Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  Elvis the Hound Dog was one of the small side perks of having a brother who could see the shadows of former lives.

  For a time, my mom had a white rat, Boney, who Dante swore was the reincarnation of Napoleon Bonaparte. Unfortunately, the lifespan of white rats is short, so Boney had hopefully moved on to bigger karmic things.

  Elvis, on the other hand . . .

  Dante said the dog’s shadow featured Elvis Presley in his suave Hollywood days, not his later paunchy, polyester years.

  But still. A hound dog? Could the universe have been more predictable?

  Cosmic retribution? Perhaps.

  Or just a comforting sign that someone, somewhere had a droll sense of humor.

  In any case, Elvis adored Tennyson and howled like nothing else anytime he heard ‘All Shook Up.’

  I gave Elvis a final rub and walked through the house, the dog at my heels.

  I found Tennyson lounging on the back terrazza, feet (well, foot) propped up, reading a book. A prosthetic leg rested against the side of his lounge chair.

  Off the terrace, green fields and the occasional farmhouse stretched into the distance. Humidity hung heavy, coating the undulating hills in hazy mist. The sun sank toward the horizon, raking the world in golden light.

  Tennyson raised his eyebrows as I swung into a lounge chair next to him, stretching my own legs out. He studied me with those haunted blue eyes of his.

  “I didn’t know you were coming.” A thread of accusation wove through his words.

  For Tennyson, very little in life was unexpected.

  “Surprise.” I laced my gloved fingers behind my head. Elvis wandered over to Tennyson, settling by his side on the pavement. “Nice sunset.”

  “Please.” Tennyson snorted, turning his head back to the view but leaning down to scratch Elvis’ head. “I don’t need an ounce of clairvoyance to know this isn’t a purely social call.”

  Touché.

  I studied Tennyson from the corner of my eye. He had bulked up a bit through the shoulders. Age and eating more finally moving his body from lean to fit.

  Everything was externally perfect about my brother.

  Perfect face, perfect smile . . . he could ooze charm and polish when needed. Fiercely loyal and idealistic.

  That was good.

  His emotional state, however . . .

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  I pushed outward with my GUT, wanting to ‘hear’ the emotions in his words. Past his mild annoyance at my unannounced arrival.

  It was like forcing my way through a thin barrier—

  Pain. Self-loathing. Futility. Despair.

  His emotions surged through me. A potent cocktail.

  “Talk, Bran. How’s everyone?” he asked again.

  Lucy . . . sharp and clear it came from him, as if he had said the word. Tennyson’s concern and anguish and love for her—Lucy. That’s what he wanted to talk about. The subtext of his questions.

  What a mess.

  “Lucy’s fine. Left her gossiping with Chiara—”

  Tennyson whipped his eyes to mine. “I didn’t ask about Lucy specifically.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Silence.

  He stared me down, a combination of accusation and puzzlement.

  “Look, Tenn.” I scrubbed a hand over my beard. “We all need to start talking more. Not just me.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yeah. About us. About our GUTs.”

  Silence.

  Crickets literally chirped. Fireflies flitted in the grass.

  Tennyson continued to face me, a solitary eyebrow raising higher in question.

  “I feel your emotions,” I finally said.

  His head reared back slightly. “You do?” Surprise jolted through me.

  “You didn’t know that? That I’m becoming something of an empath?”

  He shook his head, eyes eagle-sharp, probing.

  “I can’t feel you anymore.” Accusation in his tone.

  “You can’t? Since when?”

  “For years, honestly. Sometimes I get hints of things from you when you’re far away—”

  “You knew Dante and I were arguing yesterday—”

  Tennyson snorted. “Yeah, but that was all Dante. I could tell he was concerned and angry at you. Dante’s an open book. But from you, I get nothing. I haven’t for . . . forever.”

  Relief flooded me. There was no way he knew about Lucy and me.

  “It’s like you block me somehow,” Tennyson continued, his brows drawing down into a perfect V.

  I swallowed. “I do. Block you, that is.”

  He stared me down. “How?” Short. Blunt.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest. I just imagine walls around my mind that prevent emotions from escaping.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tennyson paused. I could practically see the thoughts darting across his brain.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about you sensing my emotional state,” he said. “It’s a like a solid taste of my own medicine, I suppose. The irony, of course, is that it’s not reciprocal. You feel me, but I don’t feel you.” He paused. “Why do you block me?”

  Mmmm, how to respond to that? “For all those reasons you just said. I don’t like people in my head.”

  My emotions were my own. How unprecedented was it that I could shut him out? Had there always been this kind of protection component to our family gift? Could Tennyson learn to shut me out too?

  “Do you sense other people over a distance?” I asked.

  Tennyson shrugged. “Not usually. It’s mostly Dante, to be honest. Sometimes Chiara and Mom. It used to be you, too, when we were younger but not anymore.”

  “Do you sense people who aren’t related, like Lucy?” Did he know of Lucy’s supposed feelings for me?

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve never sensed her over long distances. I have to be in the same room.”

  More relief.

  “How long have you been an empath?” Tennyson asked.

  “Not too long. A year, maybe two.” I paused and then went on. “At first, it was simply vague impressions, but it keeps getting stronger. More pronounced.”

  It felt like it had been strengthening in just the past few days, to be honest.

  “Our GUT . . . it’s like a muscle, I’ve decided.” Tennyson sat back. “The more you flex and work it, the stronger it becomes.”

  A beat.

  “That’s how it’s been for you, isn’t it?”

  Tennyson ignored me. Instead, he scooted to one side of his chair and patted the space next to him. Elvis perked up his sad-eyes and managed to hop up on the third try, curlicuing his bulk into my brother’s side.

  “My GUT saved lives in Afghanistan,” Tennyson stroked Elvis’ flank. “I could sense attacks before they happened, so naturally, every day I was pushing, seeking, eager to sense danger before it struck—”

  The irony being that he hadn’t foreseen his own terrible injury. But then, Tennyson’s gift had never worked on himself.

  “But all that mental exercise came at a price. Are you sure you want my honesty?” He stretched his arms in front of him, like a cat, and rubbed a hand over his face before continuing to pet Elvis. If I couldn’t feel his deep despair, I would never suspect it. Had he always been this skilled at hiding?

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  “Who will you tell?”

  “No one you don’t want me too. We both know how hard it is to deal with Dante and Mom sometimes.”

  “They mean well . . .”

  “But pity can be enabling.”

  “Yeah.” Tennyson drew in a deep breath, his pain hitting me again. A fractured, razored thing. “It’s like this. Before Afghanistan, I would just feel emotions a little into the future. Now, it’s taken on a whole new component. I will often see and hear, as well as feel and it often is farther into the future. I’m more attuned to my gift, which is never a good thing.”

&nb
sp; “It’s like our GUTs are merging into each other. I haven’t had any visions of the future, but the other senses bleed into my ‘hearing’ of the past.”

  A pause.

  “Can you control it?” Tennyson asked. “If you can block me, does that control extend to other parts of your GUT?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not the involuntary part. I wish I could.”

  “Me too, brother. Me too.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, eyes trained over the pastoral landscape.

  “Chiara mentioned something has been attacking you.” Tennyson broke the quiet. “A demon?”

  “You mean Chucky?”

  That got me a laugh.

  I caught Tennyson up to date on everything.

  “So Chucky is coming out of previously ‘safe’ things?”

  “Yeah. It’s . . . awful. He has been in things belonging to Gruncle Jack, things connected to Roberto, mundane objects I use all the time. It’s . . . crazy. He’s like a virus, infecting everything.”

  Tennyson pursed his lips. “I think you’re on to something there, Branwell.”

  “I am?”

  “What if Chucky really is an infectious agent?”

  “Interesting. So if he is able to infect things, how does it work? Am I the infectious agent? Is that why he only attacks me?”

  Another beat.

  “Are you sure about that? That he only attacks you?”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it out to him with my gloved hand. Uber-careful-like. After Chucky’s dramatic day, I was loath to touch anything.

  Tennyson studied the phone. He carefully lifted his bare index finger and rested it on the glossy screen.

  We both stared at his finger. Nail neatly trimmed.

  Nothing happened.

  “Alright, so Chucky does seem to have it in for you and you alone.” Tennyson shrugged. “Can’t say I blame him. You are a fine-looking man.”

  A bit of heat touched my cheeks. No one ever called me handsome. I was used to being the invisible brother. The in-between child. The one who was damaged enough to not be of help like Dante, but not so damaged that I demanded TLC, like Tennyson.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  Tennyson waved away my discomfort.

  “So to summarize,” he said, “Chucky likes shiny things and you—not necessarily in that order. Grace is missing but alive, according to Dante. Roberto is on the lam, obsessed with the occult and researching something esoteric related to Lucy’s Gruncle Jack. There are hints that this something may include Grace due to Roberto’s obsessive interest in her family. We also know that Gruncle Jack had some connection to the D’Angelos.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much where we are. Speaking of Grace, I brought this.” I pulled out a piece of Grace’s princess blanket, the part that Dante hadn’t taken with him to Boston. Fuzzy pink fleece with princesses.

  Tennyson took the cloth from me, holding it in his fingers.

  “Could you look for Grace?” I asked. “For Lucy.”

  “Look?”

  Pain arched through me. Loss. Tennyson’s.

  “You said you were seeing more nowadays. Could you nudge your gift and peer into Grace’s future?”

  Tennyson paused, staring down.

  “There’s no guarantee I’ll see anything. And even if I do, it’s only a possibility.” He balled the blanket between his hands. “Nothing is set in stone.”

  “I know. But I figure it doesn’t hurt to try.”

  He shot me a hesitant look. “Anytime I open myself up to my gift, there’s no telling what will happen.”

  “But for Lucy . . .”

  “But for Lucy, I’ll give it a go.”

  Anything for her.

  He didn’t need to say the words. I heard them anyway.

  Tennyson wrapped the blanket around each palm and then closed his eyes, head down. Concentrating.

  He sat that way for several minutes. Breath even. Shoulders tense.

  Elvis wiggled closer, resting his jowly chin on Tennyson’s thigh.

  Silence hung, which meant I felt nothing from my brother. No sound, no emotion.

  Eventually, Tennyson raised his head, mouth pulled down to one side.

  “Well?”

  “It’s hard to say,” he said, face puzzled. “I saw Grace running into Lucy’s arms, both of them laughing.”

  “That’s good—”

  “Yes, but they were in a strange place. A dark hall . . . one of those wide central entryways full of pillars and dim light you find in a Renaissance palazzo.”

  “A future image?”

  He nodded. “A possible future, at least. Not everything I see happens. The scene was contradictory. Lucy and Grace were so happy, but the place itself felt . . . ominous.”

  “Do you think Grace is okay?”

  Tennyson met my eyes with his vivid blue ones. So haunted.

  “Truthfully? I have no idea. But for Lucy’s sake, let’s say . . . sure.” He turned his gaze out over the landscape. Pain and despair. “Anything for Lucy.”

  Twenty Seven

  Portland, Oregon

  Five years earlier

  Lucy

  Branwell!” I pushed open the front door and yelled into the apartment. “Could you lend me a hand?”

  He looked up from the couch, textbook resting on his legs. Did the man ever not study? He ran his eyes over my person, specifically my right arm. Raised an eyebrow.

  “Uh, Lucy. You do realize there is a garden gnome on your hand, don’t you?”

  I glanced down at the maniacally smiling gnome in his red hat currently surrounding my right arm up to my elbow.

  “Yes. It’s why I need you to lend me your hand.”

  Silence.

  “I’m assuming you don’t mean that literally.” Branwell’s lips twitched. “Care to elaborate?”

  I shrugged. “Margie—you know, Margie? The sweet old lady across the street from me?—anyway, she was cleaning Phil’s base”—I pointed a free finger at Phil the Gnome—“and lost her wedding ring inside. I decided to help get it out because my hand is smaller and less arthritic but, well, you can see how that turned out.”

  We both stared at Phil in his stylish green jacket. Phil maintained his mental-patient grin.

  “I was hoping you had two free hands and some vaseline to help . . .” I mimed sliding Phil off my arm. “Margie only had denture cream.”

  More silence. Branwell’s smile stretched wider.

  “Vaseline? Don’t you mean a hammer?” Branwell stood up. “I think Dante has one some—”

  “No!” I covered poor Phil’s sensitive ears with my left hand. “Shhh, Phil will hear you.”

  A long pause.

  “Right. Let me find that vaseline.”

  Branwell’s chuckle followed him out of the room.

  Twenty Eight

  Florence, Italy

  2016

  Lucy

  The morning after spilling my biggest secret, I woke up with a conflicted heart.

  On the one hand, Branwell now knew the thing he was Never Supposed to Know. He had been shocked and dismayed but, in true Branwell form, otherwise kind and understanding.

  The eternal gentleman.

  On the other hand, there was something truly cathartic in finally setting my darkest secret free. How many years? Six? Keeping my love tightly leashed, never letting on how much I cared. All gone and shattered now.

  But, instead of being debilitatingly mortified, I felt oddly liberated. I refused to feel shame for loving a man as wonderful as Branwell. The situation was what it was.

  I knew my revelation changed nothing. Tennyson would always be between us. Branwell would never betray his brother. I adored Branwell’s fierce sense of loyalty. How could I be upset when it didn’t work to my advantage?

  So, I did what I always did when faced with situations like this . . . focused on what I could control (my own feelings and behavior) and let go of what I couldn’t
(Branwell and his relationship with Tennyson) and got on with my day.

  There was a strong nugget of truth in Tennyson calling me his Pocket Sunshine. Always onward and upward. That was me.

  Besides, all it took was a solitary thought of Grace to put everything with Branwell into perspective. Unrequited love was small potatoes when compared to a missing child. But, even there, Branwell had helped. He had taken Grace’s blanket to Tennyson and asked his brother to look into Grace’s future. Chiara had come upstairs with the news after Branwell returned, describing to me what Tennyson had seen.

  I don’t know how Tennyson saw into Grace’s future. But the knowledge that Grace and I might be happily reunited filled me with such hope. And then this morning, Dante texted saying he still saw no sign of Grace.

  All these reasons explained why I was feeling more upbeat. My Gracie was alive, out there and waiting to be found. I firmly believed it.

  My mom called while I was prepping a few items for the day, wanting an update on the investigation. Jeff and Jen were delayed in Johannesburg due to bad weather but hoped to be back in Italy within the next eighteen hours.

  Of course, two sisters and a brother texted me in quick succession after my mom hung up, all with questions I diligently answered.

  No new leads.

  Roberto is still a prime suspect and has disappeared.

  No, I haven’t remembered anything else.

  Yes, I’m doing everything I can to find answers.

  I then made my daily, check-in call to Inspector Paola. Her comments echoed those I had said to my family and then some.

  “We have no new leads and are trying to locate Roberto.” Her accented English crisp. “I was told you visited the museum staff yesterday with a bearded man, asking after Roberto. Is that true?”

  Her tone clearly communicated her displeasure.

  Great.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. No way I was lying to the police.

  “Uffa.” Paola made an exasperated noise. “That is unacceptable. You must allow us to do our job. I cannot have you, or others like this bearded man, interfering with our investigation. We have allowed you to remain out of police custody, but that can change if you continue to disturb our work. Do you understand?”

  There was only one answer to that. “Of course,” I said, meekly.