by Amber Benson
Francesca’s voice was inside her, rattling around in her head. She opened her eyes and found Francesca’s inky black irises boring into her own.
—You’re the last of us. You must go to the Pillar before the blood moon passes the meridian—only then can the truth go out to the rest of our world. You will dream them into knowing who we are, that the witches are here on this Earth and will not be ignored or forgotten ever again.
The words rained down on Lizbeth’s hungry mind like water—there was so much information, it was hard to take it in, but she let it all wash over her.
—The one you call friend, this “Lyse” woman? She is a Judas. She has already betrayed you once and she will do it again before the day is through. Kill her if you can. Stop her from playing her part in their plans.
Lizbeth was appalled. This was not the Lyse she knew. Lyse was her friend and would never betray her. She wanted to ask Francesca how she knew these things, but Francesca was not done.
—Go down to the catacombs. The others are there waiting. They’ve been trapped for so long . . . set them free and their power will be yours to command. But first I must give you the word. Will you receive it?
“I will,” Lizbeth said—and then a searing, white-hot pain shot through her hands, up her arms, through her chest and neck, and into her head. She screamed as a million points of light burned like fireworks inside her skull, information downloading into her brain like she was some kind of human hard drive. Tears coursed down her cheeks, her body buzzing with enough energy to split her like an atom.
And then it was over.
Her head ached and she felt strange, kind of woozy on her feet.
—Go to the catacombs. Take your brother and Daniela. Leave the Judas here for me. She will be taken care of.
Francesca’s voice was growing weak, her energy expended.
“LB?”
Lizbeth blinked.
She was standing on the path, her back to the fountain, her hands in her hair. She released the strands of russet, and they fell like a fan across her throat, the spray from the fountain tickling her bare neck. The villa lay before them, a massive stone edifice with towering Doric columns and a wide flight of stairs that stretched like a beige skirt across the front of the building.
To her right the small stone circular building with its shaded portico and heavy wooden door was gone—in its place stood two alabaster obelisks sanded so smooth they appeared to gleam like pillars of water in the sunlight.
“LB? Are you even listening to me?”
Lizbeth turned her head. Daniela was standing beside her, pink hair falling around her face like a frame, a concerned expression on her face. Lizbeth realized this concern was directed at her. She shook her head, a subtle movement meant to clear her mind.
“I’m fine,” she replied, smiling back at Daniela. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
As Daniela prattled on—rehashing the need to stay together, blah, blah, blah—Lizbeth’s mind raced, trying to understand what had just happened to her. The whole experience had felt so real: Francesca, the small circular building, Lyse being a Judas . . . it had all been in her imagination.
Or had it?
She could feel the energy pulsing through her body, a heightened awareness of how her muscles and skeleton worked: The flutter of her eyelashes, the beat of her heart in her chest, the subtle rise and fall of chest as her lungs and diaphragm worked in tandem to make her breathe. It felt as if her body were just a flesh-and-bone vessel, carrying her thoughts and emotions . . . her essence . . . everything that made her Lizbeth.
But now she was so much more than that; Francesca had burned the word into her soul and it swirled around, mixing with the rest of her thoughts and feelings. It pulsed and wove its way around her brain, enticing her forward, suggesting the next moves for her to make as if her life had become some kind of game.
Tell Daniela.
It was a command, and it pushed her to open her mouth. She looked up and saw that Lyse and Weir were still heading toward the villa’s front entrance. Definitely out of earshot.
“Wait up!” Lizbeth called to Daniela, running to catch up to her. For someone so small, Daniela moved like a flash.
“What is it?” Daniela asked, barely slowing her pace. Lizbeth, who was head and shoulders taller than her pink-haired friend, had to jog to keep up.
“Was there ever a circular building? Over there, on the far side of the fountain. Where those two obelisks stand now?”
She knew the answer—the whole sorry event had been placed into her mind, like a movie on a loop. Daniela stopped midstride.
“Why are you asking me that?” Her tone was subdued, but she was gritting her teeth, working the muscles in her jaw.
“I don’t know—”
“A long time ago. It was demolished a long time ago,” Daniela paused, working hard to catch her breath—which didn’t make sense, they hadn’t been walking that fast—and then Lizbeth realized Daniela was actually trying not to cry. “But the obelisks, they’re a tribute to my mother and the others that were killed in the accident with her.”
“I’m sorry—” Lizbeth said, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to touch Daniela and reaching out a hand.
Luckily, Daniela had enough on the ball to see what was happening and step out of the way before Lizbeth could get close enough to reach her.
“I always forget,” Lizbeth murmured. “To not touch you.”
“It’s okay,” Daniela said, using the distraction to pull herself together. “They said it was a technical error, the train derailing? An accident. Officially. But I don’t believe it. And everything that’s happening now just confirms that for me.”
She held her ground, waiting for Lizbeth to say something.
Tell her.
Lizbeth didn’t like to be told what to do, but the thought was insistent and would not be put away without her addressing it.
“A woman named Francesca was with your mother—”
Daniela’s face went ashen, but she nodded. “Yes, she was like family. She helped to raise me. She was with my mother when . . . they died together—”
Daniela frowned as a group of German tourists walked past them, their guttural tones breaking the sense of intimacy they’d shared. They were the first people Lizbeth had seen in the gardens since they’d arrived. Somehow it took away the air of mystery the villa possessed, making it seem like any other tourist trap.
“Go on,” Daniela said, once the Germans had passed.
Lizbeth tried not to let her gaze drift in Lyse’s direction, but it was hard. She and Weir were deep in conversation by the stairs, Weir’s hand on her arm. Lizbeth sighed and dragged her eyes away.
Daniela was waiting for her.
“She came to me. She wasn’t a Dream Walker, but more . . . a moment in time. Like an insect trapped in amber,” Lizbeth said.
Daniela’s eyes lit up like candles, two hungry flames searching for oxygen, or, in this case, a glimpse of someone she’d thought she’d lost forever.
“Is she here now?” she said. “Can we speak to her? Is my mother with her?”
Lizbeth shook her head.
“No. She’s gone now . . . and your mother was never here.”
The glow went out of Daniela’s eyes and a sense of melancholy settled over them both. Navigating the minefield of another person’s grief was delicate business, Lizbeth saw.
“But Francesca gave me a message. And I think it was the power of the message that kept her spirit here.”
“And what did she tell you?” Daniela asked, shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other.
“That we can’t trust Lyse,” Lizbeth said, and she was surprised at how easily it rolled off her tongue.
“No,” Daniela said. “That doesn’t make any sense—”
“—Francesca s
ays that she’s already betrayed me once.”
“No,” Daniela murmured. “That can’t be right. I don’t believe it.”
Judas.
The word sprang into her head and she wished she could punch Lyse in the back of the neck. Paralyze her, or better yet, kill her.
Lizbeth swallowed hard, nauseated by the dark turn her thoughts had taken.
I’m not this person, she thought. Even if Lyse did betray us, that doesn’t mean I should kill her.
Besides, it didn’t seem possible Lyse could be a Judas—but then Lizbeth supposed that was the point: You weren’t supposed to trust someone who looked like they were going to betray you.
“We have to get away from her,” Lizbeth heard herself saying. “Ditch her in the catacombs—”
Daniela shook her head.
“We can’t do this. It’s not right.”
Lizbeth shook her head, the heat from the sun bearing down on the back of her neck, making her skin itch.
“She’ll destroy everything,” Lizbeth said—and then shook her head, not sure where the thought had come from.
“I just . . .” Daniela sighed, and Lizbeth could see how conflicted she was. “If this is what my mother wanted us to do . . .”
“It is. It’s exactly what she wanted,” Lizbeth said. “Lyse is part of the whole thing. She’s in league with The Flood. With those that killed your mother.”
Daniela’s face was ashen.
“No,” she said.
“Lyse is a Judas. She has to be stopped.”
Daniela nodded, eyes shiny as she fought back tears.
“Okay. We ditch Lyse and get the hell out of here as soon as we can.”
You’re an open book, Lizbeth thought as she watched Daniela go, the rigid set of her friend’s shoulders informing the world she was on a mission. You give everything away.
But there was nothing Lizbeth could do about it. She didn’t really understand what was happening to her, but she knew she had to do what she was told. Saying no wasn’t an option.
* * *
The four of them were huddled together in the semidarkness of the underground catacombs that stretched out beneath the grounds of the Villa Nomentana. The musty dampness filled Lizbeth’s nostrils as they moved single file through the claustrophobic tunnels cut out of the soft volcanic rock. She’d tucked in between Daniela and Weir, Lyse leading the way. The group of German tourists from the gardens was ahead of them, chatting in their native language. Lizbeth had no idea what they were saying.
Their young Italian guide spoke in heavily accented English, stopping them here and there to point out certain frescoes, their colors aged and faded in the darkness. One was of two beautifully rendered menorahs surrounding a golden building Lizbeth figured was probably a temple. They followed the guide into another, larger room. It was a burial chamber and Lizbeth could see the graves hewn from the rock walls, the ceiling a muted watercolor painting awash with Judaic motifs.
As the guide chattered on about the burial practices of Roman Jews, the Germans listening attentively, Lyse came to stand beside Lizbeth. She’d slipped her red hoodie on when they’d entered the catacombs, and it was the brightest thing in the murky light of the burial chamber.
“Any idea what we do now?” Lyse whispered, keeping watch over the guide and the German tourists out of the corner of her eye. “You’re the only one who’s read the notebook . . .”
Judas.
The word invaded her thoughts again. She tried to push it away, but she wasn’t the one in control.
“You don’t trust me enough to share the info?” Lyse asked, teasing.
“I know what you are.”
“Excuse me?” Lyse said, taking a step back from Lizbeth.
Lizbeth countered the retreat, moving into Lyse’s personal space, anger consuming her and making her want to intimidate the smaller woman.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Lizbeth growled, getting her face as close to Lyse’s as she dared. “You’re playing a game that you won’t win.”
Lyse shook her head.
“I don’t understand, LB—”
Lizbeth’s eyes flashed in the half-light.
“Eleanora may have left you in charge, but that’s only because she didn’t know what you were all about.”
Lyse’s blue eyes flared in anger.
“Something’s wrong with you,” Lyse said, shaking her head. “This isn’t you.”
Judas.
The word was a catalyst, enflaming Lizbeth, making her shake with rage.
“You want to wreck everything. To destroy what we’ve been working for,” Lizbeth said, sneering at Lyse.
Weir had noticed something was wrong. He came over, standing between the women and placing a hand on each of their shoulders.
“What’s going on here?”
Lizbeth shrugged out of his grasp and took off.
“Ask your girlfriend, Weir. She’s the Judas!” she called over her shoulder before disappearing into the darkness.
She headed away from the rest of the group, down one of the less well-lit tunnels that branched off from the burial chamber, following the voice in her head as it urged her to move quickly. To get away from Lyse.
She could hear Weir cursing and then the scrabble of feet in the dirt—probably him coming after her. She hated to do it this way, but Lizbeth had no other option. She needed to find the Dream Keepers and release them, channeling their powers into her own—whatever that meant. From there she would escape the catacombs and continue on her journey.
In her mind’s eye, she could see her final destination calling to her. The Pillar was a lonely place, shrouded in cloud—and it was there she would meet her destiny.
Because the blood moon was on the rise.
And time was growing very, very short.
Lyse
The next few minutes happened in slow motion, the flow from inaction to action, so smooth even someone trained to notice such things would’ve been hard-pressed to pick up on the cues. Lyse, who’d been blindsided by Lizbeth’s odd behavior, missed it completely—and even if she had realized what was about to come, in retrospect, there really wasn’t anything she could’ve done to prevent it.
Still, guilt had a funny way of perverting the truth. Especially when you were at your weakest. That was when the recriminations tiptoed in on silent feet and ripped your heart out—but that wouldn’t come until later. At the precise moment that the German tourists ceased to be tourists and turned into militant commandoes, Lyse’s brain stopped processing the past or future and just started reacting to the onslaught of insanity that had become her present.
One second Lyse was standing in the middle of the subterranean chamber watching Lizbeth disappear into the darkness of an unlit tunnel, one that was obviously not part of the tour; the next, all hell was breaking loose.
Two of the Germans dropped their backpacks and took off after Lizbeth. They raced past Lyse, pushing her out of their path with enough force that she was slammed into the wall, her left elbow and hip hitting the stone with a bone-jarring crunch. As she slid to the ground, pain ratcheting up her left side, she saw two more of the German tourists, a man and woman heading in Weir’s direction.
“Behind you!” she screamed as the woman took her backpack and slung it at Weir’s head. It was enough of a warning that he was able to dodge the blond woman’s attack.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lyse saw Daniela slam the heel of her shoe into the solar plexus of one of the other Germans, sending the man flying backward into the hollow of an empty burial slab. The man caromed off the stone and landed at the feet of their Italian tour guide, who decided to cut his losses and take off toward the entrance of the catacombs.
The German woman grabbed the guide by the head and quickly snapped his neck, his lifeless body crumpling to the
ground. Lyse stared at the man’s body, in shock until she heard Daniela call out:
“I’ll find Lizbeth!”
“Run,” Lyse yelled back at her. “There were two of them after her—”
Daniela shot her a quick nod and then took off like a shot down the unlit tunnel. Lyse watched her go but was quickly distracted when the blond woman—the only female in the group—decided she was easy pickings and descended on her.
Shit, Lyse thought as the woman brandished her backpack over her head like a medieval flail.
Lyse pushed off the stone wall, leaping out of the way just as the woman attacked with the backpack. It smashed into the stone, breaking off a chunk of the frescoed wall—art that had survived for centuries now ruined in mere seconds.
Lyse had never been great in a fight. She’d survived the encounter with her uncle only because Eleanora had intervened. Now she was on her own and whether she lived or died was solely up to her—but there was something about the immediacy of death that narrowed your focus down to a pinhole. Everything else fell away. All the worry and fear that were part of being human disappeared as instinct kicked in and your body became a tool to beat the ever-loving crap out of the thing that was trying to end you.
Her life had been upended, she’d found and lost the only family she’d ever known, and now Lizbeth was accusing her of God knew what . . . well, she was sick and tired of being life’s whipping boy. Enough was enough.
“Screw you!” she screamed at the blond woman, all of the fury and fear she’d amassed over the last few weeks coming to a head.
She gave a guttural battle cry, the sound a visceral manifestation of the raw emotion percolating inside her, and, like a berserker no longer in control of her actions, she ran headlong into battle. A red haze of rage clouded her vision, her focus lasered in on the blond bitch with the backpack. The blonde hadn’t expected Lyse to go on the offensive and was clearly thrown by this flipping of the script as Lyse’s body barreled directly into her.
The backpack crashed into Lyse’s head, the woman getting in one good blow before they both crashed to the stone floor. The bag was loaded down with something heavy, opening a gash in the side of Lyse’s scalp as it connected with her head. Her vision pinwheeled, unconsciousness hovering at the periphery, but she managed to push it away as she fought to get back onto her feet. The blonde was in better shape, recovering more quickly. She was already swinging before Lyse could find her footing. Lyse ducked out of the way, evading the blonde’s extended reach, the backpack millimeters above the top of her head.
