After breakfast, they walked from the patio to what appeared to be a large atrium. Instead of normal walls, windows stretched from the floor to a ceiling that was also made entirely of glass. Standing in the domed room, they could see everything outside and in. The room was being prepared for dancing. The stone floor had been polished and large groups of people milled around carrying flowers, dishes, and gauzy red tablecloths.
But what was most remarkable about the glass-encased room was that at the back of it two marble staircases climbed up a full story, emptying out at the top of a large hill—not a balcony that looked like a hill, but an actual hillside that formed the back wall of the atrium. Napper had built this room up and around the top of the hill, encasing it in a building of glass and marble. As such, the hill looked startlingly out of place and all the more beautiful.
Vivi saw Ella staring and explained, “He’s a bit of an eccentric. He wanted to build his house around the natural beauties of the land.”
And so he had. Wildflowers, grasses, and herbs sprouted up on the face of the hill. There were butterflies and bees that occasionally flitted through the main room before finding their way back to the natural landscape at its back, unaware that through the glass window panes that comprised the ceilings and walls, winter hovered, waiting for its entrance.
At the center of the hilltop sat an old stone structure that looked like it’d be more at home with Greek ruins than in southern Indiana. It was pock-marked and ugly with a cement pedestal that held a round basin at its top—almost like an ancient bird bath. Napper obviously liked it. It seemed his mansion and this room had been built onto the hillside with the express purpose of preserving the relic.
“Come,” Vivi said, leading Ella to one of the marble staircases. The staircases were wide and open with works of art, statues, portraits, and artifacts encased in glass cabinets at different points as you walked up the stairs.
Ella stopped to admire several of the paintings that she knew she’d seen in her mother’s old art history book, as well as several ancient weapons that Vivi told her had been discovered on the grounds when the first Nappers had settled the town. The craftsmanship was amazing—double-edged swords, spears, daggers, and scythes—all with etchings of unusual birds, insects, and calligraphy-type letters. Ella wished she could open a case and hold one—just for a minute. She placed her fingers gently on the glass.
“They don’t make things the way they used to now, do they, my dear?”
Ella jumped. Napper had come up behind her just as quietly as Vivi usually did. He held a carved wooden walking stick in his left hand and was wearing a suit that was clearly tailored, but looked old-fashioned—like Napper had just walked out of a 1935 boutique. He was much taller than Ella had realized, without any stoop to his features. His hair was gray and his face bore several dignified wrinkles, but his hands were smooth, white, and impeccably groomed.
“Ella,” Vivi was saying. “This is Mister Napper.”
“Pleased to meet you at last,” Napper said, holding out a delicate hand.
Ella took it and he pressed gently.
“Quite a privilege to meet the young lady who will complete our little ceremony tomorrow night.”
Ella nodded stupidly, and together Napper and Vivi walked with her back to the bottom level.
They stood directly in the center of the room and Ella realized there was a third staircase—built, or formed, into the rocky edge of the hillside that protruded into Mr. Napper’s house. Napper and Vivi paused, and Ella realized that this was where the ceremony would begin.
Vivi and Napper were hushed, staring at her with a silence that seemed to need breaking.
“So, are we waiting for anyone else?” Ella asked, a little too loudly.
Vivi pinched her lips together, but Napper smiled. “Mostly this rehearsal is so you feel comfortable tomorrow night. Others will have small roles to play, but yours, my dear, will be the biggest.”
Ella nodded. “And this is where I’ll go?” she asked, nodding at the staircase carved into the hillside.
“Yes,” Vivi said. “The ceremony will begin exactly at midnight. You’ll wait for the twelve strokes of the clock, and then you’ll begin your ascent.”
Napper nodded encouragingly at Ella. “Give it a try.”
Ella placed a tentative foot on the bottom step. It seemed solid enough. “Don’t worry, my dear,” Napper said. “Each step will be illuminated by a small, red candle. But do be careful. We wouldn’t want you to lose your footing and hurt yourself.”
Ella put a foot on the bottom stair, then turned back. “And the stone,” Ella asked. “Where will I get it?”
“It will be presented to you at the bottom of the staircase,” Napper said. “Simply take it in both hands”—he cupped his hands as if to demonstrate—“before ascending the stairs.”
Ella thought it odd that the person who was to give her the stone was not also at the rehearsal breakfast.
Slowly, Ella climbed the staircase. The steps were uneven—some short, some tall, some narrow, some wide, but they were all sturdy and Ella made it to the top with Vivi and Napper following behind. The stone staircase opened out beautifully onto the balcony-hilltop. In front of her was the odd stone structure that resembled a concrete birdbath. Except that as she got closer, she realized that it was an old sun dial, lined and etched with worn symbols representing sun and moon.
“Wow,” she said.
“Indeed,” Napper replied. “Now when you get to the top, I, your aunt, and several others will be standing behind this tablet, candles at our feet. You’ll come here and turn to face the crowd—no need for a microphone; the acoustics are remarkable. When you’re facing the crowd, we’ll be behind you.” He demonstrated by standing behind her, slightly to her left. “We’ll pick up our candles and you’ll begin reciting the poem.”
Ella took her place and began reciting the poem.
Napper cut her off after only a few words. “Very good, my dear. At its conclusion, you’ll place the stone here in this indentation.” He pointed to a small indent that looked like a tiny moon belonged in it.
“Then,” Napper continued, “there will be, I’m sure, some applause, and the party will resume.”
“And when I’m done, where will I go?” Ella asked, looking Napper directly in the eyes.
He smiled. “When you’re done, I or your dear aunt will lead you to your place among your peers.”
Ella glanced at Vivi, though she didn’t dare look her in the eyes, didn’t dare ask where exactly she and her “peers” would then be led.
Witten opened the door of his small apartment to see his niece standing in front of him with a box of chocolates in her hands.
“Emmaline,” Witten said, more than a little surprised. “I thought you weren’t coming for Christmas. Where is your mother?”
“She could not come,” the little girl said. “But an old gentleman accompanied me here.”
Napper stepped from the shadows of the hallway and tipped his hat at the stunned teacher. “It was the least I could do this holiday season,” he said. “We wouldn’t want families to be apart.”
“Where is my sister?” Witten asked.
“Oh, she is quite well in Paris,” Napper said. “Though she does hope you’ll keep the child safe during her stay here.”
Witten felt like all the blood had fallen to his feet. He held the door frame for support.
“Not to worry,” the philanthropist said cheerfully. “All we need you to do is your part.”
And with that, he left the girl and her uncle.
“Isn’t it wonderful, oncle?” the little girl cooed. “Come, have a chocolat.”
But Witten was not the least bit hungry. He shut the door, bolting the heavy lock, though it was—he knew—a useless gesture.
Chapter 60
On the morning of the Festival, they drove to Vivi’s salon. At least there were some advantages to being the fatted calf. For the next four hours, Ella w
as pampered as she’d never been before. They put fresh highlights in her hair—red streaks like rubies. They did her nails and exfoliated her feet, smoothed her skin and massaged her scalp, then layered on a dizzying succession of concealers and foundations, eye shadows and liners. Her hair was then washed, dried, and pulled through what seemed to Ella a confusing combination of curling irons and straightening tools until Ella felt that her face and hair were just as smooth and clear as polished stone. And just as blank.
Ella was grateful for that. Every time she looked at Vivi she was worried she’d give herself away. But throughout the day, Vivi barely acknowledged her.
A limo would arrive just before eight. Vivi tapped on Ella’s door close to seven thirty. “Are you about ready?”
Ella stepped from her bathroom with the perfect red dress and stood in front of the full-length fairy tale mirror. Vivi had bought her delicate, satin gold slippers to go with it and a small golden clutch. For one small moment, Ella looked at herself and wished that she could forget about evil schemes and shapeshifting geniuses, that she could just swirl around in a beautiful dress, and dance.
When Ella stepped from the room, Vivi smiled—her teeth lined up in two spotless, alabaster rows. Ella knew that this was not her aunt, that this woman was an imposter who was not on her side.
Still, to look at Vivi was almost to trust her. She wore a silk evening gown, purple so dark it was almost black. When Vivi moved it was like the deepest waters of a midnight pond. The hem fell to the floor in a direct line that seemed purposeful and concrete while the shoulder straps were gauzy and feminine, highlighting Vivi’s collarbone and flawless skin. Her heels clicked like those of an important woman and her hair was a combination of tight and loose curl pinned up with garnet barrettes so that it fell or stayed put just as if Vivi had photoshopped it there.
“It’s almost time,” Vivi said, handing Ella a tube of crimson red lipstick. “The limo should be here any minute.”
Ella lined her lips with care, then filled them in—her mouth like roses, like beetles, like blood. She felt like a geisha, a child bride—ready to be led to her new destiny, powerless to change it.
Ella hoped things were less chic and more productive on Sam’s end.
Sam realized something on his second trip to the Napper Psychiatric Institution in the middle of the night. Things were easy when you had a master key.
Of course, he’d always known this. Things were easy for people with lots of money or really good looks, connections, status. Those were all types of master keys and they did all kinds of things. Master keys got you into places you shouldn’t be, and out of trouble if someone found you there.
And so it was for him. Into the institution, into Sarah’s room just like that. No one heard him walking through the halls, no one noticed the small click of the key. In the office downstairs he’d taken a moment to disable the entire security system. That was where a master key got you.
But there was one thing a master key could not do. It could not wake Sarah up. She lay there, hooked up to her tubes and monitors and medicines, sleeping like she could go on for a hundred years. It would have been nice if a kiss could awaken her. But tonight he needed something stronger.
Sam had avoided looking at the moon all night. He had worn sunglasses to the institution and walked through halls and rooms with no windows. But even without looking, he had felt the moon. It, he knew, had risen slowly, brilliantly from the southeast and now sat cock-eyed on the horizon—a white snowdrop ready to welcome winter into its gaze. Even the knowledge of this made him hungry.
He took a package of beef jerky from his coat pocket and opened it. He hadn’t had meat for weeks, and he didn’t eat it yet.
For a moment, he sat beside Sarah, watching her chest rise and fall, her hands soft at her sides, her hair sprawling across the pillow in waves of burnt red, rebelling against the forced slumber, the white sheets. He touched her hair, then sat for a minute holding her hand. On her wrist was a hospital bracelet, one with a small chip inside that would set off an alarm if she left the room.
Gently, he leaned down and pressed his mouth softly to her forehead. It was, after all, worth a try.
She didn’t move. But Sam wanted to remember anyway. After tonight, it was likely she would refuse to see him again, if there was a him left to see.
He released her hand and placed it on the bed. Then he stood up and dug into the bag of jerky, finishing every last bit in only a few minutes. He threw the bag away and opened the thick shades that covered her window. The moon was so white the edges blurred into silver against the winter sky. Sam took off his sunglasses and met the moon with his gaze.
His heart pumped, his head pounded. He wanted to shut his eyes to close it out, or jump right into it. Instead, he sat and stared. From across the city he heard noises—music, dancing, laughter. The Festival had begun. From across the city he smelled food—roast pheasant and pig, chickens in creamy wine sauces, veal cut into delicate slices. They were not avoiding meat.
Without turning back to Sarah, Sam opened his mouth, feeling each sharp new tooth with his tongue. And then he hit the window hard with his now large, thick shoulder. The double pane shattered into a thousand pieces which fell like angry sleet to the grass below. Sarah stirred. From the nurses station Sam heard noises—papers dropped, the scrape of chairs, and then footsteps. So slow and soft, their human feet.
In a solid movement, he scooped Sarah into his arms, ripping the tubes and needles from her sweet, smooth skin, and then he climbed to the window, and jumped.
By the time the nurses banged into the ruined room, he was across the grounds and over the fence.
Sarah was awake now, if you could call it that. Her eyes were glazed and glassy, forehead slick with sweat. “Stop it,” she said, shaking her head at nothing. “Stop it.”
Weakly, she pressed away from Sam, pushing against his chest. “Leave me alone, you nightmare,” she said, slurring her words.
“Sarah,” he said, slowing in his run near the south side of The Property. “Can you hear me?”
“Stop it,” she said again. “I hear you every night. I don’t want to anymore.”
The words stung, even though Sam knew they weren’t really for him. They were for the monsters in her drug-induced dreams, the monsters intended to keep her in the institution, not get her out, the monsters that looked a lot like him.
“Sarah,” he said again. “I’m taking you somewhere safe. Safe from the night and the moon and the creatures it provokes.”
Sarah kicked him in the gut, pounded his shoulder with her fists. “Stop it,” she said, crying now. Each blow was like tiny butterfly punches to Sam’s thick skin, but it still hurt.
“Sarah,” he said, setting her down by the fence posts of The Property and holding her shoulders so she wouldn’t slump on her weakened legs. “I’m taking you to meet Zinnie. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’m taking you there.”
Sarah looked at his face for the first time that night, squinting through the confusion that still threatened to overtake her. “Zinnie,” she said, without slurring.
“Yes,” Sam said, slightly relieved. “Zinnie. My friend.”
“Zinnie,” she said again, shaking her head, and then adding, “Sam?”
He wanted to lean in and hug her. Instead he turned from her and her question. He faced the posts in front of them, ready to bend them open so they could step through.
“If you’re Sam, then crawl,” she said. “Crawl through the licorice post.”
In the distance, Sam heard police sirens start up—heading off into different sections of town—searching.
“I never said I was Sam,” he replied, bending a post and creating an opening.
She had dropped to her knees and was searching for the candy post. Two sirens pummeled toward the south side of town.
“Please Sarah; we have to hurry.”
“Then find it,” she said. “And crawl through.”
“I can�
�t. I’m too big.”
“Then help me,” she said.
“I am,” he roared, reaching toward her as though to grab her and drag her through the opening he’d made.
She scuttled back from him, scooting away like a drunken crab. Sam stopped, opened his mouth to curse, and then shut it again silently. He turned, running along the fence to the licorice post. He pushed it aside and held it for Sarah. “Come on,” he said.
She crawled through almost on her belly. Behind them they heard a sound. Sam turned. His neighbor stood in the lawn, staring. He was wearing only boxer shorts and holding a joint. “It’s medicinal,” the man said, his mouth hanging half open.
“Good,” Sam said, nodding politely before turning to the fence and bending an opening big enough for a werewolf to fit through.
He took Sarah’s hand and half pulled, half helped her up the path and then stopped. There was smoke everywhere. Sam paused. Not smoke, but dust. Sam waved it away, coughing. Sarah held her sleeve over her mouth. Out of the fog came a figure, pale and sallow-skinned, her mostly bald head dotted with sparse patches of long white hair that dangled from it like drift weed.
Sarah screamed.
The woman smiled sadly. Her lips were cracked and gray, teeth yellow, though still square and strong as ever.
“Zinnie,” Sam whispered.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Zinnie said, reaching up a papery hand to touch his cheek. “The house is crumbling. I’m afraid we won’t make it through the night.”
“You can’t stay,” Sam said. A chunk of Zinnie’s house fell to the earth—from brick to dust in no more than seconds.
Zinnie laughed—a tinge of her youth hanging onto the sound. “No dear,” she said. “What I can’t do is go.” She handed Sam a small vial of a tonic he had requested. Then she held up a basket of cakes with a thermos of tea. “This tea should clear her mind,” the old witch said. “Now take her somewhere safe.”
Sam took the basket, then bent down to kiss Zinnie’s balding head. When he turned back to Sarah, she was crying. All the sirens were heading this way now—four cars down four different roads. The south side wasn’t that big. They would be here soon.
Grey Lore Page 31
