“Good. Then I can ask you about your night with Sabine.” I tried to steady my voice. Now he looked boxed in, as if the interrogation lamp hovering over me had swung to him.
“Great. Looking forward to it,” he said, stone-faced as he leapt off.
“And I’ll be looking forward to Friday,” I said more to myself than him, since he had already stormed out of the gateway.
“What’s Friday?” Connor ambled out the door, cereal bowl and spoon in his hand.
I told Connor what I had learned of the evening’s plans and how I knew, but managed to omit the part about seeing Lucian in person. Still, he warned: “Be careful with this one. A source like that is useful but not if he gets us killed. Got it?” I would be spending the morning at the community garden again but he gave me the afternoon off from tutoring. “Case the cemetery today. Find the best hiding spots. You’ll go in pairs Friday,” he ordered.
I had a few minutes before meeting Dante, so I leapt down, landing on solid footing, and let myself out the gate to wait on the sidewalk. I couldn’t resist roaming next door. Lance was in there now, brooding no doubt, but as I stood, staring down the place again, last night came flooding back. I felt a blush rise, coloring my cheeks. My eyes swept the porch, a last look before going, and noticed the window had been left open; beneath it, hiding under some scraps of wood, lay a bouquet.
Perfectly exotic and a variety I’d never seen, the luscious tropical blooms burst forth, each easily the size of my fist and boasting a shade of red so rich and bloodlike they appeared almost black. A delicate black ribbon had been tied in a bow around them and attached to it was a blinding white slip of paper burrowed in among the stems, marked H. With a quick look around to be sure no one noticed, I nestled the bouquet quickly into my backpack.
Showing tremendous self-restraint, I managed to wait until after our trip to the community garden to look at that note. When Dante and I parted—he set off to tutor—I made my way to the cemetery as Connor had instructed. There I pulled out all my painting supplies, for cover, and settled in, taking a seat behind one of the larger, more decrepit crypts far from the tourist attractions, before finally digging out the flowers. I unfolded the note, my pulse speeding up. In Lucian’s precise hand, it read:
H—
A token of my gratitude. You are an angel. Truly.
Be careful this week. I regret that I can’t be there with you Friday. I’ve learned it will begin at midnight. Arrive in advance, find a high, secluded perch in view of the back lawn, wait and watch. Until Saturday.
Yours,
L
I leaned against the tomb for support, my heartbeat pulsing in my chest as I read it through again. My scars tingled, and then my fingertips twitched where I held the note. I dropped it and backed up and sure enough, within seconds, the paper combusted. A flame crackled at my feet but before I could even decide whether to bravely stomp it out, it just flared up and turned to smoke, leaving no trace behind. Though I knew the flowers had probably been plucked straight from the underworld, I buried my face in their sweet fragrance and then set them back in my bag.
A second later, I heard a familiar voice from behind a nearby crypt, just down the alleyway.
“Why, hello, Haven.” Sister Catherine appeared, hands folded before her and that delicate smile on her lips. “Just passing through. You’re making lovely progress.”
“Hi there. Thank you.”
She didn’t even stop; she just kept going.
I painted only until I could be sure she was gone, then I pulled out my camera and, because I couldn’t resist preserving them, the flowers too. I found a waist-high tomb that seemed the perfect height. I positioned the flowers in front then I set the camera atop a crypt opposite it. Timer set, I hopped up on the tomb, posing with my legs dangling over the front of the stone. Click.
I checked my work—just fine—and under the guise of an amateur photographer with a camera in tow, I wandered, scoping out the likeliest hiding spots. My favorite: a mammoth circular crypt that rose to a point, as though wearing a hat. It seemed we could crouch behind that and probably get a fine view of the lawn.
I had already made it past the church and halfway across Rampart Street, the enflamed copper-hued winter sun dipping low into the horizon, when I realized I had left the flowers beside that grave. I turned around before my head had time to overrule my heart.
As I wound my way toward the front gate, I couldn’t miss the scent of something burning. I ran, but I was too late: I found no more than a charred mass where the flowers had been, the last few embers flaming out. I watched what was left of those blackened blooms disintegrate until there was no trace left of them. I thought it might be intense disappointment that I felt burning my heart at that moment, even though it shouldn’t have really made me all that upset.
Then it dawned on me: it was the burn of my scars that I felt. And they were so fiery that my legs took off into a jog through the empty cemetery to the exit. I turned the corner, my footsteps echoing in the quiet evening, and my heart stopped. The gate was now closed and locked. Scars stinging, I leapt up onto it to climb over.
But, just as quickly, I was swatted down.
Two hands ripped me off that gate with great force. A slender arm hooked around my neck, getting me in a chokehold as I kicked and squirmed, trying to breathe but unable to catch any air. My captor wasn’t large; the person felt like my size in fact, but was unbelievably strong. My breathing was snuffed out so swiftly, my head felt like it might explode. I would have very little time before passing out. My eyes fixed on a small rock just ten feet away. I focused on it, and it lifted from the ground, smashing into whoever was holding me. The grip on me loosened just enough for me to get in a shallow breath and take two steps closer to the gate. I gasped and the arm tightened again but I summoned my last bit of energy. My legs took off, up the narrow bars, as though it were a wall, running straight up and then kicking off with enough quick, sharp power to break free from this chokehold. I would have flipped backwards, clear over my attacker, but when I launched myself back, suddenly there was no one there. I landed messily, nearly pitching myself onto my knees. But I was free and in one piece. I popped up in a fighting stance and spun around, checking in every direction. Nothing. And not a sound. No footsteps. My racing heart and aching neck were the only signs that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. My backpack had been thrown off in the struggle, so I grabbed it and tossed it over the gate.
Then I scurried up that metal barrier, throwing myself over with such fierce strength I thought I might land clear in the street. Instead, I came down hard on the sidewalk pavement. I darted across the street without looking, dodging cars as I went.
It took me almost a block to realize ringing was coming from my backpack. I slowed my pace enough to pull my phone from the outside pocket. Dante.
“Dan, you won’t believe—” I picked up, panting.
He just cut me off. “Did you get Lance’s text?” he launched in, his voice chilling enough to literally stop me in my tracks.
“No, I . . . we—”
“They found a body outside the library,” he said in a flat tone. “It was a student volunteer from one of the other houses.”
I burst into my room. It had been put back together. We had a brand-new desk and a few new lamps. The window had been replaced. Everything felt in order again—except for me. I closed my eyes, trying to calm my rattled nerves. I dug my camera out of my bag, and grabbed the cord I needed. I retreated to the computer room and fired up my camera, loading the pictures taken in the cemetery and blowing each of them up to fill the monitor. I studied them, one by one, looking for any trace of someone lingering or loitering in the background today, waiting to attack me. But I found nothing, not even so much as a shadow.
Back in my room, I climbed up to my bed, texting Lance back— I’m home. Come by when you’re back—and pulled out that stack of photos. Sabine’s glow had definitely diminished. The others in our house all st
ill seemed to be surrounded by a fairly strong light.
Within minutes, the door opened and Lance appeared, looking shell-shocked, like he’d just been through a war. He sat down at the desk, not a word. I crept down the ladder toward him.
“You okay?” I leaned against the ladder, hovering over him. “Maybe you need some electrolytes?” I said to fill up the dead air. I climbed back up, shimmied under the bed, and pulled out a cherry Gatorade from my secret stash.
“It was in those bushes, the body, you know? Hidden back in there, sort of camouflaged. Some kid spotted the hand poking out,” he said, looking through me instead of at me. “And he wasn’t just dead, he was . . .” He shook his head, looking for the right words. “Mangled. Parts were missing. The guy had been filleted. I’ve never seen anything like this—and I’ve . . . we’ve seen a lot.” It was true, we had. “That’s three of them since we’ve been here, right?” I nodded, even though Lance wasn’t looking at me anymore. “So there’s no way these deaths are unrelated, right?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Right, gotta be,” I said, sighing. “I had kind of a crazy—” And was about to tell him about the afternoon I had had but he cut me off.
“Brody actually knew this guy,” he launched in.”His name was Jeff. We’ve seen him, those first couple nights?” He said it as a question, even though it wasn’t one. I thought for a moment then climbed back up the ladder once more, grabbing the stack of photos and flipping through to some of the group shots. I pulled out the few taken from that bar on the same night I got shots of the Krewe. Lance took them from my hands and paged through until he found who he was looking for.
“This is him; this is Jeff.”
I leaned in to a photo of Brody—glow surrounding him—talking with a group on the patio. I focused on the blurry Jeff in the background. He had dirty blond hair and a wrestler’s build. He stood, hurricane in hand, laughing.
The door opened again: Sabine. She and I hadn’t spoken since last night. She didn’t even look at me.
“Lance, can I talk to you?” she said in a meek, helpless voice.
Lance glanced at me for the slightest second, then stood up. “Sure,” he said, leaving my side without even a look back.
The next couple of days flew by, as they do when you’re dreading the passage of time. Lance and I had barely spoken and so, not surprisingly, when Friday night arrived, our walk to the cemetery was marked by more painful silence. We had given ourselves ample time to get settled, leaving the house just before ten then breaking off from River and Tom, whom Connor had enlisted to keep watch with us. They would be positioned on the treetops overlooking the other side of that grassy expanse where Lucian had said the ceremony would take place.
I had finally managed to tell Lance about my run-in there earlier in the week and though concern had burned in his eyes, after he had asked if I had been hurt, he had quickly shifted to more incendiary conversation topics.
“So he’s not going to be there tonight?” Lance asked as we reached Rampart Street, nearing the cemetery.
“Nope,” I said, the frustration thick in my voice.
“Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
I chewed on my lip and just let it go. I couldn’t afford to expend energy fighting with him right now. I was already jumpy, too jittery at the idea of having to return to this place just days after someone or something attempted to make me a new resident of it.
A few cars whipped past us, speeding blurs of light, music pulsating. I could feel every nerve tensing as we got close. The shops near Mariette’s had all closed up and switched off their lit signs; the church sat dark and empty, its spire now sinister-looking. The upshot of my few terse words with Lance had been that I now felt the anger coursing so strongly through me that I was almost looking forward to burning it off by scaling that giant tomb.
We made our way over the gate easily, familiar with it now.
“I didn’t get to look around last time,” he whispered, as if issuing a détente, as he ran his fingers along the chipped façade of one of the tombs. He stopped before a smooth, white pyramid-shaped crypt. “No two look alike here.” He petted it like it was a large animal at rest. It had to be at least nine feet tall and seemed to shine, reflecting and amplifying what little light there was.
“Yeah, they’re like snowflakes. That’s a good one. I think there are only two people in that huge thing.” He moved his hand away, as though he might be leaning on a body. “It’s okay. We’re not bothering them.” I smiled, though I felt hollow and joyless.
“So these are all pretty shallow, none of that six-feet-under stuff? Too swampy, right?” He bent down to touch the gravelly ground and expected it to be wet.
“Yeah. I guess people get buried in here and after, like, a year they take ’em back out and burn what’s left and then they shove their remains back in there.”
“Nice use of space,” he observed.
“Yeah, it’s pretty economical. They can jam whole families into some of these.” I trained my pocket-size flashlight on the darkened path ahead of us and led the way between a series of crypts about my height. Eventually the alley opened up and we came out at that circular marble monolith, at least sixteen feet tall, a sleeping giant in the darkness. A carved arch in the center housed a statue of a woman in draped dress who appeared to be keeping watch over the whole cemetery. Lance walked the perimeter, checking it out from every side.
A filing cabinet for dead people, it probably housed dozens and dozens of bodies. Around the entire circumference, neat rows and columns of rectangles had been precisely spaced out. Each appeared to be large enough for a casket to slide in and all were decorated with a door-knocker type of handle.
“I’ve got a good idea,” Lance said, arms folded across his chest, sizing up this beast.
“Use the handles as footholds and climb and swing up on them?” I proposed.
He looked at me as though he’d just set up a joke and I gave the punch line. “Yeah, actually.”
We scoped out our targets: we would ascend columns on either side of where the sculptured woman sat.
On my first try, I crashed, falling so fast and hitting the earth with enough force to kick up a cloud of dust. I landed on my side. Everything from my right shoulder to my right foot felt like it had been flattened.
But my muscles would have to ache later. We powered through, and by 11:45, we had both reached the top, dragging ourselves up at nearly the same moment. That was how Lance and I were: every time one of us figured out how to conquer something, the other one couldn’t help but shift into overdrive to master it too. We were equally matched in skill and strength and ambition. I felt a pang of regret to think about that now, when we otherwise seemed to be so terribly out of sync. We lay on the lumpy stucco of the tomb’s upper reaches, catching our breath. I stared into the opaque sky, no stars penetrating through tonight but just a sliver of the moon. We could see over the few nearby rows of graves, straight through to the lawn area blanketed by the soft glow of the security lights. Lance shook his wrist, straightening his watch for a good look. “Fifteen minutes to spare. Not bad.”
We settled into place, crouching behind the small dome that the unknown saint was perched upon. This felt like us; we were in our element. I wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline or the time alone with Lance, listening to his breathing in the darkness, or if I was just feeling a little bit more myself again, but I wanted to set things right with him.
“Listen,” I started. “About earlier this week and . . . everything.” My voice, whispering, carried with it the white flag of disarmament. “I’m sorry. Things have been a little . . . out of control, right?”
“Yeah,” came his soft voice, finally. “I know. It’s been a lot. I think we need to focus for the next couple weeks or months, or whatever, while this is going on.”
“Focus . . .” I repeated, gauging where this was headed.
“Right. On, you know, not getting ki
lled?”
“Of course. Yeah.”
“And maybe forget the extracurricular . . . stuff.”
I sensed it, this turn, and the feeling settled in my stomach, making me ill. No. I wasn’t going to let this happen to me. “The drama. Right.”
“Right.”
“So we should just kind of . . .” I was searching for the word; I didn’t want to say it but I really didn’t want it said to me. Those being my only two choices, I went ahead as though we were in some kind of awful agreement. “Pause?”
“Pause. Exactly,” he said, sighing, as though he had put a bookmark in and closed up this chapter of us. “And then you know, figure stuff out afterward.”
“After the whole survival thing is resolved?”
“Yeah. Okay?” He looked at me for the first time in this whole exchange and it was so quick, no more than a courtesy. But at least then he couldn’t see the mist in my eyes. I was grateful for the darkness.
What choice did I have? I nodded, steadying my voice. “Sure, it’s better than trying to multitask right now.”
“Hey,” he said now, even quieter. “Do you hear that?”
I hadn’t. I had to struggle to turn up the volume on the rest of the world, on the things I needed to pay attention to in order to continue living and breathing. But right now I didn’t feel like I was doing either of those.
I had been hurt that night I kissed Lucian. Part of it may have been a secret thrill, I suppose, but a larger part was surely retaliation. I didn’t want this to happen. Lance felt so far away from me, like he wasn’t mine. And now all the good flooded back. Escaping the flames of the Lexington together, that kiss in the alley after we survived. Or even here, before we became so engrossed in the madness of this place. I didn’t understand when or how this slipping away had happened. I wish I had asked, but how do you ask something like that? And is it worth it when the answer won’t change the outcome?
Infatuate Page 20
