by Nichole Van
“Alright, so I did a quick google search for FUP,” Chiara continued, staring at her tablet. “Assuming that Roberto was not into Fuzzy Underwear for Pets—”
“His mom is Cat Lady.” I grinned.
Chiara ignored me.
“—FUP most likely refers to Fraternità degli Uomini e il Progresso . . . Brotherhood of Man and Progress—”
I whistled. “That sounds familiar.”
“It should. They’re a Tuscany-based Catholic religious group who seem to have an unhealthy obsession with the occult. They got website links here to demons, witchcraft, seances . . . the whole cliched schtik.” Chiara snorted. “Why is it the more into mystical, woo-woo stuff an organization delves, the more scientific sounding the name? Brotherhood of Man and Progress? Seriously?”
“If you make something sound scientific, then it must be credible? All this talk of demons is giving me goosebumps.” Mom shook her shoulders.
“I’ll give FUP a call to see if Roberto was involved with them.” Chiara stood to leave. “We might be on the wrong trail here, but I’m withholding judgment for now.”
“I, for one, am holding out for Fuzzy Underwear for Pets.” Mom winked.
I snorted. “I would think as a former veterinarian, you would care more about the dignity of animals.”
She chuckled and patted my cheek.
The impromptu meeting broke up after that.
“Mind if I come with you, Chiara?” Lucy asked, emotions thrumming through her. “I have about a thousand texts from various family members to respond to. After that, I’m bound to need some sugar and decompress time. If I think about Gracie too much, I’ll go crazy.” She scooped up the pile of candy in front of her. Well, all the candies but the green ones. Those she pushed in my direction as she stood up, a wistful, teasing gleam in her eye.
“Sure.” Chiara walked toward the door. “Chat with your fam and then we can talk boys.”
My evil sister shot me a grin behind Lucy’s back as they left the room, running her eyes salaciously over my bare chest.
Yup. Payback was going to hurt Chiara when I got around to it.
The kitchen hung with silence after the door closed behind them. Afternoon light bounced through the room.
Mom was wrapping a final strip of gauze around my arm. The scratches were more shallow than the ones on my right arm but the bandage would keep any blood off my clothes.
“Do you want to talk about Lucy?” Mom asked, voice low. Concern wafted off her.
Of course.
Dante and Chiara had shared the news.
“Not really, Mom, no offense. There’s not much to say.”
Mom snagged some tape. “She doesn’t know you at all if she leaves you green candy.” She nodded toward the pile of sparkling green on the table near my elbow.
Funny. If Mom only knew . . .
Mom finished with my arm and sat back. Curly auburn hair shot with gray framing her face. Blue eyes, so like Tennyson’s, studying me.
“Be careful.” She rubbed a calloused hand over mine.
“Aren’t I always?”
“Yes. You have always been my quiet, cautious one.”
“My loyalty is to my family.”
“Yes, but this situation with Lucy . . . it’s impossible—”
“I know, Mom. Trust me. I know.”
“This isn’t just about Tennyson.” Her concern spiked. Oy. “I want your happiness too, more than anything. I hate seeing two of my boys so wrapped up in the same woman—”
“Mom, relax. I’ve been living with this for years.” I pushed back from the table and used a towel to pick up my phone, surreptitiously snagging a piece of green candy in the process. “I won’t do anything other than help find Grace.”
Mom’s gaze burned a hole between my shoulder blades as I walked out of the apartment.
Once in my own bedroom, I tossed the towel with my phone and the piece of green candy on the bed before changing into jeans and a black t-shirt. I pulled on a pair of leather gloves and sat on the edge of my bed.
Gingerly, I picked up my phone again. Nothing happened. Chucky obviously couldn’t come through other objects at me.
But what had happened with my phone? Why was Chucky suddenly inside it when he hadn’t been there this morning? Somehow, Chucky was able to move between objects. Or new Chuckies were able to manifest themselves in objects.
But why? To what end?
How did it work?
Had I done something inadvertently to allow Chucky access? Or was Chucky an opportunist, sliding into objects whenever he could?
And given that Chucky had appeared in Roberto’s office, was there a connection between him and Chucky? Particularly as Roberto seemed to have some ties to the occult? Or was I the infectious agent somehow, and Chucky ended up in Roberto’s office because of me?
Dante texted to say he had landed in Boston. I wrote right back, asking about Grace. With Lucy’s consent, Dante had cut off a small piece of Grace’s blanket, something pocket-sized that he could take with him.
His reply was succinct.
No sign of her. Looked just a few minutes ago.
Relief flooded me.
I moved on to checking my own email, responding to business requests, answering questions.
All the while, the green candy hovered at the edge of my vision until I couldn’t ignore its emerald sparkle any more.
I lifted it up, twirling it in my gloved fingers. Green. Glittery. A reflective play of light and shadow. So typically her.
Holding it in hand, I pulled the wooden box out of my dresser. Lucy’s heart-shaped note still sat on top, white and contrasting.
But aside from the note, the contents of the box were green—Jolly Ranchers, M&Ms, Laffy Taffy, Sour Punch, Starbursts—a garish smorgasbord of lime and green apple. Every candy she had ever teasingly tossed my way.
Gah. I was a hopeless sap.
Of course, that thought didn’t stop me from dropping the green Glitterati into the mix.
Dragging a hand over my face, I sat on the edge of my bed, right knee bouncing, as I had a long back and forth conversation with myself about Lucy.
You should just let her be. She can hang out with Chiara.
Yeah, but Chiara isn’t the best when it comes to empathy and Lucy is hurting. She needs a listening ear.
And are you going to be that ear? ’Cause, let’s face it, what you really want to do is pull Lucy into your arms and kiss her senseless. And we all know that’s not going to help anyone.
True that.
But I was Lucy junkie. Eagerly justifying my next fix. No way could I stay away, knowing she was so close, thinking she might be hurting.
And like any addict, I was out of my bedroom and halfway up the palazzo stairs before I admitted to myself where I was going.
I expected to find Lucy curled with Chiara in front of a computer, but instead my sister dryly informed me that Lucy had opted to go downstairs for a swim.
I bounded back down the stairs, warring with myself over the wisdom of bothering Lucy. Mostly landing on the side that I should let her be. Not that my feet listened.
Addicted. That was me.
Lucy was floating on her back in the water, staring at the ceiling. Light shimmered through the space, reflecting off the water and bouncing upward. A pair of reclining loungers and a table with chairs dotted the tile pool deck.
Lucy jerked upright at the sound of the door snicking shut, head above the rippling water, staring at me across the room.
Where she had found a swimsuit, I didn’t know. I could see its green straps looped over her shoulders. Long red hair floating in the water, curling around her shoulders.
The Lady of Shalott or Ophelia came to mind, both doomed victims of love.
Not an auspicious observation.
Lucy remained motionless as the ripples quieted around her, just barely tall enough to touch the five-foot bottom on her tippy toes and keep her entire head above water.
/> I jammed my gloved hands into my pockets and walked to the pool’s edge, humidity hanging in the room.
“How’s the water?” I asked.
“It’s good. Soothing.” Lucy offered me a wan smile. But, like earlier, heartache punched me in the gut.
Definitely Lucy’s emotions. No doubt.
She waited expectantly. Obviously wondering why I had sought her out.
“I texted Dante and asked him about Grace.” I delivered my excuse of a message. “He still isn’t seeing her, so that’s good.”
“That’s great. Thanks.”
I expected to feel a surge of relief from her but got another shot of heartache instead.
What gave? Why was nothing getting through to her?
Her hurt cut me. It made me want to fight. Be a caveman and pummel something to purge my helplessness.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked instead.
“Talk about it?”
“What’s bothering you. Is it more than just Grace missing?”
She tilted her head back, staring at the up-lights that rimmed the perimeter of the room, hair a floating halo spiraling around her.
Something winked under the water around her neck.
Ah. Her Saint Christopher medallion. If Chucky were a demon, then a religious medal might offer some protection. Smart Lucy. Cat Lady would be proud.
Silence.
“Sometimes talking helps.” My voice echoed off the stone walls.
“Yes. Sometimes.” Lucy lifted her head upright, water streaming.
Again, I felt that longing. Pain.
It was . . . odd. Because it seemed like . . .
My mind scrambled to understand.
“Lucy, have I hurt you?” I cleared my throat. “Are you upset because of me?”
Twenty Three
Lucy
I hovered in the water, tiptoes propping me up, staring at Branwell.
Trying to convince my shocked lungs to function again.
Breathe. You need air to live, Lucy.
His words hung in the air between us. Confused. Wondering.
Have I hurt you?
“Because if I’ve done anything to cause you pain, I am so sorry,” he continued, unwittingly digging the knife in deeper. “I would never intentionally hurt you. You have to know that, right?”
“Yes, I know.”
He hadn’t hurt me. Not directly.
It was the situation that destroyed me. Realizing that every man who passed through my life would forever be measured against the yardstick of Branwell D’Angelo. And be found wanting.
Seeing him. Being with him. Taunted at every turn by what I wanted more than life itself but could never have. And then knowing he was the kind of guy who would risk being clawed or worse by a random supernatural creature on the off chance he could help my little, lost Grace, a complete stranger—
I swallowed. That familiar longing and heartache swamping me—a practically physical pain. The missing half of me was standing right here, and I couldn’t reach out and claim him.
Why did it have to be this man? Of all the men on Planet Earth? Literally, the one person who would be utterly off limits? Figured I would fall prey to some demented god who got off on cruel ironies.
Branwell stood just inside the door at the edge of the pool, gloved hands jammed into his jeans pockets. Bandages extended from wrist to elbow on both arms, ending right below the short sleeves of his black t-shirt. His hair was pulled up, beard trimmed. All of him shadowy and hulking.
The water rippled between us, catching the light occasionally and throwing a ghostly blue tint onto his face.
Even in the dim glow, his gaze bored into mine.
“I only want your happiness.” His low bass bounced off the arched ceiling, pounding through me. How could I have forgotten how much I adored the sound of his voice?
“And I want yours.”
He didn’t love me. Not like I loved him.
Sure, I knew he cared . . . a brotherly, general sort of caring.
My throat constricted. Tight. Raw.
He tilted his head. As if listening to something I couldn’t hear.
“You’re sad. But I don’t think it has to do with Grace. At least, not all of it.”
A statement. Not a question.
He was becoming more adapt at discerning emotion.
Yay. Just my luck.
I pushed off with my toes and arched up onto my back again, floating, blinking my eyes to keep my tears in place.
What could I say that wouldn’t simply make everything worse?
“I’m fine, Branwell.”
He snorted.
“Really, I am,” I continued. “It’s been a difficult couple of days. The combination of emotional and physical exhaustion . . . it’s just catching up to me.”
Understatement of the year there.
I licked the salty pool water off my lips. At least, I told myself that’s what it was.
This wasn’t me. I was the chipper one, pathological in my optimism.
Pocket sunshine.
I watched Branwell out of my peripheral vision. He walked around the edge of the pool, coming closer to me.
He squatted onto his haunches, studying me floating perpendicular to him.
“Talk to me, Lucy. What’s up?”
Of course, he wouldn’t let this go.
I couldn’t tell him the truth.
Well, you see, I realized years ago that I love you, not Tennyson. I mean, I love Tennyson, but it’s not a love-love kinda thing—more like brotherly love.
But you . . . you I love like slow dancing in the rain. Like lazy afternoons cuddled on the couch watching reruns. Like tucking our kids into bed and raiding the freezer for chocolate fudge ice cream. A forever sorta love.
Those words needed to stay inside me.
But given his stronger empathetic skills, it was just a matter of time before he realized all this, I supposed.
“Lucy.” His voice deepened, taking on a hint of Desi Arnaz when Lucille Ball pulled one of her shenanigans.
LooSee.
I gave a weak laugh and kicked upright, balanced on the pool bottom again, hair plastering to my skull. I turned my head toward him.
“I’m fine, Bran,” I repeated. “Just sad and worried about Grace and feeling down. I probably should get some rest.”
He tugged on his beard with a gloved hand. “Of course. I’m hardly suggesting you ‘choose fun’ but—”
“Well, I am swimming.” I gave a tentative smile. Wobbly.
Branwell released his beard but stayed crouched, studying me. Most likely seeing—or rather, feeling—right through my bravado.
What else could I say or do?
“You know you can talk to me, no matter what.”
I nodded.
We stared for a moment. I could see the moment he decided to let it go, to not press me more for answers I could never give him.
He looked away and focused on tugging off the glove of his right hand.
“So . . . swimming, eh?” He touched the water, dipping two bare fingers in. “How is the water—”
Branwell’s voice stopped on a choked cry.
A large, dark mass poured out of the water. Oblong. Intent.
It swallowed Branwell whole, dragging him into the pool with it. Water churned, a roiling malestorm.
Chucky!
“Branwell!” My scream echoed off the curved ceiling. High. Panicked.
Sluggishly, I pushed through the water, slow-mo scrambling to reach him.
Fifteen feet. Thirteen.
The huge, black . . . whatever it was . . . spiraled up Branwell’s body, reaching for his head. Like it wanted to get onto his shoulders and force him to stay under.
Branwell fought it, trying to push away and keep his mouth above water, flailing for the edge of the pool. He grabbed a breath of air just to be pulled under again.
“Branwell!”
Eleven feet. Ten.
; The water churned, darkness swarming over Branwell’s form. A liquid nightmare. My brain struggled to process what I was seeing. One minute Chucky was almost human-shaped ink and the next, he was a toxic, amorphous smudge.
Branwell rolled, struggling for freedom. He surfaced, craning around, looking for me as I struggled to reach him.
Eight. Seven.
His eyes locked with mine. Desperate and terrified. And then he looked below my chin.
“Metal,” he gasped before Chucky dragged him under again.
What—?!
Five. Four. Three.
Frantic, I stretched my hand over the last two feet to grab him, still trying to process what Branwell had said.
Why had he said ‘metal’? Metal what?
Then it clicked.
No! Medal.
My medal. A Christian relic.
Of course.
Sobbing, I snatched it off my throat.
One foot.
Branwell surfaced again, water boiling around him. He managed to get a hand on the tiled side of the pool, using the leverage to keep his head above water. Chucky continued to swarm around him, a smoky blob.
Grabbing hold of Branwell’s arm, I pressed the medal into the dark mist under the water, thinking to drive it off with the religious icon.
Nothing happened.
My hand passed through Chucky unharmed.
Over and over, I pressed the medal into the mist. Hand shaking, lungs hyperventilating.
Nothing.
Chucky held on, twisting Branwell under yet again.
No!
With a powerful burst of strength, Branwell launched himself upward, knocking my hand in the process. The medal flew out of the pool, clinking against the stone wall. Branwell grabbed my hand, physical connection surging between us.
Chucky vanished. Leaving just as abruptly as he had arrived.
Branwell sagged against the edge of the pool, elbow resting on the pool deck, coughing and hacking.
His huge body wracked.
He had nearly drowned. I had almost witnessed his death—
Coping Mode Lucy shattered.
Sobbing, I stood on my tippy toes, leaning into him, running my hands over his body, checking for blood and wounds.
“B-Branwell, love . . . are you o-okay?” Hysterical. I was utterly hysterical. “Baby, where are you hurt?”
