Verum

by Courtney Cole

  I want him always.

  He climbs to me and sits on the blanket and when he stares at me¸ his gaze is black.

  “Sabine sent me,” he explains. “She’s going to be late and didn’t want you here alone.”

  I nod, and I’m so thankful he’s here, because I’m tired of being alone.

  My mind is a deep ocean and I’m drowning.

  “You were afraid I’d think you’re a monster,” I tell him softly, and I watch his face carefully. His mouth tightens, but that’s his only reaction.

  “Yes. Do you remember why?”

  I sift a handful of sand through my fingers, watching each tiny piece.

  “No. Not yet.”

  He sighs and it’s loud up here, on the top of this cliff by the sea.

  “Where should I look for the answers?” I ask him, and I hear the desperation in my voice because I’m tired of the unrest.

  I’m tired of the secrets.

  I’m tired of nothing being clear.

  He blinks.

  “You should look at Whitley,” he finally says. “But you’ve got to be careful. You won’t like what you find.’

  I nod because I know I won’t.

  Because it might make me think Dare’s a monster.

  He holds my hand as we walk to his car, and I let him.

  Because I need his light to live,

  Because a monster lives in us all.

  That’s what I tell Finn later when I’m alone in my room.

  My brother stares at me with imaginary pale blue eyes.

  “Maybe,’ he muses. “But that doesn’t take away the fact that Dare was on our mountain that night, Calla.”

  “The night you died,” I nod. He looks away and I know he doesn’t like being dead.

  “Was he there?” Finn asks, and I can tell from his tone, that he knows. “Or are you confused?”

  I sigh, long and loud, because I’m so tired of being the only one hidden from the truth.

  “Just tell me,” I demand.

  “I can’t.” His answer is simple.

  “But you want to.”

  “Yes.”

  He gets up and paces the room, a slender lion in a cage. “Think, Calla. You know this one.”

  I do.

  I do know it.

  It’s on the tip of my mind, dying to find its way in.

  I close my eyes.

  I spoke to Dare that night. I can hear his words.

  Anxious, afraid.

  Concentrating, I see the cliffs, the funeral home, the moon.

  I see my brother,

  And he’s alive,

  Then he’s not.

  My mother,

  My father,

  The flashing lights.

  The beach.

  And then…

  There’s something.

  A flicker.

  I crane my neck, trying to see more.

  A flash of dark hair,

  And a name.

  I open my eyes.

  “Who’s Olivia?” I ask limply.

  Finn smiles.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Chapter 10

  If I stay inside too long, the walls start closing in on me.

  I hate the silence, I hate the height of the ceilings, I hate that I’m alone.

  I hate that I long to call Dare, to tell him to find me in this Godforsaken place, to take me away…because to be honest, I don’t really have anywhere to go.

  I can’t go home.

  I can’t face it without Finn.

  But God knows I can’t stay in this house.

  The breeze is slightly chilly as I make my way deep into the grounds. I’ve come to believe that it never truly warms up here. The rain makes the lawns lush, though. Green and full and colorful. As Finn would’ve said in his endless quest to learn Latin… it’s viridem. And green means life.

  The cobbled path turns to pebbles as I get further away from the house, and after a minute, I come to a literal fork in the road. The path splits into two. One leads towards a wooded area, and the other leads to a beautiful stone building on the edge of the horizon, shrouded in mist and weeping trees.

  It’s small and mysterious, beautiful and ancient. And of course I have to get a closer look. Without a second thought, I head down that path.

  The closer I get, the more my curiosity grows.

  I can smell the moss as I approach, that musty, dank smell that comes with a closed room or a wet space. And with that dark scent comes a very oppressive feeling. I feel it weighing on my shoulders as I open the heavy door, as I stare at the word SAVAGE inscribed in the wood, as I take my first tentative step into a room that hasn’t seen human life in what looks like years.

  But it has seen death.

  I’m standing in a mausoleum.

  Growing up in a funeral home, I’m well versed in death. I know what it looks like, what it smells like, even what it tastes like in the air.

  I’m surrounded by it here.

  The floor is stone, but since it is deprived of light, soft green moss grows in places, and is soft under my feet. The walls are thick blocks of stone, and have various alcoves, filled with the remains of Savage family members. They go back for generations, and it makes me wonder how long the Savages have lived at Whitley.

  Nearest me, are Richard Savage I, my grandfather, and Richard Savage II, my uncle. And next to him is Olivia.

  Olivia.

  The name from my memory.

  Dare’s mother.

  I run my fingers along her name, tracing the letters cut in the stone, absorbing the coolness, the hardness.

  What do I know about her?

  Why is she significant in my memory?

  Did Dare have her eyes, or her hair? Was she the only spot of brightness in his world? Does he miss her more than life itself?

  I don’t know.

  All I know is her name was in my head yesterday…before I found this place.

  It’s my first hard clue.

  Trailing my fingers along the wall, I circle the room, eyeing my ancestors, marveling at the silence here.

  It’s so loud that my ears ring with it.

  The open door creates a sliver of light on the dark floor, and it’s while I’m focusing on the brightness that I first hear the whisper.

  Calla.

  I whip my head around, only to find nothing behind me.

  Chills run down my spine, and goose-bumps form on my arms as I eye the empty room. The only people here are dead.

  But… the whisper was crystal clear in the silence.

  I’m hearing voices.

  That fact terrifies me, but not as much as the familiarity in that whisper.

  It can’t be my brother.

  It can’t. He’s dead and I know it. I might’ve imagined him the other night, but even I know he wasn’t real.

  “Hello?” I call out, desperate for someone to be here, for someone real to have spoken. But no one answers.

  Of course not.

  I’m alone.

  I lay my hand on the wall and try to draw in a deep breath. I can’t be crazy. It’s one of my worst fears, second only to losing my brother.

  A movement catches my eye and I focus on it.

  Carnation petals and stargazers, white and red, blow across the floor. Funeral flowers.

  Startled, I turn toward them, bending to touch them. I run one between my fingers, its texture velvety smooth. It hadn’t been here a moment ago. None of them had, but yet here they are, strewn across the floor.

  They lead to a crypt in the wall.

  Adair Phillip DuBray.

  My heart pounds and pounds as I race to the plaque, as I trace the fresh letters with my fingertips.

  This hadn’t been here either.

  What the hell?

  I gulp, drawing in air, observing the fresh flowers in the vase beside his name.

  There is no moss here, because this had been freshly carved, recently opened, and very recently seal
ed. But there’s no way Dare can be here, because I just saw him last night. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.

  As my hands palm his name, as I reassure myself, pictures fill my head, images and smells.

  The sea, a cliff, a car.

  Blood, shrieking metal, the water.

  Dare.

  He’s bloody,

  He’s bloody,

  He’s bloody.

  Everything is on fire,

  The flames lick at the stone walls,

  Trying to find any possible way out.

  The smoke chokes me and I cough,

  gasping for air.

  I blink and everything is gone.

  My hands are on a blank wall, and Dare’s name is gone.

  The flowers are gone.

  I’m alone.

  The floor is bare.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’m crazy.

  It’s the only explanation.

  I scramble for the door and burst out into the sunlight, away from the mausoleum, away from the death. I fly toward the house, tripping on the stones.

  “Calla?”

  My name is called and I’m afraid to look, afraid no one will be there, afraid that I’m still imagining things. Is this what Finn felt like every day? Am I starting down that slippery path? It’s a rabbit hole and I’m the rabbit and I’m crazy.

  But it’s Dare, standing tall and strong on the path, and I fly into his arms, without worrying about pushing him away.

  His arms close around me and he smells so good, so familiar, and I close my eyes.

  “You’re fine,” I tell him, I tell myself. “You’re ok.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says in confusion, his hands stroking my back, holding me close. “Did you think something happened?”

  I see his name, carved in the mausoleum stone, and I shudder, pushing the vision away, far out of my mind.

  “No. I…no.”

  He holds me for several minutes more, then looks down at me, tucking an errant strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “Are you ok? You’ve been gone for hours.”

  Hours? How can that be? The sky swirls, and I steady myself against his chest.

  I hear his heart and it’s beating fast, because he’s afraid.

  He’s afraid for me because he recognizes the signs, he’s seen them before.

  “It’s ok, Cal,” he murmurs, but I can hear the concern in his voice. “It’s ok.”

  But I can tell from his voice that it’s not.

  Craziness is genetic.

  I’m the rabbit.

  And I’m crazy.

  Dare’s arm is around my shoulders as we walk back to the house, and I can feel him glance at me from time to time.

  “Stop,” I tell him finally as we walk through the gardens. “I’m fine.”

  “Ok,” he agrees. “Of course you are.”

  But he knows better, and he knows that I’m not.

  Sabine is kneeling by the library doors, digging through the rich English soil, and she looks at us over her shoulder. When she sees my face, her eyes narrow and she climbs to her feet.

  “Are you all right, Miss Price?” she asks in her gravelly voice. I want to lie, I want to tell her that I’m fine, but I know she can tell the difference. In fact, as she stares at me with those dark eyes, I feel like she can see into my soul.

  I don’t bother to lie.

  I just shake my head.

  She nods.

  “Come with me.”

  She leads us both to the back of the house, to her room. It’s small and dark, draped in colorful fabrics, in mystic symbols and pieces of gaudy jewelry, shrouded in mirrors and dream-catchers and stars.

  I’m stunned and I pause, gazing at all of the pageantry.

  She glimpses my expression and shrugs. “I’m Rom,” she says, by way of explanation. At my blank expression, she sighs. “Romani. Gypsy. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  She holds her head up high, her chin out, and I can see that she’s far from ashamed. She’s proud.

  “You shouldn’t be,” I assure her weakly. “It’s your heritage. It’s fascinating.”

  She’s satisfied by that, by the idea that I’m not looking down at her for who she is.

  Her dark eyes tell a story, and to me, they tell me that she knows more than I do. That she might even know more about me than I do.

  It’s crazy, I know.

  But apparently, I’m crazy now.

  Sabine guides me to a velvet chair and pushes me gently into it. She glances at Dare.

  “Leave us,” she tells him softly. “I’ve got her now. She’ll be fine.”

  He’s hesitant and he looks at me, and I nod.

  I’ll be fine.

  I think.

  He slips away.

  Sabine rustles about and as she does, I look around. On the table next to me, tarot cards are splayed out, formed in an odd formation, as though I’d interrupted a fortune telling.

  I gulp because something hangs in the air here.

  Something mystical.

  After a minute, Sabine shoves a cup into my hands.

  “Drink. It’s lemon balm and chamomile. It’ll settle your stomach and calm you down.”

  I don’t bother to ask how she knew I was upset. It must’ve been written all over my face.

  I sip at the brew and after a second, she glances at me.

  “Better?”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  She smiles and her teeth are scary. I look away, and she roots through a cabinet. She extracts her prize and hands me a box.

  “Take this at night. It’ll help you sleep.” I glance at her questioningly, and she adds, “Dare told me.”

  I take the box, which is unmarked, and she nods. “Your mama used to have trouble sleeping. And she had bouts of nerves, too.”

  Sabine has no way of knowing that my ‘bout of nerves’ included hallucinations and hearing voices, so I just smile and thank her.

  I glance at her table again. “Are you a fortune-teller, Sabine?” It feels odd to say those words in a serious manner, but the old woman doesn’t miss a beat.

  “I read the cards,” she nods. “Someday, I’ll read yours.”

  I don’t know if I want to know what they’ll say.

  “Have you read Dare’s?” I ask impulsively, and I don’t know why. Sabine glances at me, her black eyes knowing.

  “That boy doesn’t need his fortune told. He writes his own.”

  I have no idea what that means, but I nod like I do.

  “You’ll be ok now,” she tells me, her expression wise and I find myself believing her. She’s got a calming nature, something that settles the air around her. I hadn’t noticed that before.

  “My mother never mentioned you,” I murmur as I get to my feet. “I find that odd, since she must’ve loved you.”

  Sabine looks away. “Your mother doesn’t have happy memories from here,” she says quietly. “But I know her heart.”

  “Ok,” I say uncertainly, as I hover over the threshold. Sabine lays her hand on my shoulder.

  “If you need me again, you know where to find me.”

  I nod, and then I walk away. I feel Sabine staring at me as I do, but I resist the urge to turn around.

  Instead, I focus on how much better Sabine made me feel, how much calmer.

  Maybe the tea had valium in it.

  As I walk into my room, I’ve decided that I must’ve imagined the whole thing. I haven’t been sleeping well. My mind was playing tricks on me, as minds are prone to do when they’re sleep deprived.

  Obviously.

  That’s the explanation.

  I raise my hand to tuck my hair behind my ear, and that’s when I freeze.

  My fingers smell like carnations and stargazers.

  Chapter 11

  Ropes bind me, holding me down, restraining me, biting into me.

  I twist and turn, but there�
��s no getting away from them.

  My mind spirals, splinters, fractures, bursting into a million confused pieces.

  Light gets in, illuminating, but there’s no truth here. There is only nonsense and puzzles.

  I can’t understand,

  And

  I’m

  Not

  Sure

  I

  Want

  To.

  “Help!” I call out. But my voice echoes down hallways and corridors and rooms. No one is here but me, and I’m alone, and that’s my worst fear.

  “Someone!” my voice cracks and my fingers dig into the frayed rope. No one is there, but the rope breaks suddenly, throwing me against the wall with the force of my own movement.

  I jump up to run, but then realize…

  There’s nowhere to go.

  I sit in front of Eleanor’s massive desk, uncomfortably waiting for her to speak. It’s been a full twenty-four hours since I imagined the scene in the crypts. I’ve had time to wrap my mind around the hallucinations, and accept them for what they were: a product of sleeplessness. I’m ignoring the very real fact that my fingers had a distinct scent of roses on them that I couldn’t have imagined.

  Now I’m just waiting to hear Eleanor’s expectations from me.

  Regardless of what they consider to be my ‘fragile state’, there’s apparently still a small matter of my inheritance to consider.

  She stares at me for several moments before she begins, her voice stern and rigid.

  “I trust you’ve settled in.”

  It’s not a pleasantry, it’s a directive.

  I nod in response, as expected.

  “Good. We have matters to discuss now, and I require your full attention.”

  I feel my spine, ram-rod straight, and I picture the vertebrae, lining up, afraid to slump in Eleanor’s presence. I have to believe that the sun is afraid to shine with her around. She’s that intimidating.

  “I realize you aren’t feeling well, and that is to be expected,” Eleanor’s British accent is thick, and I find myself distracted by that, and the fact that my mother lost her own over the years.

  “But you have a significant inheritance from your grandfather,” she continues, staring a hole into me. “And you must comply with certain stipulations in order to receive it. Since you are eighteen now, time is getting away from us.”

  “What are the stipulations?” I ask politely, and I itch to get out of this room.

  Eleanor looks down her nose.