Liv, Forever

by Amy Talkington

  “Anything in life. The Victors President can do anything.”

  “And what do I have to do?” he asked quietly.

  “No, Malcolm, don’t!” I yelled. He was so convincing even I thought he was wavering.

  “You will inherit the book, care for it. Pass it on. You will conduct the annual Samhain ritual.”

  “Which entails …”

  “Leading the chants,” his father said.

  “Collecting the blood,” Kent gestured to the bowl filled with blood. “And burning it in the fire.”

  “Whose blood?”

  “A drop from every new student—taken at the admissions physical—so each and every one is bound to the school and will benefit from the sacrifices we’ve made. Eternally.”

  “Bringing wealth and success to themselves and eventually to Wickham Hall.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, son,” his father assured him.

  Kent smiled.

  Malcolm nodded. In the next instant, he knocked the bowl across the table, splashing the burnt-umber liquid all over the cloaked men, and scooped up the book, backing toward the door.

  “You cannot have this information and walk away,” Kent warned.

  Malcolm turned, but Kent and two others were instantly on top of him, pinning him against the wall of books. Malcolm struggled against them, but it was three against one. His own father watched, silent. I yelled for help. Ruth, Mary, Florence, Clara, Brit, and Lydia were already there.

  “What do we do?” Kent gasped, his hand around Malcolm’s throat.

  Mr. Samuels gestured toward the window. He pulled the curtain without even bothering to get up. Malcolm’s father started toward his son, but the oldest man in the room put up his hand and simply said, “The oath.”

  Malcolm’s father sat back down and gestured for them to proceed. Suddenly I saw a flash of Goya’s hideous Saturn Devouring His Son, the gruesome painting Malcolm had said reminded him of his father. Now I understood why. His father was inhuman, a monster. He had already murdered once for Wickham Hall, and now he was sacrificing his own son.

  Kent tried to get the book out of Malcolm’s hand, but he wouldn’t loosen his grip. So Kent pushed Malcolm right up against the glass of the window. “Don’t make us do this to you.”

  “Stay, son. Agree to stay,” his father urged.

  Kent looked at the elders; they all nodded. Mr. Astor turned away. As the other two held Malcolm, Kent opened the window. With that, they pushed him out.

  As I saw it happening, I instinctively soared after him. I didn’t realize or expect—or even have time to consider—they’d all come with me. The six other spirits merged with me, and together we created enough resistance to slow his fall. It wasn’t enough to stop him completely, but he tumbled gently, like a falling leaf. Somehow enough energy remained among us. Perhaps the other ghosts had more power than they’d known. Or perhaps it was that together we created something greater than the sum of our parts. Or maybe some other spirit, some greater spirit—that thing people like my parents would call God—wanted Malcolm to live. Regardless, I helped save his life. And in that last instant as he descended toward the earth, I heard him laugh over this miracle: he was flying.

  Once he landed, I separated from the spirits and saw Minerva was there, too. She’d helped us! But before I could speak, she vanished back through the closed front door without a word. Why would she help? It didn’t make sense. Unless … was she a victim, too? Had Elijah turned against his parents? Was Minerva different somehow? Did she even know what had occurred at her school? If she did, why wouldn’t she have stopped it? Why keep the ghosts apart?

  The Victors peered down from the window—shocked and horrified—as Malcolm stood up, unharmed, still clutching the book. He waved it triumphantly and then took off into the darkness.

  Malcolm made it through the cemetery unseen, but as he crossed through the woods, he was spotted by one of the Wickham Hall security guards. I could hear the sound of the walkie-talkie as the guard, who’d obviously been called by the Victors, alerted the other guards to the culprit’s whereabouts.

  Malcolm turned in the opposite direction, heading directly to the Art Center. He spoke to me as he ran, huffing, “I think I’m safer in the crowd. They can’t hurt me in front of everyone, can they?”

  “I don’t know,” I said calmly. Clearly. Not huffing. When you’re dead you don’t get out of breath. That’s one perk, I guess.

  He ended up at the back of the Art Center. He ran along its perimeter and headed toward the roar of the party. I could hear the familiar sound of Headmaster Thorton prattling into his beloved microphone, resonating against the glass-and-concrete atrium.

  “And now, we light our annual bonfire—the one hundred and fiftieth such one that has burned right here in this space to celebrate Wickham Hall’s birthday! When Wallace and Minerva lit that first fire, it was a modest campfire, but now we’re in this elegant Art Center. My, how we’ve grown! Before you know it, we’ll heal the world!”

  There was a big round of applause for the headmaster as Malcolm turned the corner, now in sight of the crowd—hundreds of people. And he ran smack into Ms. Benson.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “I heard on one of those walkies that you stole something from Old Homestead.”

  He started to back away.

  “Burn it,” she whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Burn it. Destroy it. Before they get to you,” she said urgently.

  Malcolm scanned the situation. Security guards were closing in on all sides, but he still had a clear path to the fire.

  “Go!” I yelled, but of course he couldn’t hear me. All the spirits surrounded him now, shouting, “Go! Go now!”

  “Go now!” Ms. Benson told Malcolm, swatting him, pushing him. And he went.

  MALCOLM PUSHED HIS WAY through the tweed jackets, tea dresses, and hats—lots of hats. While the orchestra played a cheerful tune, fireworks erupted, and Abigail, Sloan, and Amos performed the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire. Malcolm peppered his shoves with excuse me and forgive me—ever the Victor gentleman, even as he desperately sprinted to put an end to their lies and age-old curse. In that moment, I loved him more than I ever had.

  Flames shot up from the giant fire pit. Smoke swelled into the sky. As Malcolm approached the edge overlooking the fire, Kent was suddenly upon him.

  “They are really here, aren’t they?” Kent asked.

  “Who?”

  “The girls … the ghosts?”

  Malcolm stood stone-faced.

  “Come on, Malcolm—don’t you see? This is proof! It’s validation. We really have power. We can do anything we want. Don’t give this up.”

  “It doesn’t prove anything except you killed innocent girls.”

  Kent thrust a finger at the book. “If you burn that, they’ll go away.”

  Malcolm clutched it tightly to his chest, seething. “I mean it,” Kent said. “Say goodbye to your girlfriend.”

  Enraged, Malcolm pushed Kent and slipped away into the crowd. He looked up and asked me, “Liv, is this what you want? You want me to burn it? Is this what I’m supposed to do?! You have to give me a sign!”

  Of course it needed to happen to end the murders, the cycle of darkness. Ruth, Mary, all the spirits had waited years to move on, to ascend—to see their loved ones, to be somewhere other than here, to reach their final place. It wasn’t necessarily what I wanted, though. Because it probably meant I’d be ascending, too. Of course I knew I should go on to that place—heaven or whatever it’s called—but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t ready yet. But this wasn’t about me, I reminded myself. I had to let him burn it.

  I looked around for a possible way to communicate. I didn’t have enough energy left to affect anything solid. The smoke—it was my only option.

  I leaped off the edge of the fire pit into the smoke and wove through it, chopping the smoke up into pieces, like a giant smoke signal. But
I wasn’t finished. I had to make it spectacular. As I dove and danced through it, I realized something: I was probably making my last piece of art.

  Malcolm crouched low in the crowd, hiding from Kent. Abigail had spotted her twin and was making a beeline for him, followed by Sloan and Amos. They knew something was wrong. From his position, Malcolm looked all around—searching for my sign—but he couldn’t see a thing.

  The crowd saw it first. They broke into a thundering applause. There was oh-ing and ah-ing and only-at-Wickham-Hall-ing. Finally Malcolm stood up and saw it: an angel in flight.

  I paused on the side of the fire pit, exhausted but pleased. The smoke angel seemed alive, in slow-motion drifting up toward the heavens as she dissolved into nothingness. She was not precise and controlled like my old work—she was unbridled. She was pure emotion. She’d cost me my final bits of energy, but it was worth it.

  I caught a glimpse of Ms. Benson nearby, eyes shining and with a secret smile on her lips, as if she knew it was me. As if she knew that this was my art—finally big, bold, and seen by all.

  And Malcolm knew. He rushed toward the fire until he saw that Kent blocked his path at the edge of the pit. Abigail and the others were close behind. Malcolm’s eyes met Kent’s. He stopped short, still buffered by a few people in the awestruck crowd. He used all his strength to hurl the book over those heads and into the fire.

  Kent leaped up toward the book, a desperate lunge. And, unbelievably, he did grab it. It was in his hands. I saw his face—triumphant—and lifted myself to try to stop him. But it was too late. He’d missed his footing and was already falling into the flames. Abigail pushed her way to the edge of the pit and screamed, looking down in horror as her near-mirror image shrieked and spun, consumed by the raging fire.

  The book seemed to hover for a moment, crackling and exploding into brightness like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

  Ruth was immediately at my side. “I think I can go now. I think we all can. I can feel it.”

  I smiled.

  “You’re coming with us?” she asked.

  “Not if I don’t have to. I’m going to linger if I can. There’s one more thing I want to do.”

  “Well, thank you,” she said. She swept me into a brief and intense hug.

  While Headmaster Thorton whisked the hysterical Abigail away from the edge of the fire and security guards pushed the crowds away from the scene in an attempt to maintain order in the chaos, the other ghosts surrounded Ruth and me. All saying thank you. All smiling. Some probably smiling for the first time in decades.

  Then, slowly, one by one—starting with Clara, who died first—they became lighter and lighter and brighter and brighter—until they became entirely immaterial and dissolved in a near-blinding light.

  Nature Preserve Girl finally approached me. Dawn was her name. She told me her story, but she refused to show me her gruesome wound.

  I grabbed her arm. “But why didn’t you join me?” I had to ask her. “You’re an activist. Why not help us expose the Victors?”

  “Because Aiden’s last name was Astor.”

  “Malcolm’s father,” I realized. Of course.

  “And, they’re practically twins, man,” she said, gesturing to Malcolm nearby. It was true. The resemblance to his father was striking. But only skin deep.

  “I couldn’t trust him,” she continued. “I couldn’t even look at him. But now I see he’s all right. He’s breaking the cycle. He’s good.” And with that, she smiled—content there was good in the world and people who’d stand up for it—and departed.

  Finally, it was Lydia’s turn. She raised her arms up, still tripping no doubt, in complete rapture.

  Only Brit was left. She seemed panicky. “What if it’s not heaven? What if I go to that other place? That dark place we’ve seen? I stole something once, you know.”

  “You won’t go there for that,” I assured her.

  “But what if it’s not heaven? I’m scared, Liv. I’m scared,” she cried. I put my arms around her and held her until she vanished.

  I looked to Malcolm. He was being questioned by security guards. I had to stay here for him. I chanted it in my head, even out loud.

  “I have to stay here for Malcolm. I have to stay here for Malcolm. I will stay here for Malcolm.” I looked at my limbs. They remained. I remained.

  My time to go had passed, and I remained.

  MALCOLM REFUSED TO SAY anything until the real police officers arrived, but once he was alone with them, he told them everything, except, wisely, the part about being pushed from the fourth story window and floating to the ground. Or anything ghost-related, for that matter. Even so, the police didn’t take him very seriously until they discovered the Victors had taken a trophy from each victim as a part of the ritual. There was enough evidence to demand a serious investigation—starting with my locket.

  Though dead, Kent became the lead suspect in my murder. And as his prints were found on Malcolm’s boat, they also suspected him of attempted murder. Cases were reopened on each of the murders. Clara had told us where her body had washed up, so Malcolm was able to point the authorities to her remains, closing her missing-person case and indicting his own great-great-great grandfather posthumously. Malcolm’s father, Mr. Samuels, and the hooded others were all taken in for questioning.

  Apparently Abigail had no idea what Kent was up to. Like Malcolm, she’d only covered up my death to protect the image of the school as instructed by the Victors. I actually felt sorry for her. She left Wickham Hall almost immediately—half a twin—never to return.

  Gabe was promptly released and returned to campus in a police car—the front seat this time. Malcolm greeted him with a hug. “I don’t know how you did it, but you did it!” Gabe hugged him, then pulled away, suddenly panicky. “Wait, are they all gone? Is she gone, too?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. She doesn’t have any energy left, no way to show me or tell me. I’ve felt some chills, I think, but it might just be wishful thinking.”

  “Or the flu,” Gabe joked. Then he called out, “Liv?! Liv Bloom?!”

  I was right there. I waited a moment, then said, “Boo!”

  He jumped, then whipped around, pissed. “Not funny!”

  “Come on, kind of funny.”

  “Not.” He turned to Malcolm to explain. “She scared me by saying boo.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “Come on, it’s funny.”

  “You two deserve each other,” he said, teasing and happy, but with a hint of envy. I could see Gabe longed to meet his match.

  The officers asked Malcolm if he wanted to leave campus, go into some kind of protective custody. “No,” he said. “I’ve got protection here. And I don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.” He’d already vowed to never again go home, to never again see his father.

  LATER, WE WENT TO the catacombs so Gabe could see me as we told him everything that had transpired in his absence. When I finished describing the girls’ dramatic ascensions, he asked, “What about Minerva?”

  “She wasn’t there, but I saw other lights ascending in the distance. If they killed every ten years, there must’ve been other ghosts that we never saw, right? So I guess it was them and I assume she ascended, too, from wherever she was.”

  “Why? You think she’s still here?” Malcolm asked Gabe.

  Gabe shrugged, looking concerned. “Maybe,” he said. “But maybe not. Shouldn’t we go find out?”

  Together we headed to Old Homestead. The campus was still crawling with police and media, even the FBI and CIA were getting in on it because so many of the Victors held office in the government.

  The front door of Old Homestead was open; people were dusting for more prints. The top floor had been roped off by officials. But we found Minerva on the second floor. She was in what was once her bedroom, sitting in what was once her rocking chair. It was as if she’d been waiting for us. And, finally, she told us the whole story.

  Neither Wallace nor I established the
Victors—in fact, we had no knowledge of the Victors whatsoever. The Victors were established by our son, Elijah.

  Elijah attended Wickham Hall in its first three years. Of course, any institution takes some time getting on its feet. Ours did as well. We stumbled those first few years as we explored how to best run the school. Elijah was displeased with the education we’d given him. He felt very strongly that Wickham Hall was not yet what it could be.

  After finishing secondary school here with us, Elijah went abroad to London to pursue his advanced degrees. He studied Latin, Celtic tradition, and history. Also, he spent significant time exploring his own history. He met with Wallace’s sisters and his own cousins. He learned of their disdain for me and that his aristocratic grandparents had disapproved of our marriage. He discovered what Wallace had walked away from in choosing me as his bride.

  I’m not entirely certain what other influences Elijah was exposed to in London, but when he returned, he’d changed. It pains me to recall this time. Elijah refused to look me in the eye or even address me. He called private meetings with Wallace to talk about the future of the school and the necessary changes to be made. For example, he just loathed that we insisted on taking students who could not afford to pay. He begged Wallace to dissolve our marriage and to marry “his kind.” Of course, it broke my heart and Wallace’s as well. And, of course, Wallace stood by my side.

  Wallace’s allegiance to me and to our standards of equality enraged Elijah. They had screaming fights. Elijah would throw things, smashing them. He was filled with an anger we’d never seen before, and something we did not know how to manage. Neither of us had known violence before. We were peaceful souls.

  One night in October, Elijah sent Wallace to Concord to meet with a prospective new teacher. After supper, Elijah called me to the cellar. I was quite excited he was addressing me and expressing interest in my presence.

  But, when I got to the bottom of the stairs, he called me into the small, dank stone chamber and quickly locked the two of us in there. He began to utter phrases in Latin and ancient Celtic dialects. I didn’t know much Latin, but I recognized some words, of course. It was talk of power and death.