Starfall

by Michael Griffo

  “Please, Nap, you have to tell us more,” Archie pleads. “That’s great that she offers us hope, but why and how and where’d she really come from?”

  I know what Caleb feels like when he watches me speak to Jess, but only sees me conversing with airspace. Archie appears to be begging Arla for facts, when he’s really trying to reach his dead boyfriend. It’s a fact that hits Archie a few moments later.

  He clasps his hands around Arla’s neck in an attempt to strengthen his physical bond to Napoleon. “We need your help, Nap,” he whispers. “Bad stuff is brewing; I can feel it.... I can feel it inside of me. Please help us make it stop.”

  Archie knows. He knows not only that Nadine is conspiring to bring a whole new brand of evil to town, but that he is also capable of unleashing a diabolical force. From the way that he’s peering into Arla’s eyes, desperately trying to reach Nap’s spirit, it’s clear that Archie has come to understand what I already know, that he isn’t in complete control of choosing which side of the moral ground to play on. Until he notices Jess.

  Ever since Archie, Arla, and Nap entered the room, Jess’s light started to grow brighter. I’m not sure why. Could be because she was excited to see old friends or because there were more old friends who could actually see her.

  “Jess!” Archie suddenly shouts. He’s so excited to see his old friend that he lets go of Arla. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  Breakthrough! If Archie can see Jess, that must mean that he’s choosing light over dark. Maybe he’s finally made the right choice.

  Not so fast.

  “Nothing is as simple as it appears.”

  I don’t see Arla lean in to me, so all I hear is Nap’s voice speaking softly in my ear, calling out to me from beyond the grave, from some fringe world, from some place that’s as far away as Jess’s new hometown, but also just a whisper away. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know; he’s just telling me something I don’t want to believe.

  I don’t want to accept the fact that Archie may be going down a path that only leads to destruction and pain and horror and from which there’s no way to return. He’s already started walking, that I know, but he can turn around; he can come back; he can be saved. He just has to be! When will I learn that I don’t know everything?

  “Not everyone can be saved, Dom,” Jess adds. “Not everyone can make the right choice.”

  “Shut up!”

  Archie’s words slam into our ears, the cushion on the walls doing nothing to soften the sound.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about!” he continues. “Neither do you, Nap!”

  He pushes Arla so hard that she stumbles back, right through Jess and right into Caleb’s arms.

  “Winter!” Caleb shouts. “Take it easy.”

  I want to look away, but I can’t. I have to stare at Archie standing at a crossroads, one foot on either side of a very thin line. I think Archie can see it too, because he looks down at his feet, fascinated by the floor. Then again he might just be bending his head so I can see the dark roots that still litter his scalp, roots that have their origin at the tips of his soul. When he looks up I gasp, not out of terror, but relief, because his eyes are still violet; they haven’t changed. That’s one thing to be thankful for. More company in our cramped space is not.

  “My, my, this closet is very crowded.”

  Surrounded by my friends, I have obviously become more girl than wolf, because my predatory senses should have picked up another intruder, yet I’m as surprised as everyone else to see Vera standing in front of the closed door. Is she like Jess? Can she walk through walls? Is she like Archie and just really good at picking a lock?

  “The string on my violin broke,” she announces. “I need a new one.”

  Or am I letting my imagination run wild?

  “A violin playing scientist,” Caleb remarks. “That’s quite a combination.”

  Slowly, Vera raises her hand and with her index finger brushes her hair aside and then over and behind her ear. Her silky blond hair is tucked neatly away to expose a glittering earring that shines like starlight. Her blue eyes are shimmering, and her lips have lengthened to form a sly smile. Individually, these acts are simple and innocent and natural; together they create a message.

  “You must be Caleb,” Vera purrs.

  “He’s my boyfriend,” I say as if I’m claiming ownership.

  “Oh I know who he is,” Vera replies.

  “Well, that makes one of us,” my boyfriend says brazenly.

  “There’s so much more to me than music and lab reports, Caleb,” Vera responds. “One day I’ll have to fill you in on all things Vera.”

  Make that a warning. Instinctively, I know that Vera’s as musical as I am. She came here to let us know that she knows that we’re discussing her, but she doesn’t seem upset about it; in fact she seems thrilled that she’s the center of our conversation. It’s, unfortunately, a conversation that has become repetitive. We still don’t know anything more about Vera, other than the fact that she’s connected to Nadine. Until she’s about to leave.

  As she turns back around, Vera’s hair whips around and slices the air like a blond knife. “And even though yellow is such a hard color to wear, Jess, you pull it off really well.”

  Smirking more than smiling, Vera opens the door and leaves us speechless. Whatever she is—human, witch, spirit—she’s rendered us mute and shocked and confused. Jess, Arla, Archie, and I—the Omikami, the possessed, the evil-good hybrid, and the werewolf—defenseless against the snickering ice princess. Four supernatural creations stunned into inaction by Vera’s unexpected presence and calculated words. Prince Caleb is the only one not affected by Vera’s mystery.

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  Chapter 13

  Leave it to the human to save the day.

  My boyfriend’s plan is sheer brilliance, combining the mundane with the mysterious, science with the supernatural, and the outcome of his clever scheme will hopefully shed light on some dark matter, namely Vera’s origin and her true connection to Luba and the family Jaffe. The only problem is that a key element to making his plan work is involving every member of the family Robineau, the living, the dead, and the in-between.

  “I’m not a hundred percent comfortable using Barnaby,” I state.

  I take a deep breath of Caleb’s new cologne, citrusy and breezy and soft; this must be his college smell. Luckily, he feels the complete opposite. He’s strong and grounded and secure.

  “I know you want to keep Barnaby safe,” Caleb says. “But we’re not doing anything that he wouldn’t be doing on his own.”

  “Just placing him closer to the danger zone,” I remind him.

  “Where his actions can be more closely monitored,” my prince replies.

  Exhaling slowly, I realize that Caleb has a point. My brother is going to be seventeen soon. I can always treat him like my little brother, but it’s time I stopped treating him like a child. Even when he acts like one.

  “That’s feeb.”

  My brother scored points this morning for being perceptive when I set out to put Caleb’s plan into action, but lost just as many for being uncooperative.

  “So I’m Feeb Girl,” I replied. “But it doesn’t change things. It’s still their anniversary.”

  My parents would have been married twenty years today, a milestone anniversary, and one that shouldn’t go unrecognized simply because neither of them are in any condition to celebrate. Their children can raise a nonalcoholic glass of champagne in their honor at their mother’s bedside, right before one of them has to be tutored by a possibly paranormal professor-in-training. Caleb’s plan is to get Vera to come to The Retreat so she can have a session with Luba before she has a session with Barnaby. When I told Vera earlier about the change of venue, she was fine with it; Barnaby’s the one giving me a hard time.

  “We can go to The Retreat tomorrow,” he offered. “It’s Saturday. We can party all day if you want
to. It isn’t like Mom’s going to know the difference.”

  Usually I’m a big fan of irreverence, but not when it screws up the master plan.

  “You know she’ll know,” I say, securing my newly appointed position as Feeb Girl. “Family occasions and especially anniversaries were very special to her; she loved throwing parties whether it was for really special days or just lame events. Dad said she would always bake a pineapple upside-down cake to commemorate their first date because Dad had promised to take her to Hawaii one day and they have pineapples in Hawaii. He never took her, but every year she reminded him that he broke his promise to her, which is what married couples and family members do—they remind each other of their shortcomings.”

  Sometimes when I ramble I actually listen to myself and hear the kernels of inspiration.

  “Which is what you and Vera can have,” I teased.

  “I don’t like pineapple.”

  Obviously, Barnaby zoned out during my rambling.

  “No!” I shout. “It’ll give you and Vera a chance to spend time in a different setting, get to know each other, you know, on a more personal level. Kind of like a date.”

  What?!

  Barnaby shouted that word at the same time it echoed throughout the inner lining of my brain. I’ve proposed to set up my brother with a girl who could turn out to be a she-devil, and the thought was just as disturbing to him as it was to me. But why? Despite the fact that she could be hiding hooves under her Mary Janes, Vera’s really pretty in that sophisticated, borderline snobby, unapproachable way that is thoroughly enticing to boys Barnaby’s age.

  “My relationship with Vera is strictly professional!” Barnaby railed.

  I’ve learned to read the subtext of my brother’s dialogue, so his comment can mean only one thing. Barnaby may be a red-blooded American boy, but one whose hormones are pointed in the direction of other red-blooded American boys. How did I not see this before? He’s just like Archie. He has no desire to go on a date with Vera because he’s gay.

  “Besides, I already have a girlfriend,” he added.

  Or because I’m a complete idiot who not only doesn’t know that her brother is straight, but that he’s already acting on his straightness.

  “You do not!” I shouted.

  “I do too!” Barnaby shouted back.

  “Since when?!”

  “Since the summer!”

  Barnaby’s had a girlfriend since the summer and this is the first time I’m finding out about it? Baby brother definitely is no longer a baby, but somebody else is calling him “baby,” and I need to know who that person is, pronto!

  “You what?! When? How?” I stammered and then finally added, “Who?!”

  “Gwen,” he replied proudly.

  “Gwenevere Schültzenhoggen?” I say. “You’re dating Gwenevere Schültzenhoggen?”

  Barnaby, clearly not thrilled with my shocked, high-pitched tone, crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “Yes, Gwen is my girlfriend.”

  “Gwen is also two inches taller than you are!” I countered.

  “Five when she wears high heels,” Barnaby said, as if that fact was something to put in the happy column.

  “And she’s a senior and you’re a junior,” I said. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I’m dating up!” he cried. “I don’t care how old or tall Gwen is. I really like her, and she really likes me, and really, Dominy, how superficial can you be?”

  Very!

  I should be thourathrilled that Barnaby is dating a nice human girl like Gwen and not remotely interested in anything Vera can offer him except scientific data, but there’s a part of me that isn’t. I like Gwen; I just don’t think she’s right for my brother. Then again, I’m sure Caleb’s sisters wouldn’t choose me for their girlfriend-in-law if they knew my secret. Actually, this is a much better scenario, because when I stop thinking like a lifelong member of the Shallow Hall of Fame, I’ll realize that Barnaby will be nothing but a pawn in Caleb’s plan like we originally thought and not a willing participant. Let the manipulation begin!

  Now that we’re at The Retreat, I expected to feel a pang of guilt or anxiety or nervousness, but nothing. All I feel is eager. It’s sort of a foolhardy feeling, since none of my plans ever work out the way I think they will, so gauging by my track record this plan will undoubtedly crash and burn as well. But maybe since this scheme wasn’t my brainchild, only the recipient of my stamp of approval, odds are greater that we’ll succeed. When I see Elkie I’m reminded that things don’t always work out the way you hope they will.

  No matter how many times I see her sitting behind Essie’s old receptionist’s desk, it’s always a shock. Although the resemblance is uncanny, the personalities couldn’t be further apart. Unable to deal with looking at a woman who looks just like another woman who’s buried in a graveyard, Barnaby doesn’t even need me to tell him to wait for me in our mother’s room. He races right down the Hallway to Nowhere and doesn’t stop until he’s safely inside Room 19. I have my own agenda to meet.

  “Hi, Elkie.”

  “Your brother knows I’m not one of the living dead, right?” she asks.

  “He’s at that awkward age,” I semi-lie. “Emotionally volatile, but verbally stunted, he’s got a lot he wants to say, just doesn’t know how to say it.”

  Tossing her head back, Elkie scrutinizes me for a second before speaking. “Which is not a problem you seem to have. What do you want to know?”

  She might look like her twin, but she doesn’t act like her. Except for during the early years when I was very young, Essie ignored me, didn’t even know I was standing in front of her sometimes unless I ripped the celebgazine out of her hands. Maybe it’s because during their embryonic stage Elkie sucked out all the insight and inquiry from their parents’ DNA and left Essie with just enough curiosity to focus on pretty pictures of starlets. Whatever the reason, Elkie knows I’ve come here today to do more than commemorate a special anniversary.

  “Is Luba in her room?” I ask.

  “She hasn’t left since you called here this morning,” Elkie replies.

  There goes my career as an impressionist!

  “You knew that was me on the phone asking for Luba?” I ask dejectedly.

  “Excuse me, madam, but could I trouble you for information regarding one of your patients?” Elkie replies, repeating my earlier phone dialogue.

  If my British accent were as good as Elkie’s, there’s no way she would have known it was me! Ah well, I had to make sure Luba was here, otherwise there would’ve been no plan to plan. When I see Vera walk through the front door, it’s time to set the plan into motion.

  Another one of Elkie’s traits that Essie didn’t possess is her ability to remain calm even when she knows danger is a breath away. Like now.

  “Hi, Vera,” I say.

  “Hi, Dominy,” she replies. Clearly Vera changed after school because she’s wearing a tight-fitting emerald green cashmere sweater, tight-fitting corduroy capris, the color of a dandelion, and brown shoe-boots with a thick, but high heel. Buh-bye, Mary Janes; hello, va-va-va-Vera.

  Without missing a beat or breaking her stride, she walks right up to Elkie and extends her hand. “I’m Vera, but you already know that.”

  I almost miss her comment because I’m so in awe of her surprisingly fashionable fashion sense, but then it dawns on me: Why would Vera think that?! Does she suspect that we were talking about her? Does she know she’s about to walk into a trap?

  Reacting to my deer-in-the-headlights expression, Vera clarifies. “You just mentioned my name.”

  Oh right! Clearly I’m more nervous than I thought. Unlike Elkie.

  “Very nice to meet you, Vera,” Essie’s twin replies. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Before Elkie guesses my intent and says anything that might warn Vera to turn right around and leave, I grab Vera’s arm and practically pull her away from the desk. “Let’s go find Barnaby.”

  “See you late
r, Elkie,” Vera says as we turn the corner.

  It isn’t until we’re standing in front of Room 48, Luba’s room, that I realize no one mentioned Elkie’s name in Vera’s presence. Add psychic to her growing list of talents. Along with Lubattacker. Because the moment Luba sets eyes on Vera, it’s as if she’s been assaulted.

  “Luba,” Vera says. “It’s about time that we met face-to-face.”

  Vera isn’t at all surprised. It’s as if she expected to be brought to see Luba instead of my brother. Either she’s very good at reading minds or predicting the future or a little bit of both.

  “Thank you, Dominy, for making the arrangements,” Vera adds. “I knew you would be so helpful to me. Isn’t she helpful, Luba?”

  Looking at Luba is like looking at the polar opposite of Vera. Where one is calm and cordial and controlled, the other is stunned and sickened and scared. The woman who cursed me, the woman who has the power to turn into a mangy beast and fly through the air and harness a star’s power, is frightened. Most of her body is rigid except for her left hand; the three fingers from which I’ve seen angry, black smoke rocket out are shaking, quivering slightly, not as a result of some physical malady, but out of fear of being in Vera’s presence. And when Vera speaks, Luba’s condition gets worse, no matter how hard she tries to retain her strength.

  “You look like you’ve lost twenty years, Luba,” Vera remarks. “Or acquired the spirit of a seventeen-year-old.”

  I don’t know who’s more astounded by that statement: Luba or me. How does Vera know about Rayna? If she knows that the triumvirate sucked the life out of Rayna and funneled it into Luba’s then-decrepit shell of a body, restoring her youth and vigor and beauty, what else does Vera know? Or more accurately, what else does she know that Luba doesn’t?

  “Did Nadine tell you I came to town?” Vera asks, knowing full well that the answer is a big fat no.

  When Luba opens her mouth, I expect a trail of black ooze to fly out and wrap itself around Vera’s throat or splatter into her eyes, viciously blinding her, but the only thing that emerges is a weak sound, the slightest intake of breath, that makes an even more powerful impact because it’s so unexpected. I have never seen Luba this meek.