by Morgan Rice
“Have you tried to text her at all?”
Maria shook her head.
“I don’t really want talk about it,” she said.
Lore sensed that he was pushing too hard. There would be plenty of time for him to seduce her, to find out all he needed to know about Scarlet. In the meantime, he had to make her trust him—to trust him completely.
They reached the center of the corn maze, and they stopped and stood there. Maria looked away, and Lore could sense how nervous she was.
“So, like, now what?” she asked, her hands trembling. “Maybe we should get back?” she added.
He read her mind:
I hope he doesn’t want to go back. I hope he kisses me. Please, kiss me.
Lore reached down, held her cheeks, leaned in, and kissed her.
At first, Maria resisted, pulling back.
But then, she melted into his kiss. He could feel her melting into him completely, and he knew that now, she was totally his.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Scarlet flew through the morning sky, wiping her tears, still shaken from the incident under the bridge, and trying to understand all that was happening to her. She was flying. She could hardly believe it. She did not know how, but wings had sprouted, and she had just taken off, lifted into the air as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She couldn’t understand why the light was hurting her eyes, why her skin was starting to itch beneath the sun. Luckily, it had become a cloudy day, and she had some relief; yet still, she did not feel like herself.
Scarlet felt so lost, so alone, and she did not know where to go. She felt she could not go back home, not after all that had happened, not after discovering that her mother wanted her dead, that they all hated her. She couldn’t go to her friends, either; after all, Maria hated her now, too, and it seemed she had turned the others against her as well. She couldn’t go back to school, couldn’t just step back into her normal life, especially after her big fight with Vivian at the party.
A part of Scarlet felt like curling up in a ball and dying. She felt she had no home left in the world.
Scarlet flew over her hometown and as she passed her house, it was such a strange feeling to look down on it from above. Scarlet flew high enough to not be seen by anyone, and she saw her town from a bird’s-eye view, like she’d never had. She saw the perfectly formed blocks, the rectangular grid, the clean streets, the tall steeple of the church; she saw the wires everywhere, the telephone poles, all the slanted roofs, some shingled, some slate, most hundreds of years old. She saw birds perched on roofs, and saw a lone purple balloon lifting up toward her.
The November wind was cold up here, whipping her face, and Scarlet felt the chill. She wanted to get down, to warm up somewhere.
As Scarlet flew and flew, trying to think, the only person that she could see, the only face that continued to flash in her mind, was Sage. He hadn’t shown up as promised at the homecoming; he had stood her up, and she was still mad about that. Scarlet assumed he didn’t want to see her again.
Then again, she wasn’t really sure what happened. Maybe, just maybe, there had been some reason he didn’t show up. Maybe he loved her after all.
The more Scarlet thought about it, the more she felt she needed to see him. She needed to see a familiar face, someone left in the world who cared about her, who loved her. Or, at least, who had loved her once.
Scarlet made a decision. She turned and headed west, toward the river, toward where she knew Sage lived. She continued flying outside the town limits, looking down at the main roads below, and using them as a beacon as she flew. Her heart pounded quickly, as she realized she would reach him in a few moments.
As she flew outside of town, the landscape changed: instead of perfectly laid out blocks and houses, there were fewer houses, larger lots, more trees… The lots morphed from two acres, to four acres, to six, then ten, twenty…. She was entering the estate section.
Scarlet reached the river’s edge, and as she turned and flew alongside it, below her she could see all the mansions, replete with their long, sprawling driveways, framed by ancient oaks and formidable gates. It all reeked of wealth and history and money and power.
Scarlet passed over the biggest and most elegant of them all, beautifully set back from the road by several acres, perched right near the edge of the river, an old home of ancient stone, with the most beautiful spirals and towers, looking more like a castle than a house. Its fifteen chimneys protruded into the sky like a beacon to the heavens. Scarlet had never realized how beautiful Sage’s home was until she saw it from above.
Scarlet flew lower, diving down, her heart pounding, so nervous. Would Sage even want to see her again? What if he didn’t? If not, she did not know where she could possibly turn.
Scarlet landed before the front door, coming down gently, her wings retracting, and she looked up at the stone edifice—and as she did, she felt her heart go cold inside. She could not comprehend what she was seeing: the entire house, all of it, was boarded up. In place of the beautiful ornate glass, there was plywood, hastily nailed; in place of all the activity that had been here last time she visited, there was nothing.
It was deserted.
Scarlet heard a squeaking noise. She looked off to the side and saw a rusty gate swinging lightly, squeaking in the wind. It felt as if no one had lived here for a thousand years.
Scarlet flew around to the back of the house, setting down in the wide marble plaza, and looked up at the façade; it was more of the same. The house was completely empty, boarded up. As if all that had been, had never been.
Scarlet turned and looked at the sprawling grounds leading down to the river, peering into the cloud-filled horizon, the blackening sky threatening a storm, looking everywhere for Sage.
She did not sense him here. Not in the house. Not anywhere.
He was gone.
Scarlet could not believe it. He was really gone.
Scarlet sat down, putting her hands on her knees, and wept. Did he truly hate her that much? Did he never really love her?
Scarlet sat there, crying, until she fell hollowed out, numb. She stared at nothing, wondering what to do. A part of her wanted to break into the house, if for no other reason than to get warmth and shelter. But she knew she could not do that. She was not a criminal.
Scarlet sat with her head in her hands for what felt like forever, feeling an intense pressure between her eyes, knowing she had to go somewhere, do something. But where?
For some reason, Scarlet thought of her friends once again. Maria hated her; but there was no reason for any of the others to hate her. They’d all been so close at one point. Even if she couldn’t talk with Maria, maybe she could talk with Becca or Jasmine. After all, Scarlet hadn’t done anything to them. And what were friends for, if not for a time like this?
Scarlet stood, wiped her tears, took three steps, and leapt into the air. She would find her friends, ask for them to take her in, just for the night, and then figure out what to do with her life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Father McMullen knelt before the altar, his hands trembling as he clasped the rosary, praying for clarity. And also, he had to admit, praying for protection. His mind still flashed images of that girl, Scarlet, brought here by her mother so many days before, of that moment when even here, in this holy place, every window shattered. The father glanced up and looked all around, as if wondering if it had really happened—and he felt a sinking pit in his stomach as he was given the stark reminder, the former windows now boarded up with plywood.
Please, Father. Send us protection. Send her protection. Save us from her. And save her from herself. I ask for a sign.
Father McMullen didn’t know what to do. He was a small-town priest, with a small-town parish, and he did not have the skills to deal with a spiritual force of this magnitude. He had read legends of it, but he had never known it to be true, and certainly had never witnessed it with his own eyes.
Now, after spending his entir
e life praying to God, after spending his life talking to others of forces of good and evil, he had witnessed it for himself. True spiritual forces were doing battle, here on earth, on display for all to see. Now he had experienced it—everything he had ever read and talked about to others—for himself.
And it scared him to death.
Can such evil really walk the earth? he wondered. Where did it come from? What did it want? And why had it all come his way, fallen into his lap?
Father McMullen had contacted the Vatican right away, reporting what had happened, asking for their help, for guidance. Most of all, he wanted to know how to best help this poor girl. Were there any ancient prayers, ancient ceremonies, he did not know of?
But, to his dismay, he had never heard back.
The father knelt there, praying, as he did every afternoon, now praying longer and harder.
The father suddenly flinched as the huge, arched wooden doors to the church banged open, light flooding in behind him, a cold breeze rushing on his back. He felt an immediate chill—and it was not just from the weather.
He sensed that something dark had entered the place.
The father, his heart pounding, quickly gained his feet and turned around, facing the entrance, wondering what it could be. He squinted into the light.
In walked the silhouettes of three men in their sixties, with white hair, dressed in all black, with black turtlenecks and cassocks. He examined them in wonder; there was something different about them, something sinister. They did not look like any priests he had ever seen.
“Father McMullen?” one of them asked.
The father stood his ground as they approached, and nodded back shakily.
“Who are you?” he asked. “How may I help you?”
“You sent for us,” one said.
The father looked at him, puzzled.
“I did?”
They reached him and as they did, one of them held a piece of paper out.
The father took it. It was from the Vatican.
“They’ve sent us to investigate,” one of them said.
The father felt some relief, yet still, he examined them with apprehension, taking in their stark appearance.
“I am honored that you’ve come all the way from Italy,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Can you help?”
The men ignored him, though, all turning, examining the plywood on the windows, looking at each other knowingly, as if they had seen this before, as if they knew exactly what had happened.
“This girl that you describe,” one said, his voice dark and low. “What is her name?”
“Her name is Scarlet,” Father McMullen replied.
“Last name?” the same man asked.
The father looked at him, unsure. He did not know if he should protect his parishioner, protect her privacy. But he knew that was silly; these men belonged to the Church.
“Paine,” he answered, feeling increasingly hesitant.
One of them wrote as he spoke.
“And where does she live?” he prodded.
Now the father felt even more uncertain. He cleared his throat.
“With all due respect, may I ask why are you asking all of these questions?”
The three men looked at each other disapprovingly, then one of them stepped forward. He came too close, and the father took a half step back.
“If we are to help her,” he said slowly, his voice somber, “we need to know everything.” He leaned forward. “Everything.”
The father cleared his throat and averted his stare.
“Well…” the father said, then stopped. “I would like to know how you plan on helping her. Perhaps I can bring her here to the church to perform the service?”
The father wanted these men, whom he felt unsure about, on neutral ground.
“Father,” one of them said, stepping forward and clasping a firm hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think you understand. We did not come to help your parishioner. We came to stop her.”
“Stop her?” the father asked, horrified. “What do you mean exactly? She’s just a teenage girl.”
The man shook his head.
“She is far more. She is an ancient, demonic soul, and she will unleash a destruction unlike you have ever seen on the world. Our jobs, as members of the Church, is to stop her—by any means necessary.”
The father paled. “Our job is to heal our people,” he said, horrified. “I did not write to the Vatican for this. I think you should all leave now. I did not want this.”
The man tightened his grip on his shoulder, and the father cried out. His grip was so strong, it sent a pain up and down his spine.
The man stared back with steely black eyes, and the father felt as if he were staring into the depths of hell.
“You may not have wanted us,” he said darkly, “but we are here. And we are not leaving until this girl you speak of—Scarlet—is dead.”
CHAPTER NINE
Caitlin looked down and was confused as she saw a beautiful, medieval European city floating by beneath her. She tried to figure out where she was as she took in the church steeples, terra-cotta roofs, a river cutting through it spanned by low, arched bridges… Suddenly, she realized: Venice. Not the modernized Venice of today, but the pure, intact medieval Venice, roads of cobblestone, trodden by horses and carriages, and people in archaic dress.
Caitlin felt someone gripping her hand as the clouds brushed by her face, and she looked over to see Caleb with her, flying at her side. She did not understand what was happening, how she was flying, how Caleb was with her, what she was doing here. She felt stronger than she had ever felt, as if she could conquer the world by herself. As if she were not human.
Caitlin was led by Caleb as they sped downward, cutting through the air. They soon reached a bridge, and landed in the center of it. All around them, the city was packed with people, peddling their wares, browsing in all the booths. Caitlin looked around and saw gold trinkets everywhere, and she realized: they were on the Ponte Vecchio. The bridge of gold. One of the most romantic places in the world.
Caitlin could not understand what they were doing here, but she felt as if she had been here before. In some other time. Somehow, she had vivid memories of this place.
Caleb led her to one of the booths and picked out a beautiful golden ring, laden with diamonds. He then led her to the edge of the stone rail, and knelt before her.
“Caitlin,” he said, looking to her eyes, “will you be with me? Forever?”
Before Caitlin could respond, she found herself riding on horseback, amidst breaking ocean waves, beneath the Aquinnah Cliffs on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. To her right were the beautiful red clay cliffs, while before her sat huge prehistoric boulders, scattered in the ocean. She and Caleb laughed wholeheartedly as they rode through the water, water splashing all around them, heading into the sunset.
They eventually stopped and dismounted as Caleb took her hand and kissed her.
Caitlin felt the world slow down as he held her, the waves crashing around him. She looked into his beautiful eyes, and knew they would be together forever.
Before she closed her eyes, again, she saw a flash of something in the setting sun, and was horrified to spot two long fangs extending from Caleb’s mouth. She was startled as he suddenly leaned in and sunk his fangs into her throat.
Caitlin gasped, the feeling at once so painful, yet so ecstatic.
Caitlin sat up with a start, breathing hard. She opened her eyes, disoriented, and looked around to see herself sitting on her couch, in her home, in Rhinebeck. She was alone in the room.
She shook her head, trying to shake off the crazy dream. She realized she had fallen asleep here in the living room, with Caleb and Sam and Polly, all of them here with her. And yet now she was alone.
“Hello?” she called out.
Caitlin got up and crossed the room, and as she did she looked to the floor and saw torn pages everywhere, covering the entire floor. She picked one up and
realized it was a page from a diary. They were all over the house, covering everything.
She looked up and saw, with wonder, that they were all over the ceiling, too.
Caitlin, not understanding what was happening, felt compelled to go to her front door, and she walked toward it as if in a trance, thinking of Scarlet, feeling that maybe she was there somehow, behind that door. Her heart pounded as she approached.
Suddenly, the door burst open. A cold gale rushed in and blew the pages everywhere, all throughout the house, and the noise was deafening as Caitlin stood there, her heart slamming, ecstatic to see Scarlet standing before her, looking okay.
“Scarlet?” she asked, hardly able to believe it. “Where have you been?”
Caitlin rushed toward her, preparing to embrace her, when Scarlet opened her mouth, extended two fangs, and stepped forward and plunged them into Caitlin’s throat. The pain was excruciating as Caitlin fell to her knees, the world spinning around her.
Caitlin opened her eyes and sat up screaming. She breathed heavily, grabbing her neck, and looked all around. She grasped the edge of the couch as she cried out, flailing, and Caleb, Sam, and Polly appeared before her, running over.
“Caitlin?” Caleb asked. “What is it?”
Caitlin breathed hard, looking all around slowly, until finally, after a long time, she realized it had all just been a dream. One cruel dream after the next. She was fine, in her house. Everything was normal. Caleb was normal. Sam and Polly were still here.
Caitlin looked out the open windows and saw that a new day had dawned. She looked to the floor for the pages, but there were none to be found. She looked to the front door, but it was closed, just as it had been the night before.
It was all just a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare.
