by Yvonne Woon
A twinge of pins and needles prickled the underside of my skin. It traveled down to my fingertips, where Dante’s hand was interlaced with mine. His palm felt suddenly distant, his touch no longer familiar, his skin no longer cold. Though I could see the wind blowing the dirt in swirls over the snow, I could barely feel its icy sting against my face, and though I could see the sun, I could no longer feel it warming my face.
Touch, the noblest, is last to decline, the final remainder of life in this soul of mine. We were nearing the end of Descartes’s riddle.
The landscape broke open into a vast lake, its shore crusted with ice, its water black. It was so serene that it almost looked like it wasn’t a lake all, but a strange extension of the land around us, reflecting the clouds and the French Alps like a world inverted.
I bent over the surface. I felt Dante, Theo, Anya, and Eleanor kneel beside me. The water rippled, shifting my reflection until the Renée that appeared before me had changed. She stared up at me, bewildered, as though she could see me, too. She reached up, her hand trembling as it neared the surface, trying to touch me.
As it came closer, the memories spilled from my fingertips, so tactile that I felt the smooth texture of Dante’s shoulder blades beneath my hands; the chalkboard, dry and dusty against my neck as he pressed me against it. His sheets, rough against my cheek as I nestled into his bed in Attica Falls all those years ago, and his body, heavy beside mine while I fell asleep next to him. His hand wrapped around mine as he guided my pencil across the page in Latin. The first time we touched, his hand sending a spark of electricity under my skin beneath the desk in science class.
The memories dissipated like dust, replaced with the scratchy knitted blanket that lined Anya’s couch; the squish of the beets that the fortune teller made me peel before reading my fortune; the velvety texture of Eleanor’s cashmere sweater as she wrapped her arms around me. The sticky feeling of sunscreen and tanning oil; the salt of the ocean clinging to my hair. The warm breeze as I held my hand out the window, letting the summer sun kiss my skin.
I tried to cling to the last part of my soul, but it slipped from my grasp, unwinding until I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be chilled to the bone, to be warmed by the sun, to feel the grass beneath my feet or Dante’s fingers tangling with mine.
I felt nothing as the last bit of touch left me. The ice beneath my hands no longer felt cold, the bag on my shoulder no longer felt heavy. My hair blew in front of my face. It should have tickled, but I registered nothing.
I stared down at the Renée in the water as she reached up and broke the surface, disturbing the glassy reflection of the lake. The water sloshed out, and when it did, I caught a glimpse of something straight and long beneath, like a beam of wood. I leaned closer, following the beam as it slanted down into the shape of a roof.
“What do we do now?” Theo said beside me, but I didn’t respond.
I threw a rock into the lake, and then another until the houses beneath began to appear. There were dozens of them deep beneath the surface.
“There are houses under there,” I said. How many were there? I scanned the perimeter of the lake. It spanned almost the entire width of the valley.
The others gathered around me.
Anya’s eyes widened. “The lost city,” she said. “I’ve heard stories about this place: an ancient city of Monitors who were protecting a secret. But it soon became overrun by Undead. The Monitors flooded it, washing it clean of the Undead and burying them for good at the bottom of the lake. I always thought it was just a children’s story.”
“Washed clean,” I said to myself. “Like the soul.”
This was it, I realized. The Netherworld. It was somewhere beneath us; we just had to find the way in.
“It’s at the bottom,” Dante said beside me, reading my thoughts. “We have to swim.”
“Underwater?” Eleanor whispered. “But that will kill me.”
She knew just as well as I did that the Undead couldn’t sink; their bodies naturally had to float. And for good reason: sinking beneath the earth had the same effect as burial. It would put them to rest.
“I think that’s the point,” I said.
“But what are we even looking for?” Eleanor asked. “How will we know what to do?”
I bit my lip. The riddle said nothing about this part of the journey, nor did the chest. I had no idea.
Anya dropped her bag. “Not everything is guaranteed,” she said. “We just have to take a leap, and hope that we’re right.”
Eleanor fell quiet. “But how will we even get down there?” she said. “We can’t swim against the force of our bodies.”
“But we can,” Theo said. “Hold on to us.” He dropped his bag and began to strip down, as did Anya, quickly slipping off all of the gear that might hinder any ability to swim. While they prepared themselves, I turned to Dante. His eyes reflected the sky and the clouds, as if he was already drifting to another world. Was this good-bye?
Gently, he unbuttoned my coat and let it slide off my shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “This is just the beginning.”
Though his eyes were clouded, behind them I could still see the softness of his irises, the pupils sharpening as they took me in. He was a part of me, and I a part of him.
His hand slid down my arm. I could barely feel it. Still, I laced my fingers through his.
“Are you ready?” he said.
“No,” I whispered. I knew now that there were some things in life I would never be ready for. Our eyes met. I could see my reflection in his gaze. I didn’t say good-bye. I had to believe that there would be time for me to say it later.
“Don’t let go,” I said.
I took a deep breath, feeling my chest expand with air, and before I could change my mind, I dove beneath the surface.
I waited for the shock of the cold to make my muscles seize, but I felt nothing but numb. The weight of his body pulled against me as we plunged beneath the earth. I spread my arms wide and pushed harder, dragging him deeper into the lake.
I didn’t know where I was going; I only hoped that when I saw it, I would know. Beside me, Theo and Anya pulled Eleanor underwater. Dante’s grip loosened on my hand, threatening to slip away. I tightened my fingers around his and swam faster, leading us toward a slant of rooftops. The houses looked centuries old; their walls were covered in a film of algae. The windows looked in on abandoned rooms, the furniture covered in a thick layer of sediment.
Dante’s body grew weak, his arms beginning to quiver. Not yet, I pleaded. We were close. We had to be.
A white stone steeple stood tall over the houses. The tower, I realized, remembering the last card Anya had placed on the table during Dante’s tarot reading. Beside it stood a thick stone gate. I swam toward it, pulling at the handles of the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. Theo swam beside me, tugging at them until they cracked open. Clutching Dante’s hand, I pulled him inside.
The water from the lake gushed in, carrying us with it into a dry cavern. I gasped, my lungs starving for air, while the others slid in behind us, the press of water pushing the door shut. I scanned the rocky enclave for the others. Anya was coughing on the floor. Theo helped her up, then slung Eleanor’s arm over his shoulder. She was barely conscious, her body trembling from the weight of the ground above her. The last bit of life was leaving her. There was no time. I stumbled through the water toward Dante, who was lying against the rock, almost lifeless, each rise and fall of his chest slighter, weaker. “Dante?” I said. “Don’t leave me yet. We’ve almost made it.” I waited for him to speak, but he said nothing.
Unsure what to do, I scanned the cavern around us, searching for an answer. Around us loomed a vast underground cave, the walls made of a hard black stone, the same as the sealed box. Inside, it was dry. There was no end to the ceiling, only darkness as far as I could see. A swirling black lake lapped at the rocks by our feet, its waves made of dust rather than water. I reached down and touched it, wat
ching as the dust hardened in my hand like a black stone.
In its world it is dust, in the hand it is coal,
At long last I found it, the ephemeral soul.
I could hear the soft murmur of voices rising from the surface: laughter, whispers, shouts of pain, of joy.
The waves twisted and looped up, contorting up into shapes. They shifted into a face, followed by a narrow set of shoulders and a pair of skinny legs. The thin frame of a boy materialized before me like a shadow. I recognized him. “Nathaniel?” I whispered. One of my first friends at Gottfried. He pushed his glasses up his nose and opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. Had he been put to rest? Is that why I was seeing him here? I reached out to touch him, but before I could, he shattered, the dust dispersing around me. Out of it emerged others, friends and family, all long-dead, each of them dark and grainy. Black memories.
I saw my grandfather, his shoulders stooped into a hunch; my father, his calloused hand shielding his gaze, the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes smiling as he took me in; and my mother, her long hair pinned back in a loose chignon. I felt my breath go thin. I couldn’t help myself. I reached out to a tendril of her hair, wishing I could touch her just one more time. But before the dust met my fingers, it dissolved, until my mother, my father, and all of the shapes in the dust around me had dispersed.
I turned to Dante lying beside me on the rock, his body weakening as the life left him. I folded to the ground next to him and slipped my hand in his. “I’m still here,” I said, searching his face for some sign that he could hear me.
Then his fingers tightened around mine. He opened his eyes, his irises struggling to focus on me. His breath was thin. “So am I,” he whispered. His heart slowed. I waited for mine to fill in the beats his had missed, but mine was fading, too. This was the end. Just before our lips touched, his eyes fluttered shut. “I love you,” he said.
His hand tightened around mine, pulling me toward him one final time. I saw his lips, lifeless as they pressed against mine in a cold last kiss. A real kiss. The dust from the lake lapped against our mouths, surrounding us in a swirl of dust until everything around me faded to black.
I felt the last of my mind unravel. I watched all of my remaining memories fade to black as each day, each year, each face reversed itself in unbeing, the lake washing my soul clean.
Dante. It always came back to him. I saw him stalking along the shore of the frozen St. Lawrence River, waiting for my silhouette to appear through the snow. I saw him searching for the secret of the Nine Sisters; I saw him following the Liberum through the woods while they chased down Cindy Bell, Miss LaBarge, and finally, my parents. I blinked and I was there with him on the sunny afternoon when he snuck out to the side of my childhood house and tried to warn them that the Liberum were coming. I saw my mother in the kitchen, washing dishes with my father. They had no idea what was about to happen to them. Finally, I saw myself, my freckled cheeks still kissed from the California sun. We were in our first class together at Gottfried Academy. Our professor had just called out our names, pairing us together. Dante walked toward me from across the room, his dark eyes a clear, startling brown. I waited for him to speak, for the moment when our hands were supposed to touch beneath the table, sending that first prickle of cold up my skin, but the memory faded away before he had a chance to sit down. His face blurred. I squinted, trying to bring it back into focus, but I could barely remember what he looked like. I tried to reach out to him. “Don’t go,” I cried, when I heard his voice echo in my head.
I’ll find you, he whispered.
CHAPTER 17
A Boy
I WOKE UP IN A SOFT CANOPY BED. Sunlight streamed through the windows. It stung my eyes. I winced and looked down at the coverlet. It was made of thick downy satin. I touched its smooth surface with my fingers. It felt so familiar, but when I tried to figure out why, I drew a blank. My mind was bleary. I sat up against a pile of pillows and took in the room. It was a lovely bedroom, decorated with books and posters, shelves stacked with knickknacks and jewelry boxes. Was this my room? It seemed I had been here before, and yet I couldn’t place where or when or why.
A photograph was propped up on the nightstand by my bed. It was tinted yellow from age. A man and a woman smiled back at me from a grassy lawn, their fingers splayed on top of each other in a comfortable kind of love. Did I know them?
I kicked off the sheets and stood up. My legs wobbled beneath me. When I took a step, a deep sadness weighed me down. It was a strange sort of melancholy; it almost felt like I was missing something, and I would never know what. I looked at my face in the mirror. The girl that stared back startled me. She looked young and crisp, her cheeks dotted with freckles and her hair pale from the sun. I didn’t feel as young as I looked, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had been outside or felt the warmth of the daylight on my skin. On the shelf beside me stood a photo of a girl who I could only identify as myself, though something about her looked different than the girl in the mirror. I touched my cheek, tracing the collection of freckles scattered across it. None of my features had changed, and yet the entire arrangement of my face looked off, as if everything had switched sides. As if I were an alternate version of myself.
The door creaked open. I jumped back toward the bed as an old man slipped inside, carrying a silver breakfast platter. He was bald, his face heavy with wrinkles. He wore a three-piece suit, black and tailored short, as if he were a butler. He looked familiar, though I couldn’t place who he was.
He smiled. “Ah! You’re awake,” he said, and carried the platter to my bedside table, as though this were a daily routine for him. “Good morning.”
I furrowed my brow and watched him with suspicion. “Thank you.”
He set the platter down on my bedside table and lifted the lid. A plume of steam rose up from the plate. The smell of it startled me, first sweet and syrupy, then a sharp zing of an orange, followed by a thick salty smell melting with butter and oregano. I took a deep breath, savoring all of the subtleties, as though I hadn’t smelled food in years.
“Eighteen items in total. One for each year.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I frowned, suddenly remembering that I was standing in a strange room with a man I didn’t know. I stepped back from the platter. “Who are you?”
“My name is Dustin,” he said. “I’m the estate manager of the Wintershire House. Your house.”
I paused. My house? I gazed out at the topiaries lining the crescent driveway, the maintenance workers meticulously grooming the lawn. Impossible.
“Do you know who you are?” Dustin said.
I laughed. “Of course I do,” I said. Surely I knew my own name, but when I tried to recall it, my mind went blank. “I—I actually can’t remember.”
Dustin clasped his hands behind his back. “Your name is Renée Winters,” he said quietly.
“Renée,” I said, rolling the letters around in my mouth. Yes, that did sound familiar.
“Do you know how old you are?”
My eyes darted to the coverlet, as if the answer lay somewhere in the embroidery. My hands looked young and soft. Perhaps I was sixteen. My hands looked sixteen, though part of me felt much older. “I’m not sure,” I whispered.
Dustin’s face dropped. I had disappointed him. “What about today?” he asked gently. “Do you know what today is?”
I glanced out the window to the manicured yard outside. The garden around it was lush and colorful with flowers, the trees splayed out in brilliant shades of green. It must have been summer, I thought, though I couldn’t recall how I had gotten here. The most recent weather I could remember was ice and snow. I shook my head. “No.”
“Today is your birthday,” he said. “You’re eighteen years old.”
I had to be dreaming. I didn’t see how any of it made sense. How could I wake up on a strange bed that a strange man claimed was my own, and not even know my own name or birthda
y?
“Are you all right?” Dustin asked.
I narrowed my eyes and peered around the room, looking for some sign that it was mine, but everything within me felt blank. I didn’t know what I liked or didn’t like, or what kind of person I had been. It felt like I hadn’t been anyone before this.
“Ms. Winters?” he continued. “Maybe you ought to sit down.”
I listened for the sound of heavy footsteps down the hall, as if they were a natural part of the house. But none came. “Who’s missing?”
Dustin lowered his eyes. “Your grandfather. He was killed trying to save you.”
My grandfather. The word came with a flash of white fluffy hair, of broad shoulders stooped beneath a tweed suit. Yes, I had a grandfather once.
Dustin studied me, his face riddled with worry. “I’m so sorry. According to his will, I’m your guardian now. Though I suppose since you’re eighteen, you don’t need one.”
But I barely heard him. Who had my grandfather been protecting me from? Why couldn’t I remember anything? My eyes drifted to the photo on my nightstand.
“Your parents,” Dustin said.
The apologetic tone of his voice told me that they were dead, too. Though strangely, I didn’t feel upset. I felt a distant sadness, as though a previous version of myself had already mourned for them, and now I could go onward, unencumbered by the past.
“What happened to me?”
Dustin hesitated. “You went on a long journey,” he said, carefully selecting his words. “A dangerous journey, though you didn’t know it at the time. Your grandfather did. He and his colleagues followed you there. They tried to protect you.” He frowned. “But I suppose they were the ones who needed protecting. You were found alone in the French Alps, washed up on the shore of a mountain river. You were barely alive.”
His words brought back vague slivers of memories that felt more like pieces of a dream than reality. A white swath of snow. A blue lake reflecting the clouds. A terrible dark mist lapping against my face. “Who found me?”
