Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2)

by A. C. Dillon

  Andrew. Her mind reached for the tourmaline she knew was in her pocket and with it, she fought her way back to the surface. His embrace warmed her as she clawed through the mire, reaching for light, for him. A translucent hand reached down and she grabbed on, thinking of her first dance with a man who loved her.

  I have come too goddamn far to die now!

  With a shaky gasp, she surfaced inside her battered body, crumpling immediately to the concrete and burying her face as sticky droplets spattered against her legs. Blood, she knew. Morgan's blood. There was a sickening thump and the bounce of the revolver. Somewhere, Veronica was screaming for help.

  Distantly, she heard Danielle's hiss of satisfaction. Revenge. She had asked for it. She sure as hell had it now.

  An alarm bell. Fire alarm? Had someone heard their ordeal? Was someone coming? Wearily, she turned her head, seeking out Veronica. Her blue eyes were rimmed red, her cheeks stained with tears and blood.

  "S’okay. They're gone now," Autumn murmured.

  A high-pitched whisper. "Autumn?"

  "Mmm?"

  "What... What the fuck just happened?"

  Fire. Every nerve lit up like a pinball machine celebrating a conquering arcade hero. It was hard to breathe beneath the suffocating heat of her pain. "If I live...” Autumn licked her chapped lips, grimacing as she tasted the rusty salt of her wounds. “If… I'll tell you..."

  “That’s not funny,” Veronica chided.

  Autumn glared at her. “Not... kidding…”

  A crescendo of voices from beyond the storage room door gave Autumn hope. Cavalry? Veronica rushed towards the promising sound, shouting at the top of her lungs. Nearly struck with the metal door as it swung open, Veronica practically threw her arms around the neck of a police officer in relief.

  "We need help!" she pleaded. "My friend, she's hurt really badly."

  Autumn groaned as she tried to roll onto her side and quickly gave up. "A scratch."

  As one of the officers crouched beside her, a security guard caught a glimpse of Morgan's corpse and promptly rushed from the room, gagging. It was so hard to focus on anything now. The room was cloaked in a silvered haze, faces blurred and indistinct. Autumn closed her eyes, craving the relief of oblivion, only to have a hand shake her shoulder violently.

  "Stay awake," the voice commanded. "You have a concussion."

  "No shit," she muttered, her eyes rolling back.

  Veronica... Where did Veronica go? She couldn't hear her. Had they taken her away? Someone was mumbling beside her, formless sounds caught between the static bursts and heavy feet on concrete. Every step was a jackhammer in her skull, vibrating up through her temple as it soaked up the merciful cool of stone.

  And then, the world came back into focus.

  "AUTUMN!"

  "Sir, you can't go in there—"

  "Like hell I can't!"

  "Andrew," she breathed. "I... him..."

  Motion. The kaleidoscopic colours shifted and like the magic of a child's toy, an image formed: Andrew, as beautiful as ever, his hair unruly and wild. Her hand crawled spider-like upon her fingertips, reaching for him. Because she needed him. She'd always need him.

  "Shit," he cursed emphatically, dropping to his knees beside her. "What did she do to you?"

  "To be fair... I did try to choke her," Autumn whispered. "My rib broke."

  "Just one? That might be a miracle in and of itself." Brushing her damp hair from her face, he leaned in to kiss her bruised cheek. "I love you."

  Drawing a ragged breath, she winced as something shifted in her chest. "I love you… more."

  "That argument again? Maybe you should save your breath, since it's so clearly laboured." Gesturing to her unusual position, he added, "Can you move? Should you?"

  She blinked hard, struggling to keep him in focus. "I think... that would be... unwise."

  "I'm coming to you, then. Stay put," he added lightly.

  Andrew lowered himself to the ground, lying on his side in a mixture of dust, grime and bloody debris. Her hand slid over his, managing the faintest of squeezes. I'm still here. I'm with you. Beyond him, people chattered and moved about, but it was all noise now. This was their world; the others were lucky to play a chorus role in it.

  "That's going to stain," she lamented, looking to his black t-shirt.

  "It's worth it. Besides, Abercrombie seems hard up. They could use my cash, I figure."

  "Wrecked... your shirt," she murmured, thinking of the blood and sweat permeating the cotton fabric clinging to her torso.

  Andrew shrugged. "It had a good five-year run. Looks great on you, even now."

  So tired... His hand squeezed hers, jarring her back to reality.

  "Would you... wreck the jacket... for me?" she asked.

  "Anything for you," he vowed, his thumb running along her jaw. “Fuck.” He traced upwards to her cheek, where Autumn was certain an enormous purple welt was forming.

  "Hmm... I want... a pony, then.”

  "You forget I actually have the money to buy you a pony.”

  "Ha... Why d'you think I'm asking?" Deep breath in. Huge mistake. A searing shock of agony shot through her side and she yelped, curling deeper into her semi-fetal position.

  "Clear out of the way!" a voice demanded roughly.

  Glancing behind him, Andrew reluctantly moved, his gaze fixed on her as the paramedics swarmed. A few mumbled answers to stupid questions later, they rolled her onto a hard board. It hurt, almost unbearably, but she bit back the scream lodged in her throat. He was worried enough.

  Up, up, up... and away. Away in a gurney, a crib-like bed for the nearly dead. Strapped in tight, as she'd always feared her depression would lead to. In this moment, it was soothing. She was still full of enough life to need containment.

  Her eyes strained to see around the paramedic barking readings off a machine beside her. "Hey..."

  Andrew rushed to her side, walking along with the gurney. "What is it?"

  "I'm coming home," she promised.

  A smile: she'd finally pulled one out of him. "Never doubted you for a second."

  She carried that smile, the faith he had in her, into the darkness.

  EPILOGUE

  There’s no place like home. Unless your dead great-grandmother is hanging around your bedroom.

  I stand at the doorway, watching as she examines the photos on my dresser. My parents and I, on vacation in Vancouver for the Olympics. Andrew and I, snapped last summer. Various snapshots of friends from school. Louise seems sad, although I don’t understand why. Even if she’d never been shot, she would most certainly be dead by now.

  “Are you going to stand there all day?”

  Nothing gets by her, it seems. I take a step forward and am suddenly aware of my bare feet. Puzzled, I glance down and gasp. I’m wearing the same gossamer gown as Louise. My stomach turns as the fear swells within.

  “I didn’t make it, did I?” I can’t breathe. The walls begin to blur as it sinks in. “Oh my God, it’s over. It’s done. It’s--”

  “You’re not dead.” Louise interrupts me, turning around with a weary smile. “Although it was closer than I would have preferred, you’re going to be okay.”

  “Then what is this? Why am I here? Why am I dressed like you?”

  My fingers rub circles into my aching temples, willing away a vicious drumming noise inside my head. The sunlight streaming in through the window is almost blinding, almost too white. I want to shut the curtains, shut out the world.

  “Not a good idea.” Louise edges closer, gesturing to our matching garb. “Everything here, everything you see, it’s a product of your mind. Your fears. I simply show up. You’re setting up our tea parties.”

  “Why isn’t it a good thing?” I don’t know why I’m asking. I know the answer.

  “The light is a good sign. Trust that. When the darkness comes…” Louise frowns, shaking her head. “It’s light. Be comforted by it.”

  It means life. It means I ca
n go back to my family, my friends. I tug absently at the dress, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. It’s surprisingly soft, yet durable.

  “I’m you now,” I tell her. “That’s why I’m wearing this. Because I can’t go back. I’ve crossed a line.”

  “You can always go back, Autumn. I could have made the choice. It’s still your door to open or close. But you know that it’s as much a gift as a curse. That there are benefits and liabilities. It’s about balance.”

  Balance. It’s not a set of scales, though. It’s a tightrope without a safety net. And yet, I know she’s right. Danielle was dangerous, but Sophia showed me enough to realize that my book was the key to saving lives. We saved Gabriel’s life. Veronica lived. So did I.

  I think I lived, anyway. Am living. Time is confusing in this family reunion limbo.

  “How did you find it? Balance, I mean.”

  Louise shakes her head slowly, her long brown hair tumbling across her ashen cheeks. Her finger reaches out to trace my mother’s face in a photograph.

  “That was my mistake,” she replies quietly. “I didn’t balance my life. I put the dead before the living, myself included.”

  The wound begins to bleed. Her bullet hole. Her own ending. I’m running out of time with her. This is the pattern. I press my hand against the blooming, bloody rose.

  “And my grandmother and mother swung the other way. They shut it off entirely.”

  She smiles wanly, her icy hands covering my own. “They were safe.”

  “Safe’s not my style, in case you haven’t noticed. But neither’s dead.”

  She begins to fade away, my hands tumbling through the ethers of her. A trace memory, degrading quickly. I want to cry because I understand her now. We have the same heart, the same need to help others. I came close to meeting a similar fate, back when the dead of Casteel demanded their due.

  She’s almost gone, now, just a face hanging in the air. A Cheshire Cat for this Wonderland I’ve chosen to embrace.

  “Then you’re a step ahead of me. You’ve learned the lesson. I’m proud. My work is done.”

  “Don’t leave me alone with this!”

  A laugh and she is gone, gone except her voice echoing through the house. It fills every room, reverberating until she is almost a choir. A chorus of one.

  “You’re never alone. The dead will make sure of it.”

  I don’t know whether I’m terrified or relieved. I fall to the floor and weep as the sun stretches languidly towards me. It cradles me in its warmth, a promise of hope.

  I’m alive. I am.

  I remember Louise’s words, hear her wisdom. “To close the door, you must open it.”

  Glancing up, I see my bedroom door and understand what I have to do to go home. With a steadying breath, I rise, my feet padding across the floor. From the hallway, I can hear them. The whispers, the tears. A child laughs.

  With a smile, I slam the door, relieved as the sounds of an emergency room grow louder…

  * * *

  It was three days later when Autumn truly felt awake and part of the world again.

  Granted, she was a battered, bedridden version of herself, but at least she could manage to stay conscious for longer than a few minutes. Once the doctors gave her clearance, she'd collapsed into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

  For all of the sparring she'd done with Morgan, she'd come away with minimal injuries. Aside from a cracked rib (the second-lowest one, Andrew had translated from the doctor-speak), purple bruises and a mild headache were all that remained of the ordeal.

  Well, that and the anxiety attacks. But she was ignoring them, chalking up the gasping breaths to the angry muscle and tissue around her lungs. Andrew sensed the truth but he was playing along, just as she hoped he would. Her mother and father, however, were having none of it. They'd done this dance of disorder with her before, back when she'd fought tooth and nail to keep her secrets.

  Some things never change.

  Veronica, the only other living witness to Morgan's suicide, had trotted out a believable party line—a crisis of conscience, brought about by remembering how her lover had perished in that same room. Autumn had pointed out that between her head injury and the struggle to breathe, it was impossible to focus on anything in those final moments, and Veronica’s version of the truth became the official record. A private conversation between them, however, jostled dogs best left sleeping.

  "I talked to Audrina," Veronica began.

  "Hmm? How's she?"

  "Worried about you. I'm worried, too." Veronica's head bowed, her long, blonde hair falling like a curtain, obscuring her features. "What you did... Audrina says it's incredibly dangerous. Especially with a vengeful spirit."

  Autumn sighed, mulling her friend's words. "I know... And I hate it. I hate that I'm this magic little portal the dead want to come cross through. It's creepy and violating, like I don't have my own space. But Veronica, she was going to kill us. And I couldn't let that happen. I was already close to it. I'd accepted that I might not get out of there. But you were not going to die."

  "I couldn't leave you." Anguish radiated from her friend, her hands wringing in her lap. "Because she would have killed you. You're my best friend in the world and I wasn't leaving you behind."

  "Well, that makes us a pair of idiots then. Loving idiots, but still..."

  Veronica grinned, leaning over to rest her head upon Autumn's shoulder. "Like we've ever been smart when it comes to danger. We're staying true to character, babe."

  "Life's a stage and all that jazz?" Autumn mused. "I'd like to retire now. Live a boring life as a crazy cat woman, bitching about the degrading quality of the music industry's offerings and watching too much Netflix."

  Veronica sat up suddenly, clearly agitated. "Oh! My agent is already getting calls from Investigation Discovery. Isn't that messed up?"

  "Wait, which show? Because Candice DeLong is a boss." Autumn had a special place in her heart for the snark of the former profiler, who hosted a show about murderous women.

  "No, no, the stalking one, I think."

  "Ah. Still a great one. I like her too."

  "Doesn't matter. I'm still trying to get my head around how I'm supposed to go back to work when our stage manager died there. I told them to piss off for a good year." Veronica reached for her bottle of water, taking a blatant sip to buy herself time. "Autumn?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Are you going to tell Andrew?"

  Autumn winced, shifting in her bed. She'd been debating how forthcoming to be with Andrew about her decision to call the dead home to roost in her torso, letting them wear her like a mascot costume. While he'd seemed to believe in her gifts after their time with Audrina, even she found it difficult to admit that a dead woman—two dead women, really—had taken the reins and promptly driven Veronica's stalker to suicide.

  All the same, he loved her as she was. She believed that. Which meant believing that she was a conduit, door or generic gateway to the living—pick a phrase to suit the mood.

  "I don't think I have a choice," she replied at last. "But not until we're home. Please, Veronica: not a word, alright?"

  "Fine. But we're totally going to take over this hospital room until you leave and make it our bitch."

  Translation: Veronica turned her room into a haven of song and careful laughter ("Mind the ribs!" was a frequent protest from Autumn and Andrew alike). An acoustic guitar materialized from somewhere, and between parental fretting and treats, Evan and Andrew took turns plucking out songs for their little group. Somewhere between Evan's punk rendition of 'Nsync's "It's Gonna Be Me" and Andrew's alt-country reworking of Haim's "The Wire", patients began wandering by her door in slow-motion. Once Veronica was recognized, the audience began to grow.

  "We might get kicked back to Canada soon," Neil observed as a nurse huffed by, ushering way their onlookers.

  "And lose out on all of the money they're charging our insurance?" Autumn quipped. "Not a chance, Dad. They're more likely
to start charging admission so they can take a cut as a venue fee."

  "Not on my watch!" Michele St. Clair, Veronica's mother, assured them with a smirk much like her daughter's.

  It was good to see the parents relaxed and generally getting along, although Evan's father, Justyn Kowalczyk, remained somewhat aloof and icy. Evan assured them that it was just his way, but Autumn sensed a little resentment towards Veronica. Despite Evan's heated reassurances to the contrary, Veronica had confided that he believed Evan was ditching his Sheffield admission at her request.

  Veronica's mother, sensing the rift, had quickly put the St. Clair charm to work. It was almost dizzying to behold, yet unsurprising; Michele was a key player in a major marketing firm. Selling the narrative was her forte. Even now, it was clear that Justyn was struggling not to smile.

  "He'll crack soon," she whispered to Andrew.

  "Might help if Evan and Veronica made their plans public," he mused.

  "Good call," Autumn whispered. Louder, she called out, "As much as I love all of you, I'm pretty sure this room wasn't built for... oh, seven visitors. Even if my mother did scare the crap out of the head nurse."

  "I was perfectly polite and reasonable," Sarah protested.

  "No, you were a teacher during finals, Mom. And that is downright scary."

  Mother glared playfully at daughter, who promptly directed a pointed glare at Evan. Fix your shit. Catching on, Evan looked to his father, appropriately contrite for a son who'd run off with a scribbled note to explain his departure from the country.

  "Maybe we should let Autumn rest. I'm pretty hungry."

  Veronica caught on. "Oh! There's an amazing restaurant about two blocks from here. Fantastic steaks. Great seafood," she added for her mother's benefit.

  "Excellent suggestion, Veronica," her mother enthused. "We can catch up, get something to eat, and discuss your move to London."

  "London?" Justyn's brow furrowed as he glanced over at his son. "It was my understanding that Veronica lived here."

  "I'm contractually bound for the year," Veronica explained. "Sales are through the roof, so I doubt we'll see an early closing. But after that, I'm free to move again. I happen to love soccer and rainy weather."