yes,” she hiccupped, sucking in a breath. “We’ll find her.”

  Dispirited sadness rioted through me. But right behind it . . . longing. So much longing.

  A fierce yearning, racing wildfire.

  We stared at each other for a small eternity. Her aqua eyes pools of sorrow, freckles stark against her pale skin, flame hair spilling everywhere. She was an abstract painting—slashes of blue and red dotted with bronze umber. She had never been more beautiful.

  Her gaze dipped south, moving from my eyes to my mouth.

  My breath hitched.

  Gently, she pulled a hand from behind my back and, ever so softly, brushed her fingertips over my lips. Back and forth. Left to right. Feather-light. Tingling with sensation.

  “Luce—” The faintest breath of air.

  All I could manage, really.

  Her name a warning. Or possibly a benediction.

  Yearning swamped me. All mine.

  Her fingers stilled on my lips. Heated. An impossible temptation.

  This woman . . . how could I ever resist her?

  She lifted up. Or did I bend down?

  Lips suddenly replaced fingers.

  Soft. So soft . . . her mouth.

  Salty from her tears. Warm from my chest.

  I trembled. Shaking from the sheer wonder of it.

  I was kissing her. Kissing Lucy.

  Her hand clutched my head, chest rising as she lifted her body to meet mine.

  Part of me floated in wondering bliss.

  The other part screamed to end this. That I needed to pull back before I crossed an unforgivable line.

  But then she pressed into me, pulling me harder to her. Greedy. Hungry. Obliterating my resolve.

  What a fool I had been to think I could deny her anything.

  My arms flexed, intending to haul her even closer and kiss her with proper thoroughness.

  That slight tensing shattered the spell.

  Lucy froze. She jerked back but remained sitting on my lap.

  Her hand instantly left my head, as if burned. She pressed fingertips against her lips, eyes wide and horrified.

  “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “Branwell, I-I didn’t mean to— I just reacted. My emotions . . . and I love you so much . . . I didn’t th-think—”

  She broke off, pushing farther away.

  “Sorry. S-sorry.”

  Lucy scrambled off my lap, shoving a fist against her mouth to stifle her renewed sobs. Running from the room, not seeing my outstretched hand, silently begging her to come back.

  Thirty Two

  Portland, Oregon

  Six years earlier

  Branwell

  Are you seeing the heart in that?” Tennyson tilted his head sideways, watching Lucy photograph a puddle alongside the road.

  I followed his lead, angling my head to the right.

  “It’s hard to say,” I said. “Maybe the sticks floating in the water help?”

  We both studied it for a moment longer. Arms crossed, shoulders leaning against our parked Jeep, waiting for Lucy.

  “Well, I’m sure it will be heart-shaped once Lucy is done with it.” Tennyson smiled. “Lucy never gets this stuff wrong.”

  Lucy took that moment to turn back to us, lopsided smile happy and carefree. My own heart stuttered.

  The sun caught the lettering on her t-shirt.

  Reach for the stars.

  A T-Rex stood in the middle, its tiny arms stretched toward the heavens.

  Yep.

  That pretty much said it all.

  Thirty Three

  Florence, Italy

  2016

  Lucy

  I tore out of the apartment, feet pounding up the stairs, tears tumbling.

  Branwell’s stunned face seared into my memory. Shock. Horror.

  What had I been thinking?

  I hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem.

  My brain was a scrambled mush of emotions and, so, naturally with my guard so weak, I had kissed Branwell.

  Idiot. I was such an imbecile.

  I had to get away before his face morphed from surprise to regret. My heart couldn’t take watching that amazing kiss turn into something awful and shameful in his eyes—the highlight of my life being the lowest point of his.

  For about the thousandth time, I cursed whatever karmic fate had allowed me to fall so in love with him.

  Branwell D’Angelo. The one man who could never be mine.

  I reached the top of the stairs and burst out onto the enormous rooftop terrace. Heat and humidity enveloped me. Night had settled in for real but the flagstones under my feet still released stored sunlight.

  Blinded by tears, I stumbled around an enormous, wisteria-covered pergola and wound my way to the far side of the terrace, collapsing against the railing, facing outward over the cityscape. The enormous dome of the Duomo, Florence’s iconic cathedral, lit up the sky.

  Leaning against the iron railing, I stared sightlessly across the city to the rolling hills beyond. Lights flared upward, obscuring the stars, blurring in my vision.

  I hated the lights at that moment. Cheerful. Full of hope. Sending all their energy into the dark beyond, sure that something would come back to them.

  What did I have?

  Years of a broken relationship with a man I cared about but couldn’t love as deeply as he wished. Nearly as many years desperately loving a different man who could never be mine. A niece who had vanished into thin air and might not even be alive—

  “Lucy.”

  His voice behind me. Deep. Full of . . . some unknown emotion.

  Remorse? Anger? Weariness?

  I choked back another sob. My throat raw and hoarse.

  “I’m s-so sorry, Branwell.” I didn’t turn around. Seeing his face twisted in self-loathing—or even worse, accusation—was beyond my emotional strength. “Please accept my apologies for my behavior. It won’t happen again. I am a terrible friend to abuse your trust like that—”

  “Lucy—”

  I held up a hand, still keeping my back to him. “Please, Branwell,” I pleaded. “I’ll be okay. I just need a little time to pull myself together and stuff all this emotion back where it belongs—”

  “Basta.” Branwell�
��s hand closed over my elbow. Infinitely gentle but decidedly resolute. “Stop it. Please look at me.” He applied pressure to my arm, the gesture asking but not demanding I turn around.

  Swallowing, I pivoted to face him, staring at the second button on his shirt. The one right under the end of his beard. In my peripheral vision, I could see his hands. One on my elbow, the other rising to my face.

  Both bare.

  “Hey.” His palm caressed my cheek. Soft. Pleading. “Lucy, carissima mia, please look at me.”

  What had he just called me?

  My heart stuttered to a stop.

  And then started again, determined to pound a hole through my chest.

  Surely he hadn’t meant that? Right?

  Carissima mia.

  My dearest one.

  My tears suddenly evaporated. My face slowly raised, confusion all over it.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected to see in Branwell’s expression.

  Remorse. Concern. Closed-off determination.

  Instead . . . his eyes . . .

  That last thing I ever expected. All plainly written.

  Stars.

  Love. Adoration. Not a shadow of doubt.

  The shaking started at my knees. I swallowed convulsively.

  “There she is,” he whispered, feathering his fingertips over my lips. “Mia Lucia. My own Lucy.”

  “Branwell—” My voice stopped on a gasp. “I don’t understand. You don’t have to—”

  He laughed, shaking his head. As if I had said something impossibly cute but also incredibly stupid all at once.

  His free hand came up to cup the other side of my head. His skin warm against my cheeks. His thumbs brushed my skin, forcing every nerve to stand at attention.

  “Have to? No. There is nothing of obligation in this, Lucy.”

  Now he was flinging those stars at me. My knees threatened to dissolve into a puddle. I placed both my hands on his chest, steadying my quaking.

  “I need you to promise me something.” His eyes shone with worshipful devotion. Like I was salvation and hosanna.

  I blinked. “Okay. I promise.”

  “You haven’t even heard it yet.” He grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light.

  “Don’t care. Anything you ask, I’ll do.”

  That stopped him for a moment. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”