The Stolen Twin

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  The Stolen Twin

  By Michele Pariza Wacek

  The Stolen Twin Copyright © 2015 by Michele Pariza Wacek.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a review. For information, address Michele Pariza Wacek, PO Box 10430 Prescott, AZ 86304.

  This book may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please email

  info@michelepw.com.

  ISBN 9780996826020

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015917800

  DEDICATION

  To my mom, who I know is smiling down at me right now (and probably saying to my grandparents “it’s about time”) and my dad (who has already told me “it’s about time”). Thank you both for believing in me and encouraging me.

  Chapter 1

  My life has been dominated by two dreams.

  In the first, I see my twin sister Cat at seven, the last time I ever saw her. She is all pink and golden – hair hanging in yellow ringlets, dancing blue eyes, rosy cheeks. She is beautiful, my sister. Light, sweet, charming. My opposite.

  My father is pulling her as she sits in a little red wagon, laughing and waving. They’re in a wild, grassy field. Birds are twittering, crickets chirping. A butterfly flits by. Gently swaying grasses and colorful wildflowers brush against her, stroking her soft skin, loving her. She laughs and caresses their long, flowing stems.

  But there is more in this field than plants, insects and birds. Fairies live here too – although they usually hide when people walk by with their heavy crushing footsteps, unnatural smells and callous voices. My father, plowing through with bent back and plodding footsteps, sends them cringing and scurrying away as well.

  But then they hear the tinkling sound of my sister’s laughter.

  Peeking from behind brown-eyed Susan’s and pebbles, they see Cat in the wagon, clutching a dandelion in her fist, rubbing the yellow petals against her face. She astonishes them, seduces them, hypnotizes them. They’ve never seen anything like her before. Gradually, they creep out and move closer. Cat virtually sparkles in the sunlight, bright and shining. As she catches sight of the fairies, she laughs and blows them kisses.

  The fairies, now completely under her spell, swarm over to her, nuzzling her face, soft arms, slender neck. She smiles, touching them back – fingers grazing over delicate wings not much more substantial than a cobweb.

  More fairies emerge as my father guides her deeper into the field. The grasses become thicker, taller. The fairies cling to the blades, reaching their tiny hands out to caress Cat as she drifts by.

  Finally, the queen herself comes forward, tall and majestic. She wears a dress made from white tulips and daffodils, sparkling with dewdrops. Her long, silky, golden hair is entwined with white daisies. Large green eyes peer out from under her mass of hair. Her face is cold, all sharp angles and pale skin, but beautiful.

  “This is the one,” the queen says, her voice like breaking glass.

  Cat looks up, fairies tangled in her hair. She blinks as her gaze meets that of the queen’s. They stare at each other, each mesmerized by the other. Then, slowly, the queen reaches down and gathers my sister into her arms. The fairies dart out of the way, hovering above them like a cloud of gnats. The queen turns, Cat cuddled in her arms, and they disappear, vanishing into the thick grass.

  My father pulls the wagon a few seconds longer before realizing something is wrong. Seeing Cat missing, he drops to the ground and begins searching fruitlessly through the grass. “Cat,” he yells over and over. “Cat, come back. Come back!”

  Nothing answers him, not even a chirp from a bird. He cries her name over and over, begging her to come back, while the fairies croon over their newest prize.

  My second dream is completely opposite - much like the difference between Cat and me. It begins with me and my parents in the car. We’re going to Milwaukee to visit my grandparents, but suddenly my parents take a detour. We drive down an old country road filled with potholes and thirsty cracks. My chest begins to take on a familiar heaviness.

  We’re at a church, a white country church with a tall steeple and an elaborate stained glass etching of Mary and Jesus in the manger. A bell rings, deep and melodious. I’m having trouble breathing.

  We walk to the graveyard behind the church, my parents in front of me, talking quietly, ignoring me (as usual). The bell continues to ring, the sound growing louder, echoing in the stillness. I stumble, trying desperately to breathe, to draw air through lungs now shrunken into a tight ball of twine. I need my inhaler, but don’t know where it is.

  My parents continue to ignore me. I gasp and start to fall, but now I’m floating, floating, toward the graveyard. All I can hear is the tolling of the bell. I can’t breathe at all. My lungs burn, a bright fireball in my chest. This is it, I realize. This is the end. This is where I die.

  I wake then, gasping and reaching for my inhaler. As uncomfortable as it is, I prefer it to the hot tears and heavy sick feeling that follows the fairy dream. Cat is the chosen one. I’m the disappointment.

  These were the dreams that dominated my life. If I had other ones, I never remembered them. Only these two. I never told a soul about my dreams – they were my penance, my burden, my personal hell.

  Until the day Cat came back, turning my life into something worse than any nightmare I ever could have imagined.

  Chapter 2

  I was busy admiring my gun when the voice of Brandi, my roommate, floated toward me.

  “Kit, a Halloween party generally takes place in October.”

  “Almost ready.”

  I holstered the gun and took one last look in the mirror. Not bad for something thrown together in an afternoon. A short brown cashmere skirt, fringed leather vest, white shirt, tall brown high-heeled boots and cowboy hat. The perfect cowgirl. None of the browns matched, but that just added to the overall ragtag charm.

  My hair I left loose – it hung like a black curtain almost down to the middle of my back. Normally, I wore only blush and lipstick to add color to my pale complexion, but tonight I went all out, dabbing on eye shadow and liner. My dark brown eyes were such a contradiction to my colorless skin, I often felt like a waif out of a Dickens’ novel.

  I took one final glance, then scooped up my purse. Yes, I definitely liked this costume. Especially the gun.

  I found Brandi in her immaculate bedroom, poking at her hair. The rich, musky scent of her expensive perfume drifted toward me. Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “You make me sick.”

  I did a little pirouette. “I didn’t think I looked that good.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like I believe that.” She adjusted the pale gold scarves on her harem outfit.

  “I thought you wanted to get going.”

  “I do. The cab will be in here in a sec.”

  “Cab? The party is two blocks from here.”

  “Two long blocks. It’s windy and I don’t want my costume blowing away.”

  Typical Brandi. Rich and liked to flaunt it. “Is Martha coming?”

  Brandi snorted. “The mole? Hello. Are we talking about the same person here? It’s past her bedtime.”

  Martha was our third roommate, nicknamed “the mole” by Brandi because she lived in the downstairs bedroom. Our original roommate, Martha’s cousin Elena, had moved out of her sorority house and into o
ur apartment for the sole purpose of seeing her boyfriend more. After three weeks, she decided she would rather live with her boyfriend than us. Because she didn’t want her parents to know, we kept her name on the answering machine. As a consolation prize, she offered us Martha.

  “She’s really very nice, very sweet, no trouble at all,” Elena had insisted. “She’s a little strange, but harmless, really.”

  “Harmless?” Brandi had replied. “You make her sound like a would-be serial killer.”

  Elena laughed nervously. “No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. She – just – she has a little trouble finding people to live with her. Nothing else. She’s really quite sweet.”

  Brandi rolled her eyes at the second time the word “sweet” fell from Elena’s mauve-colored lips. A former beauty queen, Elena had a tendency to call everyone sweet.

  In the end, what we wanted didn’t really matter. Elena needed someone to take over her share of the rent and Martha needed a place to stay. So three days later, we found ourselves living with our new roommate. Our new, very odd roommate.

  “It IS Halloween,” I said. “You’d think she might have something to do.”

  Brandi rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I think I saw her wearing some sort of costume today. She had on all black and her face was dead white. Oh, that’s right. That’s the way she always looks.” She swept her purse off the rose-colored bedspread. “We’re out of here.”

  As usual, Brandi looked fabulously seductive in her harem outfit. The thin, silky material strained at her ample breasts, yet still managed to minimize her rounded hips and thighs. Her dark brown hair glowing with blond highlights was piled on top of her head, emphasizing her high cheekbones, pouty lips and huge hazel eyes. I know my thinness bothered her, but in my opinion, I had nothing on her. Men spent more time gazing at her curves than they ever did mine.

  She looked sideways at me from under her lashes. “I like your gun.”

  “Thanks. I do too.”

  “Planning to do away with Tommy?”

  “If only.”

  We both laughed. Brandi shook her head. “Yeah, I know if I had the quarterback and captain of Riverview’s winning football team drooling over me, the first thing I would do is reach for his gun. Oops, I meant my gun.”

  “Yeah, I bet you did.”

  She opened the door to the apartment, letting in a gust of cold wind. “Girl, you need your head examined. You do know that, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t do commitments. He wanted to get serious. I wanted to have fun. Had no choice.”

  She shut the door behind us and locked it. “Fun. You’re talking to the queen of fun. You’re a complete idiot.”

  “And that’s why you broke up with Ted, is it? Or maybe it’s Fred? Gee, I can’t remember the last one.”

  “Don’t get cute, sister. We’re comparing a bunch of losers to the football god.”

  I rolled my eyes. She shook her head again, her smile exasperated.

  We hurried to the cab, the wind sporting a knife-edge that turned it from crisp to cold. The air smelled of dead and dying things – leaves, plants, insects – and a touch of snow. I shivered. I hated fall. It felt like death to me. Cold, rotting death.

  A hint of moisture brushed my cheek. Brandi licked her lips. “Crap. It’s probably going to rain.”

  “It always rains on Halloween. You know that. Besides, what do you care? We’re in a cab.”

  She settled in the car. “And you doubted.”

  “Never again.”

  Brandi smiled and told the driver our destination. I sat back as she straightened her outfit. “How do I look?”

  “Hot enough to kill.”

  “Perfect.” Her eyes narrowed. “Chuck better be there.”

  “I’m sure Chuck and Violet both will be there.”

  She glared at me. “Don’t even go there.”

  I merely smiled and looked out the window.

  By the time we arrived, the frat house was packed. An INXS song boomed throughout the house -- apparently it was an eighties Halloween party. Beer and shots flowed freely, mixed with the scent of cigarettes, perfume, sweat and the faint, but unmistakable sweet aroma of pot. I headed for the keg.

  A few beers later, someone I barely knew dragged me into a strange drinking game. I appeared to be the loser since I ended up consuming shot after shot. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore and decided to stumble off to the bathroom. I lurched to my feet, swaying, the world tipping, and wobbled across the room and into the hallway.

  A line. Of course there would be a line. There would always be a line at a party like this. I groaned, wishing I hadn’t waited until using the bathroom had become something of an emergency. At least it was quieter in the hall - the brown paneled, stained walls muffling everything but the thudding bass and drums of AC/DC’s “Shook Me All Night Long.”

  A woman wearing an angel costume stood in front of me, her wings brushing my face. Clumsily I knocked them away.

  The woman turned. “Sorry,” she said and smiled.

  I smiled back. “No problem.”

  Someone in a sexy witch costume stumbled into me, giggling, her breath stinking of Jack Daniels and tequila. “Oops,” she said and started to hiccup. I stepped closer to the angel. The witch collapsed against the wall. “I have to pee so bad,” she hiccupped.

  The angel continued to study me, her eyes a clear sky blue. Golden wavy curls framed a face made up of delicate features and creamy skin. She looked like a porcelain doll.

  “That angel costume suits you,” I said, unable to drag my eyes away from her almost unworldly beauty. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think of who.

  She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Angel?”

  I blinked. No, not an angel. It was a fairy costume, pink and fluffy. “Oh, you’re right. Fairy. Pretty cool.”

  Behind me, the witch groaned and slid to the brown tiled floor. “I don’t feel so well,” she mumbled between hiccups.

  The fairy tilted her head and smoothed her dress. Even under the dim hallway lights, it sparkled. “Yes, it is.”

  She seemed so familiar, especially the soft, fluid way she moved. The hiccups behind me turned to retching. I smelled the faint odor of vomit. People started yelling about taking care of another sick one. I stumbled closer to the fairy, trying to focus my blurry vision. “What’s your name?”

  She tossed her hair. “Cat.”

  I staggered, nearly falling. “Cat? My sister’s name was Cat.”

  Cat smiled again, showing white, even teeth. “Short for Catherine I’ll bet.”

  “No, short for Catalina. Can you believe it? Is that even a name? It always sounded like a car to me.”

  “Really? I’m a Catalina too.” Her smile widened.

  The world unexpectedly tilted sharply to the left. I put my hand against the wall. “No way. Actually, now’d you say it, you look a little like her. Actually, you look a lot like her. At least I think she’d look like that, I mean you, now. I haven’t seen her for awhile.”

  She cocked her head. “Why not?”

  “She’s been gone, kidnapped. When I was seven. She was seven too, we were twins.” A part of me couldn’t believe the words tumbling out of my mouth. I so rarely talked about my past, but somehow it felt right telling her.

  She reached up and twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “Maybe she was kidnapped by the fairies.”

  I gasped, the corners of my vision turning black. “Why … how … why would you say that?”

  She leaned forward, almost touching me, her blue eyes so clear, so direct. “It’s the dreams, isn’t it, Kitrina? The dreams of the fairy queen. And the dreams of the church. Where you die.”

  The alcohol in my system turned to ice. My brain went numb. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. “My name,” I stut
tered, the only thing I could grab onto in this sea of unreality spinning around me. “How did you know my name?” Even my fingers were cold and unresponsive. Blackness roared in my ears. I blinked to steady myself, but all I could see was the blue of her eyes, like an anchor in an ocean of madness.

  Ignoring my question, she leaned even closer, so close I could breathe in her scent. She smelled wild, free, a combination of fresh-cut grasses, wildflowers and the bitter cold wind of Halloween night. So different from the smoke, liquor and sweat of the party. “Listen to me, Kitrina. There’s danger here, lurking in the shadows. It hasn’t seen you yet, but it will. Tonight. It’ll seize you in its jaws and never let you go, unless you can stop it. You must be strong, stronger than you’ve ever been in your entire life, if you are to prevail. And prevail you must, for there’s more here at stake than you can possibly imagine. The innocent depend on you. You must save the innocent, because by saving the innocent you save yourself. It’s the only way you can set yourself free.”

  She drifted back. Her pink dress shimmered in the half-light, twinkling like a thousand stars. The wings fluttered, suddenly looking real. Living and breathing, their touch as soft and insubstantial as cobwebs. Actually, the dress seemed alive too, alive and glowing and winking at me in the dimness.

  She smiled, her face golden and glowing. “Don’t be afraid, Kit. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

  Blackness swamped me. I closed my eyes, thrust back to a time when I was six, taking swimming lessons at the YMCA, before my sickness, before Cat disappeared. Cat, as usual, had jumped in, fearless and tough. But I had hung back, terrified of the water, at the loss of control. The teacher tried to reason with me, but that just made it worse. I shook my head and flattened myself against the wall. The idea of water covering me, holding me down, keeping me from breathing, petrified me. That fear was so strong I could taste it in my mouth, coppery and thick, mixed with the sharp chemical scent of chlorine. Cat, seeing my plight, hoisted her tiny body out of the pool and ran to my side, nearly slipping on the slick surface. She took my hand and squeezed it. “Don’t be afraid, Kit,” she said in her authoritative voice, so odd in a six-year-old, yet somehow so comforting. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”