Hunched over, she walked through the tunnel that connected the entrance of the cave to her final destination, a crypt that was barren except for two items that Edwige herself had brought here: a torch and a coffin.
She added a few twigs and pieces of bark to the torch to keep it lit and shuddered as the fire warmed her face. Turning away from the flames and the unwanted memory of her husband’s murder, she faced the coffin. Even shut tight, the music escaped. Well, Edwige thought, there wasn’t much she could do about that. There really was only so much she could control.
Slowly, tenderly, Edwige opened the coffin. The girl was still there as she had been the last time Edwige visited, her eyes closed, her hands crossed on her chest like the corpse that she was. The only discrepancy was that her mouth was moving, singing softly. Edwige supposed that, to some, the sound could be considered soothing, but it needed to stop, the singing needed to come to an end. “Wake up, lazybones,” Edwige commanded. “It’s time for you to get to work.”
Only when she recognized the voice did Imogene open her eyes and become silent.
chapter 9
Up until her untimely and brutal death, Imogene Minx had been a lucky girl. She was healthy, an independent thinker, and a member of a well-to-do family. Everyone who knew her thought she would live a long and interesting life, not only because of her intelligence and self-assured character, but because the surname, Minx, had become synonymous with success.
It was Imogene’s great-great-great grandfather, Nikolaj, who jump-started her family’s legacy. Early in his career as a furrier he was struggling to survive, living in poverty, until he decided to change his name from Minksoff to the more glamorous, and professionally appropriate, Minx. It proved to be a shrewd decision and soon Nikolaj Minx was the preeminent furrier in all of Imperial Russia, the man every fashionable empress and dowager could not live without. One of those dowagers became so enamored with the charismatic man that she became his wife three months after she became a widow.
While Nikolaj built his business into an empire, his wife, Svetlana, combined her dowry with his profits to create one of the largest arts centers in Russia, the Minx Center for the Performing Arts, which still stands in the heart of St. Petersburg today long after many of its competitors had collapsed. It was there that Imogene made her operatic debut in a production of La Bohème at the age of six. Her mother, Katya, sang the role of Mimi, the ill-fated seamstress who dies of consumption, a role that she played to great acclaim and one that would become her signature, while Imogene appeared as one of the children in the second-act street scenes. Even then, her voice was pitch-perfect, a lilting soprano whose clarity could penetrate a chorus of more powerful and better-trained singers. Katya knew that her daughter had the raw talent needed to become an extraordinary singer, that she possessed a voice that could, if used properly, bring her international renown. But Imogene had other ideas.
One night while they were having their usual postperformance meal of cold chicken and blini with red caviar, Imogene, quite prophetically, told her mother that she wanted to be like Mimi when she grew up.
“Maliysh,” Katya said, “my baby, why would you say such a thing?”
“Because Mimi gets to die young,” Imogene replied. “Before she gets old and ugly.”
Unfortunately, Imogene would be granted her wish. She had escaped death twice, once when Nakano tossed her aside, preferring to take Penry’s life instead, and once when she accidentally killed Jeremiah before he could kill her. However, when she got caught in a tug-of-war between two powerful women, Brania and Edwige, a third reprieve was not granted, and it was Edwige who unwittingly made a six-year-old girl’s wish come true.
When Imogene regained consciousness and noticed no real difference, no drastic physical change, she thought her luck had held out, that she had somehow managed to escape death yet again. Wasn’t her soul supposed to be released from her body; wasn’t she supposed to embark on a journey to heaven, a journey that would transcend mortal limitations? And shouldn’t she be reunited with Penry, her boyfriend, her one and only true love? That’s what the nuns had taught her was supposed to happen; that’s what she had come to expect of death. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to wake up, unable to move but fully aware that she was in a coffin, hear the world around her, hear the rain fall, the birds chirp, and not be able to respond in any way. This just wasn’t right.
After some time, she had come to realize that while she was indeed dead, she was also under Edwige’s control and being held a prisoner, suspended between the realms of her past life and true death. She was trapped within her own body, she felt like one of those people she had read about who were about to undergo surgery and appeared to be anesthesized, but who were completely awake. Mentally she was alive; physically it was as if she were in a coma.
The only ability she did still have, however, was the ability to sing, which is how she spent much of her time. It didn’t show on her face as she sang, but each note made her smile. Maybe it’s because Mama always said that when she sang, it was like hearing an angel rejoice. Maybe if she sang loud enough, Mama would hear her and know that her angel was nearby, know that her angel still looked like her daughter, that she was still alive despite looking like this toy corpse. And so she continued to sing until, of course, Edwige told her to stop.
Now, as she stood outside of St. Florian’s, she could smell the roses. The scent was sweet, but powerful, and wafted down from the window on the second floor. It was a scent that consumed her with fear, the same aroma that had filled Jeremiah’s apartment and she knew that somewhere in Michael and Ronan’s dorm room, there was a vase filled with white roses. Had she complete control of her body, Imogene would have turned and run as far away as possible, far from the smell and the violent memory, but Edwige had given her a command, a task, and she was unable to resist.
She told her body to rise and it did, not stopping until she was able to look through the window and see the boys asleep in their bed. Looking down, she saw her feet standing on air, the snow-covered ground two stories below, and she couldn’t help but be amazed by her power. I don’t know how I’m doing this, she thought, but it’s really impressive.
When she raised her arm, the window opened as if the two were one. Once again she was impressed with her new gifts, but quickly admiration turned to fear. The sweet scent of roses swept passed her, through her, making her relive that terrible night, making her feel Jeremiah’s grip, his desire to destroy her. No! She would not give in. She had survived his attempt to kill her and she would survive this. Closing her eyes to defend herself against the fragrance that rushed toward her, Imogene thought of happier times, the night of the Archangel Festival, Penry, kissing Penry, shopping with Phaedra. It was working; she was breathing easier; her thoughts were replacing the harsh memories.
And then she heard the rain.
Opening her eyes, she saw the rain fall all around her. She couldn’t feel the drops, but she could smell them. The rain’s fresh scent was combating the smell of the roses and she knew that it was no coincidence. The rain had been sent to help her, to help her regain her strength, her sanity, so she could fulfill her duty. When she was inside the room and saw the vase filled with a bouquet of white roses on the end table next to the boys’ bed, her body didn’t falter, her voice didn’t waver, she kept singing, softly but firmly, calling out to Michael, urging him to rise.
There’s that song again, Michael thought, still dreaming. How wonderful, the meadowlark has finally returned. But when he awoke, when he opened his eyes to greet one old friend, he was amazed to see another. He blinked his eyes several times, thinking that he was still caught in a dream, but she wouldn’t go away, the apparition didn’t fade. What was Imogene doing at the foot of his bed singing, floating in the air like a marionette connected by invisible strings to some higher power?
“Hello, Michael.”
In the midst of this fantastic occurrence the only thought t
hat popped into Michael’s head was a practical one: How can she sing and talk at the same time?
“You need to come with me.”
What was going on? He wasn’t scared by his friend’s presence, just really curious. What was Imogene doing here? He turned to look at Ronan, hoping he would have some answers, but saw that he was still asleep, totally unaware that they had a visitor. How could he sleep? How could he not hear that music? The sound was filling up the room.
“Because I’ve only come for you.”
And now she can read my mind? Michael sat up in bed and fought the urge to shake Ronan, to wake him up so he could share in this incredible experience, to let him know that after all this time, Imogene had returned. But even though he didn’t understand what was happening, he intuitively understood that this vision was meant only for his eyes.
The singing stopped, but when Imogene spoke again, her lips still did not move. “I have something to show you.”
Quietly, Michael got out of bed and followed Imogene as she floated toward the window. She looked the same and yet something wasn’t right, something about her made his heart ache. Her hair was still so black that the light from the moon made it shine blue in some places. It still fell just below her chin, her bangs cut straight across her forehead. Her skin looked as unblemished and pale as Michael remembered, her eyes—yes, that was it! Her eyes were still black, but instead of being inquisitive and alert, they were dull, devoid of any life whatsoever. Imogene extended her hand to Michael and when he grabbed it and felt the chill travel from her fingers up his arm, his fears were confirmed. Imogene was dead.
Before he could contemplate how she had died or why she had come back for him, he was thrust through some sort of tunnel, the wind billowing on both sides of him, echoing noisily in his ears, the landscape changing rapidly from rain and snow and trees to sun and sand and ocean. When they stopped moving, it took him only a few seconds to get his bearings and to realize that he was on the beach, the beach he had dreamed about while in Weeping Water.
Feeling slightly more unnerved now that they had landed than while they were traveling, Michael wanted to ask Imogene why they were here, why she had brought him to this place, but it was so calm, so tranquil, he didn’t want to interrupt the serenity with words and remained silent. He followed Imogene, but as she walked on top of the calm ocean, he walked into it. He looked down and saw the wave water envelop his feet languidly, without hurry, felt its coolness wash over his feet, his ankles. He was a part of this landscape; Imogene, his guide, was not. He stopped when the water reached his waist, but Imogene kept walking as if to step out of Michael’s memory, give him some privacy for what was yet to come. When she finally stopped, quite some distance away, she looked at Michael, her face a mask empty of any expression. Whatever emotions she was feeling would not be conveyed, and without another word of instruction or explanation, she turned her head preferring to watch some seagulls on their endless quest for food than the images about to befall her friend.
Before Michael felt Ronan’s touch, he knew he would be there. This was where they had first met, in his dream, before they saw each other in front of Archangel Cathedral, before the real world caught up with their destiny.
“Ronan, what’s going on?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied, smiling. “This isn’t my journey.”
Tracing Michael’s lips with his wet finger, Ronan stared tenderly at his boyfriend. “No matter what happens, no matter what you see, remember that nothing can change the present.”
For the first time, Michael felt cold, the ocean water that glided from his lips, past his chin, down his neck was like ice. “I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Ronan said, kissing Michael softly. “When you’re ready.”
They embraced, Ronan pressing his strong body into Michael as if to give him his strength. Holding on to Ronan’s muscular back, Michael felt an odd mixture of passion and panic when he saw, over his shoulder, his mother standing on the beach, her hands outstretched and drenched in blood. Without turning around, Ronan told Michael, “This isn’t for me to witness.” And before Michael could beg him to stay, Ronan plunged into the ocean and disappeared.
“Ronan! Come back!”
His plea was not acknowledged. The only response was the far-off sound of a seagull’s cry. And then Grace’s breathing.
Even though his mother was over a hundred yards away on the beach, and the waves were beginning to gain speed and power, their sound escalating louder and louder as they crashed onto the shore, Michael could hear his mother’s frantic breathing as if she were standing right next to him. It was so forceful, so commanding, it was as if there were no other sound in the world.
Until she screamed.
Frightened, Michael’s eyes searched the ocean to find Imogene, hoping that once he did, she could put an end to this nightmare, end the intense emotional pain he was already experiencing seeing his mother so fragile, so wounded. This is in the past, Michael thought. I don’t want to see this again! Finally, he found his dead friend hovering over the horizon. “Imogene! Please, make this stop!”
Imogene heard him, but she, just like Ronan, had no other choice but to ignore him. What else could they do? They weren’t the ones in control. All Imogene had been instructed to do was to bring Michael here so he could see the events unfold as they had originally taken place, as he was previously unable to see them. She couldn’t stop them, she couldn’t alter them in any way, and thankfully she didn’t have to watch them with him. She could fix her gaze upon something in the distance, anything, a whale, yes, that would do, a whale spouting a spray of water into the air as it traveled just beneath the ocean’s surface. Anything was better than watching Michael’s mother fall to the sand on her knees and shriek.
As Grace’s cries pierced Michael’s ears, he was transported back to another time, back to the dream in which he had his first kiss with the boy who would turn out to be Ronan, back to the dream in which he saw his mother covered with blood, and he couldn’t believe he was being forced to relive the experience. He remembered seeing his mother, the blood pouring from her wrists, staining the beach, the accusing stare in her eyes beneath the look of frenzy, the stare that still haunted him. But as he stared at his mother more closely, he realized that something was different. It was just as with Imogene, there was something different about her eyes. They were consumed by the same look that he remembered from his dream, the same look of accusation, but they were not looking at him. Turning around, he found the reason. His mother was looking at someone else. His father.
Vaughan was only a few feet away, standing on top of the waves, displaying the same impossible skills as Imogene, his feet bare, his white pants and shirt dry even though he was less than an inch above the ocean, the ocean that was growing rougher by the second.
“Dad?!” Michael cried out, unaware that the word had never escaped his lips with such ease before. “What’s going on?!”
It didn’t matter that it was Michael’s memory, his trip through time, it was as if he weren’t there. All that existed, all that meant anything, was the space between Grace and Vaughan, Michael was simply a spectator. But even though he was their child, he felt oddly disconnected in their presence. This was the first time he had seen his parents together since he was a very young boy, and looking at them now—his mother wild, frenetic, and blood-soaked, his father calm, aloof, immaculate—he couldn’t imagine them ever being a couple. And yet something had united them, something that had been just as powerful as what tore them apart.
He thought of how he had felt when he first laid eyes on Ronan and wondered if his parents had ever felt a similar passion, the same kind of need. No, that was impossible. If they did, they would still be together, they would never have separated, nothing and no one in the world could extinguish that kind of love. Michael knew so much more than they did, he understood so much more about life, and yet if that were true, why did he feel like a child
, lost, alone, and scared that he was about to witness something he never wanted to see?
“You!” Grace heaved the word into the air with such force that the ocean roared and this time when the waves crashed beneath Vaughan’s feet, he was no longer immune to their aftershock; a fan of salt water rose and arched, showering his body. But when the water touched him, it turned to blood.
Startled, Michael stumbled backward and fell underwater. When he came back up, he shook his head, hoping that would correct the image, but it only made things worse. He watched in horror as rivulets of blood raced down Vaughan’s cheeks, his shirt, the side of his pants, staining his outfit, turning the white cloth dark pink. For a moment, time stood still while Michael watched transfixed as one bright red drop of blood hung from Vaughan’s foot, seemingly determined to cling to the flesh it had sought out, until gravity interfered and it fell into the ocean. Michael wished he could follow and hide, descend lower, lower, lower, underneath the water’s surface, far away from his parents, who were now both dripping in blood. But he couldn’t. He was compelled to watch, for no matter how painful it was to see these two people in such a raw, private moment, these two people were still his parents.
In spite of that, he began to suffocate. All the anxiety he felt as a little boy in Weeping Water started to push against his chest, his lungs; all the desperation he thought was gone, buried along with the rest of his past, began to resurface. He wanted to shout, scream as loud as he possibly could to block out what was happening, but his mother beat him to it.
“I’m ashamed of you!!”
Once Grace spoke, Michael was rendered speechless. The words were familiar; he had heard them before, but unlike the last time, unlike the last time she spoke those words in his dream, Grace wasn’t talking to Michael, she was talking to Vaughan. Confused, Michael looked at his mother, her bloodied hand pointing directly past him, and he realized that she wasn’t ashamed of him, she had never been ashamed of him, she was ashamed of his father. But why? What could he have possibly done to make her react so ferociously? Michael didn’t know, but he could tell from Vaughan’s expression that his mother’s accusation was warranted. Vaughan was staring back at Grace with the expression of a man who could not fight the condemnation being hurled at him.
Unwelcome Page 14