Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates

by Elizabeth Chandler

  “What? What are you looking at?” Gregory asked, whirling around.

  Tristan quickly ducked out the door so the boy couldn’t see his shimmering light, hoping that Philip understood this silent message.

  Philip did. “Nothing,” he said.

  There was a long silence, then Gregory went to the doorway and glanced outside, but he didn’t perceive Tristan.

  “I thought I saw a big spider,” Tristan heard Philip say.

  “A spider won’t hurt you,” Gregory told him.

  “A tarantula would,” Philip replied stubbornly.

  “Okay, okay,” Gregory said, his voice hoarse with irritation. “But there isn’t one. Stay and guard our treasure. I’ll be back.”

  As soon as he stepped out of the shack, Gregory closed the door and scanned the surrounding bushes and trees. Satisfied that he was not being observed, he pulled a padlock out of his pocket, slipped it over the rusted latch, and silently locked Philip inside.

  “Lacey, Lacey, I need your help. Philip needs your help,” Tristan called to her, then passed through the walls of the shack.

  Philip greeted him with a bright smile. “How come you’re here? How come you were hiding?”

  Tristan remained where he was and waited for the little boy to move close to him, then he walked over to the door. Just as he had hoped, Philip followed him. Tristan put his hand on the latch, knowing the boy would see the latch glow. Philip immediately reached out and jiggled the handle.

  “I can’t open it,” Philip said.

  Matching that thought, Tristan slipped inside him. “You can’t because there’s a padlock on the outside of the door. Gregory put it on.”

  Philip reached for the latch again. As if he couldn’t believe it, he kept jiggling and pulling on it.

  “Stop. It’s locked. Philip, stop and listen to me.”

  But the little boy started banging on the door with his fists.

  “Philip—”

  He began to kick the door. Growing desperate, he threw his body against it over and over again.

  “Stop! It won’t work. And you may need your strength for other things.”

  “What’s going on?” Philip demanded. He was breathing fast, his mouth open, his eyes darting around the room. “Why’d he lock me in?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tristan said honesdy. “But here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to have to leave you, Philip, just for a while. If Gregory comes back before I do and lets you out, run toward the road. Get to the road as fast as you can and try to get the attention of someone driving by. Don’t get back in the car with him, okay? Don’t go anywhere with him.”

  “I’m scared, Tristan.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Tristan assured him, glad that Philip couldn’t probe his mind and know how much he himself feared. “I’ve called Lacey.”

  “I’ve called Lacey,” a voice mocked. “And lucky for you she didn’t have something better to do.”

  Philip’s face brightened when he saw Lacey’s purple mist.

  “What kind of mess have you two gotten yourself into?” she asked.

  Tristan ignored the question. “I’ve got to leave. You’ll be all right now, Philip,” he said, slipping outside of him.

  “Not so fast,” Lacey spoke silently to Tristan so Philip couldn’t hear. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s a trap. I have to find Will,” he replied quickly, moving toward the shack walls. “Ivy needs help.”

  “So when hasn’t she?” Lacey called to him, but Tristan was already on his way.

  P3-18

  Ivy drove toward the double bridges, gripping the steering wheel, leaning forward, straining to see. She flicked on her lights, but the mist absorbed them like pale ghosts. The rain and early fallen leaves made the pavement slick, and at a curve in the road the tires suddenly lost their grip on the road. Skidding sideways, her car slid all the way over to the oncoming lane. Without blinking an eye, she pulled it back in line.

  The river, woods, and road went for miles and miles. If Philip and Gregory weren’t at the bridges, it would be difficult to search for them alone. Ivy wanted to call Tristan back, but he wouldn’t come, he just didn’t understand. The weather was getting worse, and there was no time to get the police.

  Tristan was right, of course. She didn’t have a weapon, unless she could count the rusty nail that rattled around in her cup holder. But she did have a threat: she had left the information with the police. And if Gregory hurt Philip, he’d have a lot more explaining to do.

  Ivy suddenly jammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel around, almost missing the turn into the clearing. Her headlights made an arc of light against the trees. Her heart started thumping in her chest. Straight ahead was Gregory’s car. They couldn’t have gotten far on foot, she told herself.

  Ivy parked her car facing the road and left the front door gaping open, but this time for a reason. If she and Philip were chased back, she’d push him in the open door, get in behind him, and lock Gregory out. Now she hurriedly searched the ground for a rock. Finding one, she bent down by the rear tire of Gregory’s car and used the rock to drive her rusty nail into the rubber.

  Ivy ran through the trees, scrambling up on the railroad track. On either side of her the tunnel of trees closed in, heavy and dripping. She raced along the rails, and suddenly the green tunnel opened out and the parallel bridges hung before her as if suspended in midair.

  The fog rising from the river hid their long-legged supports, and only the sound of rushing water proved the river ran fast beneath them. Sections of the bridges continually disappeared and reappeared as wisps of clouds caught on their skeletons like filmy scarves, then floated past. In the rain and mist, it was impossible to see where the old bridge abruptly broke off.

  The weather was making it easy for Gregory, Ivy thought. All he’d have to do is lure Philip onto the track with him, then give him an unexpected push. In Gregory’s twisted mind, what was one more “accident”?

  Ivy focused on the old track, where Gregory was supposed to have collected spikes for Philip. She squinted until her eyes stung, then glanced over at the new bridge. The shifting fog swirled up, and she saw a flash of red. Just as quickly, the clouds covered it again. Then the red waved at her once more from the new bridge—the bright red of Philip’s jacket.

  “Philip!” she screamed. “Philip!”

  She started running down the track of the new bridge. “Stay where you are,” she called to him, afraid that if he ran to her he’d trip and fall. But as she got closer she realized it was just his jacket lying on the track. Ivy’s heart sank, but she kept going, fearing the worst yet needing to find any clue she could about her brother.

  The jacket was soaked by the rain, but there were no rips and only a splatter of mud on the cuffs—no sign of a struggle. For a moment she was hopeful. Of course, there didn’t have to be a struggle, Ivy thought. Philip could have been conned into taking off his jacket as part of a game, then quickly pushed. She picked up the jacket and held it in her arms close to her, as she had held Ella.

  “Find something?”

  She whirled around, nearly losing her balance.

  “Hello, Ivy,” Gregory said. In the mist he looked like a gray shadow, a dark angel perched on the bridge ten feet away from her. “Hunting for spikes?”

  “I’m hunting for my brother.”

  “Not here,” he said.

  “What have you done with him?” Ivy demanded.

  He grinned and took several steps toward her. Ivy took several steps back, still clutching the jacket.

  “Chick, chick, chick,” Gregory chanted softly. “Who wants to play chick, chick, chick?”

  Ivy glanced toward the far bank, expecting to see a train loom up, as in Philip’s nightmare, eager to swallow her.

  She turned back to Gregory. “What have you done with him?” she asked again, keeping her voice low, struggling to keep down the hysterical fear that was rising
within her.

  Gregory laughed softly. “Chick, chick, chick,” he said, then took a few steps backward.

  Ivy moved with him, her anger overcoming her fear. “You killed Eric, didn’t you?” she said. “You were afraid of what he’d tell me. It wasn’t an accidental overdose.”

  Gregory stepped back again. She matched him step for step.

  “You killed your best friend,” she said. “And the girl in Ridgefield—after you attacked me at home, you killed her as a cover-up. And Caroline. That’s how it all started. You murdered your own mother.”

  Step for step she moved with him, wondering what kind of game he was playing. Was a train coming? Was that what she heard in the distance?

  Gregory suddenly reversed his direction, moving toward her. Ivy backed up. They were two dancers on a tightrope.

  “Tristan too,” Ivy shouted at him. “You killed Tristan!”

  “And all because of you,” he said. His voice was as soft and eerie as the twisting shapes of fog. “You were supposed to die, not Tristan. You were supposed to die, not the girl in Ridgefield—”

  A train whistle sounded, and Ivy spun around.

  Gregory exploded with laughter. “Better say your prayers, Ivy. I’ve heard tales about Tristan becoming an angel, but no one has seen a shimmering Eric. I hope you’ve been a good girl.”

  The train whistle sounded again, higher in pitch, closer. Ivy wondered if she could make it to the other bank in time. She could hear the train itself, rumbling through the trees now, close, already too close to the river.

  Gregory was walking steadily backward, and Ivy guessed his plan. He’d keep her on the bridge between him and the train. The girl thought to be crazy enough to throw herself in front of a train once would seem to have tried it again.

  As Gregory moved backward Ivy stayed with him. “You’ve got things wrong,” she said. “It was all because of you, Gregory. You were terrified of being found out. You were terrified of being left out. Your true father could never give you the kind of money Andrew has.”

  Gregory’s mouth opened a little, and he stared at her. She’d taken him by surprise. They weren’t far from the bank now, and he stepped back uncertainly. Ivy inched toward him. If he stumbled, she’d have a chance.

  “You didn’t think I knew the whole story, did you, Gregory? The funny thing is, the day you killed your mother I never saw you. I never saw past the reflections on the glass. If you’d left me alone, I would never have guessed it was you.”

  She saw his face darken. He clenched his fists.

  “Go ahead,” Ivy challenged him. “Come get me. Push me off the tracks, but it’s one more murder on your head.”

  She glanced down. Ten feet more—ten feet more and she’d have a chance, even if she fell.

  “Caroline gave Eric a key,” Ivy continued, “and Eric left it to me. I found some papers in Andrew’s clock.”

  Nine feet more.

  “Some pretty interesting letters from your mother,” she told him.

  Eight feet.

  “And a medical report as well.”

  Seven.

  “I turned them in to the police an hour ago,” Ivy said.

  Six feet Gregory stopped. He stood absolutely still. So did Ivy. Then, without warning, he lunged for her.

  * * *

  Tristan arrived at Will’s just as a dark car pulled away from the house. With his sharpened vision, he saw the man inside: he wondered why the detective who had investigated Ivy’s assault was visiting Will.

  Will stood alone on his front porch, so deep in thought that Tristan couldn’t find an easy way to slip in. He saw a pencil in Will’s pocket and pulled it out, but Will didn’t notice. Tristan tapped the pencil against a wooden post and wrote his own name with materialized fingertips, underlining it twice, amazing himself with the new strength he felt in his hands.

  “Tristan!” Will said, and Tristan slipped inside.

  He didn’t waste any time. “Ivy needs help. She’s gone to the bridges, thinks Gregory took Philip there. It’s a trap.”

  “Have to get my keys,” Will replied mentally, and hurried inside.

  “No!”

  Will stopped and looked around, confused.

  “Just run. Run!” Tristan urged.

  “All the way to the bridges?” Will argued. “We’ll never get there in time.”

  “I’ll get you there,” Tristan said. “We can do it faster off the road, out of the traffic.” He knew how crazy it sounded, just as he knew somehow it was true. The last darkness had given him more strength than he had ever had, powers that he hadn’t yet tested.

  “Trust me,” Tristan said. “For Ivy’s sake, trust me,” he pleaded, though he had never completely trusted Will.

  Will took off, and they moved together as one. Tristan could feel Will’s bewilderment and fear. What was happening to Ivy? What was happening to his own body, taken over by Tristan? What did people see?

  “I don’t think they see us at all,” Tristan said. “But I don’t know much more than you.”

  They were on the winding road now. As they traveled strange voices rose up all around them. Were the voices inside his own head? Tristan wondered. Or was it Will’s mind rebelling? Maybe they were human voices pressed together the way space seemed to be compressed as they raced across the landscape.

  The voices murmured at first and seemed indistinct, but now they grew louder and clearer—noisy jabbering and clear singing, dark voices threatening and high voices arching over all the others.

  “What is it?” Will cried, covering his ears with his hands. “What am I hearing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is it? I can’t stand it!” Will said, shaking his head as if he could shake the voices out of him.

  Tristan was experiencing more than the voices. He was seeing things he had never seen before-scared animals hiding behind trees; jagged rocks, though they were covered completely by leaves; roots buried deep in the ground.

  They were at the clearing now, and he saw the tracks behind the wet screen of trees. As they rushed toward the bridges the high voices grew higher and more intense, the low grew deep and furious.

  “Demons,” Will said, trembling, as they came upon the bridges. “It’s demons we hear.”

  As soon as Gregory lunged for her, Ivy turned and ran. There was no way around him on the narrow bridge. As she started running she saw the headlight of the train, like a small sun brightening the fog, rushing through the trees close to the bridge. She couldn’t make it to the other side in time—she couldn’t beat out the train. But there was no turning back. She had Philip’s bright red jacket. If she waved it, the engineer might see her.

  Gregory was gaining on her. The whistle sounded again, and Gregory laughed. He was only a few feet behind her, laughing and laughing, as if they were playing tag in the park. He was insane! He didn’t care; he’d die with her as long as he could kill her. With each stride he moved closer—she could see him out of the corner of her eye. In desperation, Ivy threw Philip’s jacket on the track behind her. It blew and tangled around Gregory’s legs. Gregory stumbled. She glanced back and saw him go down on his knees.

  Ivy kept going. She could hear the long rumble of the train and ran as hard as she could toward it. If she put enough distance between herself and Gregory, she could try to find a place to cling to, some fingerhold beneath the track to dangle from.

  “Angels, help me!” she prayed. “Oh, angels, are you there for me? Tristan! Where are you?”

  “Here, Ivy! Ivy, here!”

  There were voices all around her, calling her name. She slowed down. Were they just echoes in her head, the sound of the wind being twisted by her frightened mind? Then she saw that Gregory had stopped, too, listening for a moment, his face shining with sweat, his eyes wide, their gray centers ringed with white.

  Then Ivy heard one voice clearly. “Ivy.”

  She recognized it. “Will!” she exclaimed.

  He was ru
nning along the opposite track, calling to her. The other voices rose behind it, and a dark fear rushed over her. It’s some trick, thought Ivy. It’s all part of Gregory’s plan.

  Gregory started after her again, and Ivy rushed on.

  Will wets running with incredible speed along the parallel bridge. He had caught up to her and was three steps ahead of her when he reached the end of the old bridge.

  “Ivy!” he yelled. “Ivy, over here! Leap!”

  She stared at him across the seven-foot gap. All around her voices called and chattered, the high voices ringing in her ears and making her head feel light, the low voices drawing her down in despair.

  “Leap!” he shouted, stretching his hands out toward her.

  Even if he caught her, there was nothing to keep him from tumbling over the side with her. She’d kill them both.

  “Ivy, leap!” It sounded like Tristan’s voice.

  “Ivy, leap. Ivy, leap,” Gregory taunted. He had stopped running. He was walking backward on the track now, watching her, watching the clearing where the train would appear any second, his face flushed and a trickle of blood coming out of his nose. His eyes shone—brilliant, triumphant, insane.

  “Tristan!” Ivy called out.

  “He’s here,” Will said. “He’ll help us.”

  But she didn’t feel Tristan within her and she didn’t see him glowing inside Will.

  “Where?” she cried out. “Where?”

  “Where, where?” the deep voices mocked. The train thundered onto the bridge.

  “Tristan, where are you?” Ivy screamed.

  “Reach for her, Will. Reach for her!”

  Will reached out, and Ivy leaped. For a moment a golden arc shimmered between the two bridges, holding up Ivy and Will. Then they fell onto the old track, clinging desperately to the edge so they wouldn’t roll off.

  The train rushed along the new bridge, and Gregory started running for the opposite bank. Ivy and Will pulled themselves up and screamed at the train till their throats burned. Their voices were drowned out by a growing wave of dark jabbering, an ominous rumbling of voices so deep they seemed to come from beneath everything that lived.