Phantom Heart

by Kelly Creagh

  “Come now,” chirped Envy, “there was a time once when you thought of me as a lady.”

  “There was a time also,” Spite replied, the purr in her tone suggesting she’d been waiting for just such an opportunity to strike, “when he thought of you as an abhorrent mollisher.”

  “Well.” Envy gave an absent wave of her gloved hand. “You would know, seeing as you made it your business to know everyone else’s. And I daresay he never cared much for either you or me. Though I am certain that, between the two of us, he did prefer me.”

  I turned my attention away from them, focusing on the subject of their previous debate.

  The rose, which now lay atop the piano’s gleaming music shelf.

  I had stolen it—extracted it from the dozen that had, in fact, not been a gift from Stephanie’s young man.

  All this because Rastin had prescribed a heart.

  The rose was an obvious choice. One that, because of what it represented to me, might find the strength to hold. Stephanie, after all, had brought the flowers here. And last night, at my devising, we two had been surrounded by roses, their heady scent assailing us, filling the moments I had stolen with her.

  “Yes,” snickered Envy, “but he very nearly stole more than mere moments.”

  “She very nearly let him, too,” replied Spite, scandalized. “Imagine what she will say—what she will do—when she learns the truth?”

  “You mean that she was nearly kissed by the only true monstrosity among us?”

  The two of them dissolved into titters. But, too preoccupied with the weight of my decision, I had little care available to give their words.

  The rose. Miraculously, it had not died as I’d feared it might when I’d touched it. More importantly, it had not withered upon my bringing it into my world.

  Nothing on my side of Moldavia lived. Nothing but the moths that had been summoned to coexist with me as yet another constant torment. Nothing until now.

  If only she could live here.

  “He is having a dangerous thought,” whispered Spite to Envy.

  And she was, of course, correct.

  Even as Valor, it appeared I was not immune to these feelings. Even now I missed her. Yearned for her presence. To hear her say my name.

  Undone by her so thoroughly, I had failed even to tell her one thing of true consequence. Yet there was some solace in the fact that I had, as Valor, possessed enough courage to beseech Rastin’s intercession.

  Which was why I needed to implant the heart. The rose.

  For him to make another attempt at what he liked to assume would be my deliverance, his plan required my soul to be all in one place. Yet my soul was in shambles for a reason. Why risk attempting to focus it now? What if Rastin was wrong? What if I was better off as I was while I waited for his arrival? Empty? Splintered. Scattered.

  The hearts—objects not meant to harness a soul—always gave. As a result, the masks, having been silenced for that time, all came bursting out of dormancy to rain down on me, all of them all at once seeking their revenge. And to take hold . . .

  This rose. Would its implantation put Wrath to bed for long enough? Rastin had promised he would come soon but . . . when? What if he was delayed?

  But then . . . what if he was right?

  What if Wrath, or any other mask, overpowered me?

  After all, they all wanted what I did. Unfettered by reason, though, which one of them would not find a way to take it? Take her.

  She would hate me then.

  Decided, I grasped the rose.

  “Don’t,” warned Envy.

  “Remember what it cost you last time?” hissed Spite.

  Ignoring them both, determined not to buy into their warnings—my own nagging doubts—I allowed my fingers to find the buttons of my waistcoat.

  “He’s going to do it!” cried Envy, her voice shrill with a panic that was more my own than hers. “I told you! Didn’t I tell you?”

  “The pain,” said Spite. “It will be so much worse . . .”

  Resolute, I took the rose and snapped from its stem the half-unfurled bloom.

  “It will break,” said Envy.

  My waistcoat open, I paused at the task of unbuttoning Valor’s white dress shirt.

  And here was where I wavered.

  Because Envy was right.

  My heart. It would break. Just as all the others had. Perhaps this time, though, it would rupture even as soon as I inserted it.

  Because Stephanie was not here with me. And could never be.

  Deep down, didn’t I understand that was the true reason for the pain?

  Valor, though. Without a heart, was he strong enough to protect her? Was Erik strong enough? He had been strong enough last night. Both to stop me from sealing our fate with a kiss that could only have driven me mad and to conspire toward my own destruction.

  Closing my hand around the rose, I crushed it, deciding anew that Valor was strong enough. And that I was, too.

  That, for the time being, we would have to be.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Stephanie

  I hadn’t planned on going to the dance. I wouldn’t have, either, if Dad hadn’t point-blank made me. But I wasn’t sorry I was here now, parked just two cars down from Lucas’s Dart.

  The good news was that, in exchange for agreeing to “get out of the damn house already,” I’d been able to make Dad promise to take Charlie to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese. Which would get them out of the house for a while, too.

  Also, there was the really shiny silver lining that I was going to get to see Lucas. I’d seen him at school yesterday and the day before, but only fleetingly since he and Charlotte had spent lunch rehearsing again. I’d stayed away this time, granting them space due to the competition being so close. I’d been thinking about him all day today, though, resisting the urge to text him since I knew he had to be prepping for tonight. Was he nervous about competing? If he wasn’t scared to go charging into haunted mansions that had played host to several fatalities, then maybe not.

  Again, I’d flip-flopped during the drive here on whether or not to tell him about Erik. Really, though, how could I? Now that Erik had almost kissed me. Like that wasn’t going to be an awkward conversation.

  Yeah, hey, Lucas, I realize that you and I might be a thing, buuuut remember that Erik guy you told me about? He’s approximately twenty times more smolder-y than described and, just FYI, I think he has a thing for me. Also, I almost let him lay one on me in a dream. Anyway, I’m not sure if I should feel guilty about it, because it’s still not clear if you and Charlotte do more than just slow dance together.

  I sighed. Loud and long, grabbing Charlie’s drawing from where I’d laid it in the passenger seat. Marring the white page like an angry wound, an antlered skull-faced figure in red glowered up at me.

  Though my sister’s recounting of her latest conversation with the thing had repeated itself umpteen times in my head, the meaning still evaded me. I could have pressed her. But I didn’t want to make whatever was happening more real for her than it already was. Instead, what I wanted to do was take this drawing in with me to show Lucas.

  I shouldn’t bother him with it tonight, though. Certainly not during his competition, which was looking like a way bigger deal than what had been sold to me.

  Vehicles packed the gravel-and-grass lot, and the lit-up barn glowed like the jack-o’-lanterns set up on the surrounding bales of hay.

  Inside the barn’s mouthlike door, girls and guys my own age mingled with women and men in their twenties and thirties. While the men sported slacks and vests, bow ties and suspenders, the women wore floral-print dresses that matched kerchiefs tied around their heads, or flowers tucked into short, vintage dos.

  For a moment, I panicked. Lucas hadn’t mentioned a dress code. Not that I owned a single silk flower bar
rette anyway. I’d waited to leave the house until Charlie and Dad were secured in his truck, and though I wasn’t late because of it, I certainly didn’t have time now to go home and change out of my tight-fitting dark-wash jeans, short leather jacket, boots, and black boatneck blouse. Wes had said the party would be in a barn, after all.

  Start time had been stated as eight p.m., and my dashboard clock had just flipped to read eight forty-five.

  Okay, so I was late.

  Making the executive decision not to show Lucas the drawing tonight, I tucked it into the glove box. Then, hoping I hadn’t missed his and Charlotte’s number, I let myself out of the car and trekked up to the barn doors, over which hung strands of orange and purple Christmas lights.

  Within, big bourbon barrels served as drink tables while rows of hay bales provided bench seating. Farther away, against one wall, wheelbarrows filled with ice and old-fashioned glass-bottle colas flanked a long table packed with autumn goodies.

  More lights wound around the support beams and rafters, and at the far end of the barn, to the right of the dance floor, the live swing band played at a breakneck pace.

  The band had a singer, too—a woman in bright red patent leather pumps, matching lipstick, and a black cherry-dotted dress. She jived in place as she sang, her smoky voice all “daddy” this and “baby” that.

  Nearly everyone in the barn had gathered to watch the competition from the perimeter of the dance floor, whooping and whistling their encouragement and, whenever a girl went popping into my view from over their heads in an aerial, shouting with awe.

  Woooow. O-kay. Were there different levels to this thing? These had to be the pros.

  I scanned the barn’s interior but didn’t see anyone from SPOoKy. So I sidled up to the edge of the crowd, where different perfumes and colognes mixed with the scent of straw, cinnamon, and cider.

  And suddenly, among the competitors, I spotted them. Lucas and Charlotte.

  Seeing them standing together at the edge of the wood floor, the next in a queue of couples waiting their turn to dance, I couldn’t help a grin. Lucas looked good, clad in a smart vest and lemon-colored tie, black straight-legged trousers, and his saddle shoes, the number ten fastened to the cuff of one leg. He clapped along with the beat, his eyes alight with excitement, locked on the couple currently strutting their stuff. That was, until the pair started to shuffle out of the way.

  And then Lucas tugged a beaming Charlotte onto the open floor.

  My grin faltered as the skirt of Charlotte’s dress, as short as it was yellow, whirled out as Lucas twirled her, her equally yellow Keds carrying her away from him and then close again. Really close.

  They latched hands, rotating as a unit, Lucas’s free arm going to Charlotte’s waist as though to keep the centrifugal force of their whirling from sending her careening into the band.

  As I drifted closer to the scene, wading through the crowd of onlookers, the tension in my chest wound even tighter.

  “Wow” did not begin cover the acrobatic spectacle playing out before me. And damn did they look amazing together. Like a couple who had just jitterbugged out of a time machine—Lucas with his hair a total mess from all the action, Charlotte with her poison-berry lipstick and Marilyn Monroe smile.

  They were in the zone.

  Until Charlotte’s eyes drifted to where I stood.

  The moment our eyes met, her smile became less exuberant.

  But then I couldn’t see her face anymore, because Lucas had hauled her toward him again, ducking low as she braced her hands on his shoulders. Then his hands disappeared up her skirt. He lifted and Charlotte went airborne, her legs opening to allow her to clear Lucas’s head leapfrog style as he pitched her up and over—like someone tossing away a paper cup.

  With more poise than a cat, Charlotte landed on her feet. Grinning once again, she ended their dance with victory fist pump to the air. Lucas laughed and smoothed his tousled hair as they jogged off the floor hand in hand.

  The tightness in my chest puddled away, twisting into a cold knot in my stomach. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the memory of something that was only, I knew, a dance maneuver.

  Physics. It was just . . . physics.

  “You okay?” came a low voice to my left. “You look a little nauseous.”

  I opened my eyes and, forcing myself to smile, turned to regard Wes, who peered down at me through a cautious side-eye. Though I wasn’t sure what Wes’s visit would bring, I was sort of glad I was no longer the only one here who didn’t look like she’d popped out of a Humphrey Bogart film.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just a bit of a . . . headache.”

  Augh. Why was I lying to Wes?

  “How come you don’t do this, too?” I gestured to the dance floor, trying to deflect. The music had slowed now, allowing the competitors a break and the novices a chance on the floor.

  “Why, Miss Armand, are you asking me to dance?”

  “What?” I needed to backtrack. “No.”

  “I accept.” Taking my hand, Wes began to weave his way through the crowd to the dance floor.

  “Wes,” I protested, yanking. “I told you, I don’t know how to dance.”

  He paused to glance back at me, his silken black hair catching a violet glow from the party lights. “You don’t have to dance. Just drape your fine self languidly over my fine self and let me sway you.”

  Had the circumstances been different, I probably would have told Wes to back off and take a hike. But I had no idea where Lucas had gone. So what else was I going to do? Stand around and look pitiful?

  Surprising myself, I allowed my free hand to float up and perch on Wes’s shoulder. As I did, I looked toward where the row of competing dancers had stood.

  “C’mon, work with me here, Armand,” Wes leaned down to whisper. “You want to speed this all up, then don’t let him see you looking for him.”

  I tensed, ready to pull away, but he held on, keeping me close.

  “Relax,” he urged. “I’m not trying to steal you. Just like I know you’re not really into dancing with me.”

  “You don’t have to say it like that. Dancing with you is fine. And wait, speed what up?”

  “I saw you when you came in,” he said, giving another shrug. “And let’s just say . . . I get it.”

  He paused to twirl me. With some annoyance, I went along with the spin. Then Wes drew me into him again, bringing our bodies flush. “Here’s hoping he saw that one, huh?” Biting his bottom lip, Wes waggled his dark brows at me.

  I rolled my eyes, unable to stifle a laugh.

  “Thaaaat’s the ticket, Armand,” he said. “Go on. Say yes to the Wes.”

  “Hey.”

  I jumped as Lucas appeared at our side from nowhere.

  “Greetings, my liege,” said Wes, though he never broke his stare from mine. “Stephanie and I were just . . . catching up.”

  “Yeah. Mind if I cut in?”

  For the span of several seconds, Wes kept his eyes trained on me. He winked. “Who gives this woman to be joined in slow, sultry dancing? Reluctantly, I do.”

  Scowling at Wes, Lucas slid into his spot.

  “One more thing.” Wes inserted an arm between us, issuing each of us a hard glare. “Don’t forget to leave room for the Holy Spirit.”

  With that, Wes departed, heading toward the snack table, where I caught sight of Patrick chatting up a cute girl wearing a rival school sweatshirt. Next to him stood a perturbed-looking Charlotte.

  A warm, almost burning hand came to rest at the base of my spine while the trumpets wailed low, cymbals ticked a soft beat, and someone plucked an upright bass.

  Lucas took my hand and swayed me from one foot to the other.

  All around us, other couples executed saucier and more daring moves, the men sending the women into perilously low dips, the
women sliding up close to the men, hooking a leg around one of theirs, tango style.

  Lucas’s cologne—subtle, sharp, and masculine—blended with the underlying scent of his skin and sweat, the mixture taunting me. We turned together, and somewhere in the midst of the rotation, he drew me snug against him—closer than during our impromptu stairwell dance lesson. The sensation of our hips pressed together made me dizzy.

  “When did you come in?” Lucas asked. “I kept looking for you.”

  So. Charlotte hadn’t told him I was here.

  “Just now,” I said. “Well. A few minutes ago. I mean . . . I saw you guys.”

  “Oh, you saw us?” Lucas brightened.

  “Yeah. You guys are . . . kind of amazing.” Could he detect the jealousy in my voice? “How long have you two been, uh, doing this?”

  “Since grade school,” he said. “My mom owns a dance studio.”

  “Whoa.” He and Charlotte had been practicing and performing together almost their whole lives. And it showed.

  I don’t know why, but in my head, this dancing hobby of theirs had been one thing. A somewhat corny, old-school, kitschy, niche thing. Like square dance or polka. Something seniors did on the weekends. Not a pop-up, in-your-face, socially accepted metaphor for sex.

  “I was starting to think you weren’t going to come tonight,” he said.

  “How could I miss it?” I asked, because with Charlotte watching from wherever she was while Lucas swayed me, I could now assume they weren’t together. Though it remained a mystery why she still seemed to despise me.

  “Because you’ve got a lot going on,” he said. “Helping your dad with the house. Keeping watch over Charlie. The house itself.”

  A small smile curled my lips, and new warmth spread through me, because it suddenly occurred to me that Lucas must have been watching the door for me since the start of this thing, scanning the crowd for my face, and holding on to the hope that I would make it here tonight. Not just the barn and the party but here, meaning his arms.