by Nichole Van
“You’ve always been drawn to paranormal things, haven’t you?” the General continued. “I remember talking to your father about some of your troubles when you were a teenager.” His forehead turned frowny and puzzled as he tried to bring up the relevant memory.
Gossip was such a double-edged sword.
Alarm bells clamored in my head. Yeah, definitely better to avoid discussing that particular episode of my life. I adamantly refused to flick a glance at the Wriggle floating in my peripheral vision.
“So this guy?” I interrupted the General’s thinking face.
He stood taller, his brow smoothing. “You’re referring to Tennyson D’Angelo, right?”
My lungs hitched, my heart accelerating with a sharp electrical jolt.
The Prophet now had a name. Cue angel song and hosannas.
Tennyson D’Angelo.
The Wriggle seemed to agree because it, well, wriggled.
I repeat.
The Wriggle . . . wriggled.
My heart launched itself into my throat and I barely avoided flinching. Sometimes when the Wriggles undulated like that, bad things happened.
“Uh . . . yeah. That’s him. Tennyson D’Angelo.” The Wriggle wriggled again. Crap. What was up? “What have you heard?”
“Mostly rumors, to be honest,” the General said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noted my mom motion subtly to her favorite assistant, Michael. No need to wonder why she did that.
And, of course, it would be Michael she would send.
Fortunately, the Wriggle went back to being inert. So no bad things . . . yet.
“Did this D’Angelo guy really predict roadside bombs?” I asked as a follow-up question. Again. Communication coaching.
The General shrugged. “Hard to say. From what I’ve heard, soldiers would ask D’Angelo about a mission.” He leaned toward me. “They reported that D’Angelo would go into a trance. His eyes would roll back in his head, and he would describe what would happen during the mission.”
A sharp chill zinged down my spine. “And did his predictions come true?”
The General shrugged. “Often enough. The attacks were almost always accurate. The outcome as to who lived or died could change.”
“I guess not everything is set in stone.”
“Or this Tennyson D’Angelo guy is fraud,” the General snorted.
Another wiggle from the Wriggle at Tennyson’s name. My breathing compressed, coming more quickly.
Okay.
Okay.
You got this.
You’re clearly on to something.
But I was short on time. My mom was chatting with Michael now. His head swung my way as they talked, eyes eagerly looking for me.
The fact that I didn’t immediately end my conversation with the General was all the confirmation they needed to intervene. Had our chat been harmless, I would have moved on the second my mother made eye contact.
I was so busted. And Michael would be more than happy to do the busting. He had a bit of a score to settle with me.
I swallowed down a flash of panic. I only had a minute or two at most to ask the General the right questions.
Unfortunately, my brain wasn’t supplying anything useful.
Would it be creepy to watch Tennyson D’Angelo predict the future? Or would it be kinda hot?
When Tennyson makes a prediction, does his voice go all low and gravely and Batman-like?
In a related question, if this D’Angelo guy were to adopt a superhero name, would it be Future Guy or Captain Prediction?
And should I rethink my future as a comic writer because I clearly have no game when it comes to naming superheroes?
See? Not helpful.
Focus, Olivia.
The General saved me from myself by continuing on. “D’Angelo has to be a fraud. If the man could predict the future, why did he get caught by that blast?” the General reflected.
“D’Angelo encountered a bomb?” My stomach sank. “Was he injured? Killed?”
That would be my luck, wouldn’t it? Find the Prophet too late.
“I think he made it,” the General replied. “From what I understand, there was a roadside IED that he didn’t predict accurately. D’Angelo bore the brunt of it. But I suppose he’s still out there somewhere. It all makes for a good story, doesn’t it?” The General chuckled. “Oh, hello Michael. Didn’t see you standing there.”
The General turned to my mother’s assistant, giving him a warm handshake.
Michael smiled tightly, only barely masking his glee in foiling whatever plans I had going.
I was pretty sure Michael rolled out of bed in the morning in a freshly pressed metrosexual suit, coffee in one hand and the day’s agenda in the other.
Michael was one of those airbrushed, Wall Street types that romance writers loved to cast as leading men—handsome enough that his alpha-male arrogance came off as attractive, and so charismatic that everyone (translation: my mother) gave him a pass on his social-climbing douchebaggery.
I would know.
Such easy passage through life was a Hot Person perk. Beauty privilege, if you will.
Something I did not have.
Memory briefly flashed through me.
I hate having to date such a troll. But that’s the price of political gain, ya know.
With effort, I pulled myself back from that mental abyss. Not going there.
“Hello, sir.” Michael clapped the General on the shoulder. “Just came to borrow Olivia from you, if I may?”
Michael’s expression said it all; I was so busted and he was delighting in my busted-ness.
I didn’t care. It had been worth it.
Because . . . Tennyson D’Angelo.
Sidenote: Did his name have to be so theatrically apropos? Like Hollywood perfect?
As soon as the last guest left and I endured a solid ten-minute scold from my father, I locked myself in my room, texted Langley my news (cause that’s what a good BFF does in this situation), and googled Tennyson D’Angelo.
Only a few pages pulled up, a sporadic history at best. He wasn’t active on social media sites, but fortunately his sister, Chiara D’Angelo, was. Through her and scattered bits here and there, I managed to filter out several salient points.
Tennyson was Italian-American. He was a triplet with identical twin brothers.
Beyond that, he attended university on a soccer scholarship. He had dated a woman named Lucy Snow for several years.
There were a handful articles about his involvement with D’Angelo Enterprises—art experts, authenticators and dealers based in Florence, Italy. Specifically, Tennyson had helped with the raising of the Sassari Horde, an unrivaled trove of Etruscan artifacts.
I knew about the Sassari Horde, as it had made the rounds on cable news for a while. A treasure hunter named Jack Knight-Snow had found the horde off the coast of Sardegna, and he had hired D’Angelo Enterprises to help with the excavation. I also remember reading something about Knight-Snow being involved with Tennyson’s sister.
But as for Tennyson, there was no online discussion of Afghanistan or an injury. Just some vague reference on a military message board to D’Angelo and a terrifyingly accurate prediction.
But Tennyson had to be someone who could help me. The Wriggles knew his name, for heaven’s sake.
Langley, being Langley, immediately started texting me photos of Tennyson. Every image was punctuated by flames, sunglasses, fireballs, chilies—in other words, ‘hot’ emojis.
One glance and it was easy to see why.
Though the photos were obviously taken at different times and different years, Tennyson looked the same.
Strikingly handsome. Black, wavy hair. Shockingly blue eyes. Full lips. Chiseled jaw and cheekbones.
Male model beautiful. The kind of attractive that seemed almost too perfect to be real.
Basically . . . King of the Hot People.
Wowsers, Olivia, Langley texted. Trust you to d
o nothing by halves.
She sent over a photo of Tennyson with Jack Knight-Snow, posing for a magazine article about the Sassari Horde. Both men were lounging in a wood-paneled library of sorts. Very posh. Tennyson was dressed in a dark suit with a light blue shirt open at the collar, his aquamarine eyes popping off the screen.
Langley wasn’t done:
Seriously. This guy takes manliciousness to a new level. I may have to reconfigure my 10-point hotness scale and add Tennyson D’Angelo as a scorching #11.
I flipped through the photos again.
Yeah. Tennyson’s entitled sense of beauty privilege could complicate my mission.
Hot People aren’t eager to consort with Not People. I had collected ample proof of this over the years.
My heart sank. As if my situation needed one more wrinkle.
Gorgeous or not, I desperately needed his help. The Wriggles thought he was important.
Just to prove my point, I stomped into the backyard and walked up to the Wriggle still hanging out. It floated above the lawn, a jagged three-foot slice in reality, its edges stitched back together, causing reality to warp and furrow around it.
I called them Wriggles, but the vaguely cutesy name didn’t quite capture their seriousness. They made my life a living hell.
“Tennyson D’Angelo,” I whispered.
The Wriggle reacted, doing a small dance.
I tried a few other names—Dennyson T’Elengo, Benniton M’Anito, Trenton Fango—and got nothing.
But every time I said, “Tennyson D’Angelo,” the Wriggle wiggled.
Okay. That was it, then. Tennyson was definitely connected to the Wriggles somehow. I required answers that only a bona fide psychic could give at this point. My very life depended on it.
Now I simply had to track Tennyson D’Angelo down and convince his Hot Person self to talk to me.
TWO
Volterra, Italy
October 2017
Tennyson
The vision arrived abruptly.
No warning.
No preamble.
One minute I was standing atop the tower of the family villa in central Tuscany and the next . . .
. . . I was laughing in a car, staring at her in the passenger seat beside me.
A woman.
The woman.
Her eyes were lit with delight and adoration, face framed by thick, mahogany-colored hair. She laughed and said something, her mouth moving. Did her lips form the words ‘love you’?
I wasn’t sure, as I couldn’t hear her. Unlike most of my visions of the future, scenes with her played in silence.
We were a silent movie, soundtrack muted.
The only sensations were my own breathing and the bone-deep, profound sense of crushing love for her.
She wasn’t classically beautiful. Not perfect.
She was more than that. She was . . . fascinating, intriguing.
Her eyes were particularly incredible; strikingly light against her darker features and rimmed by thick eyelashes; irises not quite brown or gray or green or gold but some odd combination of all four.
This vision played out like all the others over the past two months.
Us together. Hopelessly in love.
Always and only her.
Wrapping her arms around me, laughing and talking animatedly.
Tugging my hand, pulling me behind her, face eager and excited.
Cuddling on my lap, pressing kisses along my jaw.
Looking up at me, gaze watery, expression devastated and hurt.
Over and over, I saw her. And in every vision, I adored her, loved her with frightening intensity.
I knew what my visions of her meant.
I would meet her. I would fall madly, horrifically, nauseatingly in love with her.
And then I would destroy her heart.
Why? Because my future held only two certainties: madness and death.
The vision faded.
I swayed on my feet, coming back to myself, chest heaving, hands clenching, grasping the stone column beside me.
I stood underneath an arch circling the top of a medieval tower, my feet on the ledge, a dizzying drop and assured death only millimeters from my toes.
I was a damned fool to be atop the tower of Villa Maledetti.
I knew this.
And yet . . .
Standing up here, I felt . . . better. Being so precariously perched, centimeters from oblivion, it soothed some internal itch.
Yeah. I knew that fact was seriously messed up.
The wind ruffled my hair. I drew in a lung-cleansing breath, pushing my ribcage out and pulling air deep into my chest.
I was history playing out.
Family lore stated that seven hundred years ago, Giovanni D’Angelo sold his soul to a gypsy witch in exchange for the ability to see, hear and feel the past and future. Unbeknownst to Giovanni at the time, the gift also took his sanity, eventually driving him to suicide.
Every first-born son since then has had the gift.
Every first-born son has eventually killed himself, my father included.
Until me. Until now.
The gift morphed and fractured at the birth of me and my brothers—triplet first-born sons: Dante, Branwell and me, Tennyson.
The D’Angelo Second Sight abilities—our Grossly Unusual Talents or GUTs for short—were now shared between us.
Dante saw the shadows of others’ past lives and the scenes that had occurred around objects.
Branwell could hear what had happened close to an object in the past.
Me, I got the future portion. I had visions of future scenes and felt the emotions of everyone around me at all times.
But even those lines were changing and morphing in ways we still didn’t understand. For example, we’d recently realized that the ‘curse’ probably had nothing to do with the gypsies in the end. It was more likely a genetic heritage linked to ancient Etruscan oracles.
One thing was certain, however.
There was a darkness within me that grew more powerful every day. Constant whisperings led to internal fracturing which had become harder to control. The darkness was always hungry, demanding I feed it more and more of myself.
In short? My GUT was killing me.
I glanced down again. The fall from this height was a doozy, close to a hundred feet.
Instant death.
It’s the only way.
The words popped into my mind, as they always did.
Jump.
Set yourself free.
No.
That voice lied.
I shook my head, casting the words out.
Images rushed in to fill the mental vacuum.
I saw myself with a chain looped around my waist. I knew, in the way of knowing things in a dream, that the chain represented my family curse, the madness that hunted me. The chain needed to be severed. It was the only way to end the madness. If I threw myself off a great height, the rapid plunge of my fall would cause the chain to snap, setting me free.
Over and over, the same sensation battered me.
Fall. Snap. Freedom.
Jump.
Set yourself free.
It’s the only way.
No!
The thought had to be a lie. The madness was not a chain. There was no chain. Falling to my death would not save me.
I knew this. And yet, here I was, flirting with suicide.
Tuscany sprawled before me, dressed in the golds and russets of autumn. Rolling hills of brown plowed fields and yellow harvests, each patch rimmed with green cypress trees. Smoke drifted lazily through the valleys, stretching in long tails.
A stronger gust pulled on my clothes, forcing me to hold tighter to the stone arch of the tower around me. I looked down to the pavement and gravel below.
Insanity-driven suicide was the siren-call of my future.
Most days, that call was hard to resist. Something in me wanted to jump so bad. I was selfish to be up here,
even contemplating this.
Some thought I was a hero. But I knew better.
I was anything but a hero.
The thigh muscles of my left leg tensed, cramping. Again.
Also a daily occurrence.
Other images flitted through, memories this time.
A deafening blast. Agonized screams. Searing heat. Bright blood seeping into desert sand.
Zach’s eyes, desperate and so incredibly angry.
“Why did you tell me? Why couldn’t you keep your damn mouth shut?”
I shook them away, too.
No.
Not today.
Today wouldn’t be about the woman in my visions. Or chains that didn’t exist. Or falling. Or the horrors of Afghanistan.
Today, I refused to allow the darkness to win.
I had something vitally important to do. I had been avoiding it for two long months, thinking I would wait until I felt better, until we had more answers, until I was more . . . something.
But I could no longer wait for ‘better.’
The fracturing was increasing at an alarming rate. What if ‘better’ never came?
I deliberately turned my back on the lethal drop, the lure of instant obliteration, stepping down onto the floorboards of the tower. I forced my feet further away, through the trapdoor in the floor, down another flight of stairs to the enormous drawing room in the middle of the villa.
I lived in Villa Maledetti, the hereditary D’Angelo family estate in the hills just north of Volterra, Italy. Yeah, it sounded ritzy and I supposed it was.
But I lived alone, not another soul for a solid mile in any direction. Why? Because the constant bombardment of others’ emotions shredded my control. Filtering out the constant pressure of others’ feelings took too much energy, causing me to lapse into runaway visions. Which, in turn, accelerated my internal fracturing.
Basically, I was desperate for human contact but only able to stomach it in short bursts. Villa Maledetti was my cage, my refuge.
But, turns out, a prison is still a prison, no matter how gilded and self-imposed.
I paced back and forth, stretching my arms and loosening my muscles, as if warming up for a race. And in a sense, I supposed I was.
Mental preparation and physical readiness were key. I could do this.
Today was the day. Do or die.
