by Nichole Van
“Glad that we got all the brother-mushy stuff out, but I’m going to be happiest if you come down here by me.” I tugged on his arm. “C’mon, Tenn. The drop is a doozy, and it’s making me all panicky.”
“You and your issue with heights.”
Tennyson leaned his head out, staring down at the ground far below. I felt a jolt of his longing, a desire for oblivion. Anything to make the agony go away.
“Please, Tenn.” I squeezed his arm. “Please.”
He nodded and bent his knee, allowing me to help him down, sitting with his back against the stone walls of the tower. He sagged into the flagstones, shaking with the aftermath of his decision.
Tennyson scrubbed a hand over his face, tilting his head back against the stone wall.
“Why do you put up with me, Bran? I’m such a selfish bastard.”
I pulled him into my arms, holding him tight.
“You’re preaching to the choir, brother. Preaching to the choir.”
Forty Three
Florence, Italy
2016
Lucy
I got the call in the late afternoon.
I had just returned to the D’Angelo palazzo, deciding to spend the night there. As their apartment was still a crime scene, Jeff and Jen were staying in a local hotel and bunking with them seemed awkward.
I cradled my phone against my ear, listening as Branwell described in short bursts what had happened, my heart dropping lower and lower. His words came at me in a disjointed mess—suicide watch, sedation, PTSD therapist, Dante flying home. A familiar routine with Tennyson, it seemed.
Sorrow and regret laced every word.
There would be no ‘us.’ Not now, at least.
Knowing I was the source of so much of this pain, I said nothing. I merely voiced my hope for Tennyson’s recovery and hugged Chiara and Judith as they rushed out the door.
And then I waited, curled up on the couch in their great room.
The sun arched through the sky, morphing from yellow to orange to purple twilight. The jangle of my cell phone ringing startled me.
Inspector Paola’s name pulsed on the screen. I hesitated before answering it, wondering why she would be calling me now that Jeff and Jen were home. But, given everything, I didn’t want to land any higher on Paola’s list of People I’m Irritated With.
“Hello,” I said.
“Lucy Snow?”
“Yes.”
“Good evening. Are you still staying with the D’Angelo family in Florence?”
“Uhmm, yes.”
“A surveillance camera saw Roberto Moretti in the vicinity of the D’Angelo palazzo this morning.” Inspector Paola wasted no time cutting to the chase. “Did you or any of the D’Angelo family have contact with him?”
My heart froze in my throat, constricting my breathing.
Busted! I could almost hear Paola chuckle.
Lying to the police was an extremely bad idea, but . . .
“Contact?” I asked, trying to buy myself more time.
“Yes. Did you see, speak to, or have any dealings with Roberto Moretti?”
Dang. That was a water-tight specific list. The woman was good.
How to answer without perjuring myself?
“I don’t know where Roberto is.” That was absolutely true.
Silence.
“That isn’t the question I asked, Ms. Snow.” Paola was not amused.
More silence.
“You do realize, Ms. Snow, that there is a warrant out for Dr. Moretti’s arrest? As such, you have an obligation to notify us if you see him.”
Drat. I did?
Now she told me. I chewed on my cheek, nerves skittering along my skin.
“I have repeatedly asked you to stay out of this investigation, Ms. Snow,” Paola continued. “I consider it a serious mark of suspicion that you refuse to do so. Are you sure there isn’t anything you would like to tell me?”
What to say?
Yeah, Roberto stopped by, we discussed ways to free Grace from a demon, he left an ancient mirror and then I waved him goodbye . . .
That answer would land me in jail or a mental hospital. Possibly both.
I settled on, “I don’t have any comment, ma’am.”
“I see.” Paola grunted. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Snow.”
She hung up with an annoyed, this-ain’t-over click.
Heart pounding, I tossed my phone on the couch and wrapped my arms around myself.
Now what?
No way I was going to disturb any of the D’Angelo’s with this.
I hadn’t done anything wrong and besides . . . between Grace’s disappearance, Tennyson’s fragile emotional state and my fraught love of Branwell, my worry cup was already overflowing.
Inspector Paola was just going to have to trust us and chill. Though part of my mind buzzed, convinced that Paola was not the kind of person to let this go. She knew she was on to something and was going to pursue it like a dog scenting a bone.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since this morning. Uncurling my legs, I walked over to the kitchen, trying to decide what wouldn’t taste like sawdust. I was such a jittery mess.
A loaf of crusty bread in a bowl and a jar of Nutella settled my decision. I was in the middle of cutting a slice of bread when the door opened. I whirled around.
Branwell’s enormous body filled the doorway, kicking it shut behind him.
I dropped the knife and launched myself into his arms, sobbing. He clutched me to him, arms steel bands around me.
It was like instantly coming home. Comfort surrounded me, soothing, making the horror and fear bearable.
I lifted my head and kissed him.
His kiss in return was not the gentle kiss of hello, but a far more desperate one that tasted terrifyingly of goodbye.
No. Please, no.
I had barely arrived at this place of love and belonging. I shattered at the thought of leaving it so soon.
I cried harder, clinging to him. Selfish tears for me and him. Tears of frustration at this impossible situation. Tears for all the pain and happiness and sheer emotion of the past several days.
Branwell held me through the storm. My sea of calm in a world gone topsy-turvy. Always the strong one.
How I loved this man.
He stroked my back and ran his fingers through my hair, letting me release my grief and sorrow. When I finally pulled back, he nabbed a kitchen towel off the island, gently wiping my face.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“H-hey.” I managed a stuttery facsimile of a smile.
I took the towel from him and dabbed my cheeks.
“Not much to say, is there?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We’ve gone through this before, so we all know the drill. My mom has Tenn on some solid sedatives. They numb his mind and make him sleep for days on end. But they also help him cope. I didn’t even get a chance to talk with him about . . . things. Which, turns out, probably was for the best . . . ” His voice trailed off.
I sniffed. He stared at me, heartbreaking sadness in his gaze. I didn’t even need to ask. It was all written on his face.
There would be no ‘us’ for the time being.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded and looked down. As if the sight of me was too painful.
I knew the feeling too well.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, throat swallowing convulsively.
I turned away from him and went back to the island, staring at the bread and knife. Hating what I knew he was going to say, wanting to put it off for as long as possible.
Branwell sighed and turned away from me. I heard the shunk of him flipping the deadbolt and then the chink of his phone being set on the marble countertop.
I shook my head. “Please don’t say anything,” I said, voice so soft. “I can’t bear to hear goodbye right now.”
I picked up the knife, determined to see th
rough my blurry vision.
“That’s good.” Branwell moved to stand beside me. “Because I can’t bear to say it.”
I sliced into the bread which was a mistake given my state of mind. The knife slipped and promptly cut my palm.
Pain washed up my arm, stinging. But the physical pain was a welcome distraction. Something tangible to match my own inner turmoil.
“Careful.” Branwell took the knife from me.
Hissing, I reached for a paper towel, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.
“How bad is it?” Branwell tugged at my hands, wanting to see.
I shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“Lucy, you’re bleeding. It’s not fine. Hold on. Let me grab Mom’s first aid kit from the bathroom.”
I watched his broad shoulders walk down the central hallway.
The wound hurt, pain radiated up from my palm. I pulled the paper towel away and leaned over the counter, angling the cut in the light to see if it was deep enough to warrant stitches.
Too distracted to notice Branwell’s phone resting on the counter underneath my hands.
Too distraught to care when a single drop of blood dripped from my hand, splashing onto its glossy surface.
Forty Four
Branwell
I dug through a tall cabinet in the bathroom, finding the first aid kit behind Chiara’s hairdryer. Fighting to keep my emotions together.
Things had been so close with Tennyson and now, having to face Lucy—
The depth of her devastation . . . the pain of my own.
Just one day. That tiny slice of what life could be . . .
Somehow I would get past the pain, let Lucy go, find solace . . . somehow . . .
With a deep breath, I walked back down the hall and into the great room.
I froze.
The room was empty.
“Lucy?”
Silence.
Quickly, I walked across the room to the kitchen island, frowning.
“Lucy? Where did you go?”
No answer.
I went to the front door, threw the deadbolt and shouted down the stairwell.
“Lucy?” Voice more urgent.
I turned back to the apartment, forcing myself to think. I had just opened the deadbolt to get out. No way Lucy had been able to open the front door and relock it in the time I had been in the bathroom. Particularly without me hearing. And why would she leave without talking to me?
I turned back into the kitchen.
“Lucy?” I quickly moved through all the bedrooms, checking each one.
Nothing.
Becoming more terrified with each passing second, I darted back into the kitchen, bracing my hands on the countertop, trying to piece together what had happened—
And then I noticed it.
The solitary drop of blood on my cell phone screen.
Lucy
Falling, falling, falling . . .
A nightmare. Vertigo and terror.
I didn’t land; I just woke up.
Had everything else been a dream?
I opened my eyes but still couldn’t see.
Cold. Black.
The smell of roses and musty things.
I was lying on ground, solid and chilly.
Tentatively, I waved a hand in front of my face, blinking, trying to see something. I only sensed the vaguest shadow.
What had happened?
Heart pounding, I carefully sat up, rotating my head to look around.
Slowly indistinct shapes began to appear out of the inky blackness.
Where was I? What was going on—
I shivered and rubbed my arms.
Suddenly, the darkness . . . moved.
I screamed.
Branwell
I stared at the blood for a few seconds, a thousand thoughts swirling.
Hands shaking. Heart pounding.
This was Lucy’s blood. On my phone.
A shiny surface where Chucky lived.
What had her blood triggered? Where had Lucy gone?
Love will draw the shadow out.
The bloody little handprint on Grace’s dresser floated to the surface of my mind. Had her blood touched something keyed in her bedroom, sucking her into Chucky’s world?
Was this phantom thing inside—Chucky—really just hungry for love and took delight in snatching people of Jack’s bloodline?
Or was there something more, tied to my D’Angelo heritage?
What. Was. Up?!!
Frantic, I grabbed the towel off the counter and wiped my phone clean.
I pulled the glove off my right hand and then my left, leaving both hands bare. I emptied the dish towel drawer, wrapping several around my left arm.
I stared at the phone’s glossy surface.
Deep breath.
I pressed the index finger of my left hand to the phone screen, keeping my right hand ready poised above the screen.
All of me ready to grasp whatever came out.
Darkness. Roses. Death.
Chucky surged from the phone. Powerful. Seeking.
A shadowy form.
As his claws worked through the towel layers, eager for my blood, I tried to grab the wispy shape with my right hand.
Again and again, my hand passed through the mist.
Damn.
I snatched my finger off the phone, breaking the connection.
The towels on my arm were shredded, a few light scratches tingling on my arm, fresh against the older, healing scrapes.
Now what?
If I couldn’t capture Chucky, maybe I could join Lucy.
I whirled, looking around the kitchen, eyes landing on the knife Lucy had used.
Two steps and I had it in my hand. I hesitated for just a second and then used the tip of the knife to prick my middle left finger. Blood welled.
Hands shaking, I held my finger over my phone.
One single drop fell. Splashing onto the glossy surface.
Nothing.
I waited. Squeezed another drop of blood.
Still nothing.
I frowned, thinking through options.
Maybe an object could only work once with the whole blood thing.
The glass vase we had used to test for Chucky was on the kitchen counter.
It was worth a try.
I walked over to it, cradling my cut finger.
Hovering my hand above the vase, I took a deep breath, body tense, adrenaline running.
I tipped my finger, allowing blood to drip onto the vase.
Nothing.
My shoulders sagged.
So . . . my blood didn’t trigger anything. But Lucy and Grace’s obviously did.
Crap. Why couldn’t I find the answer to this riddle?
Would blood on my hands help me grab Chucky? He seemed to like blood.
Grimacing, I ran down the hall and emptied the linen closet. My arm mummified in layers of towels and sheets, I walked back into the kitchen.
I cut my finger a little deeper this time, smearing my blood onto both palms.
Gory but possibly effective.
This was so on.
Me and Chucky.
No way I was stopping until I had Lucy and Grace back. Forget the stupid summer solstice.
Tense, I prepped my right hand to grab Chucky.
I had a finger poised over the phone, ready to touch it, when it rang.
Chiara’s face pulsed across the screen.
I stared at my bare, blood-red hands, looked back down at the phone.
Now what?
Hurriedly, I swiped my right finger across the screen as quickly as possible.
Roses. Death—
“Chiara,” I answered, tapping the speaker phone icon with another fast finger.
“Is everything okay?” Concern poured through the phone connection.
Understatement of the year there.
I glanced at my swaddled arms, bare bloody hands poking out.
“Not really.
Why do you ask?”
“Tennyson started acting funny about five minutes ago.” She was with my mom in Volterra, watching over Tennyson. “We have him sedated, and he was sleeping fine. But then he suddenly sat up and said, ‘Lucy . . . she doesn’t know . . . what I saw, it will change everything.’ ”
My heart plummeted.
“He’s still saying it, Bran,” Chiara continued.
I could hear sounds murmuring behind her. Chiara must have switched to speaker phone too, because Tennyson’s voice suddenly came through clearly. “Gotta tell Branwell. Lucy . . . it’s changed . . . the whole paradigm . . . it’s different from what he thinks.”
“Do you hear that, Branwell?” Chiara came back.
“Yeah.”
“He’s completely out of it, by the way. Totally asleep. It’s like a dream or—”
“Or another prophecy.” I braced my knuckles on the pile of shredded towels, closing my fingers around my bloody palms.
“So what happened, Bran?”
“Lucy disappeared.”
“What?!!”
“She’s gone, Chiara. Just like Grace.” I shivered, swallowing back the panic fighting its way through my chest. “She cut her hand. I walked out of the room to grab a bandaid and when I came back, no Lucy anywhere. Just a drop of her blood on my telephone.”
“No! Nononono! Chucky?”
“Working on it.” I sucked in a ragged breath, trying to tamp my emotions down. Losing it wasn’t going to help. “He and I are about to go twenty rounds in a fight. He better not hurt her—”
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Doorbell. The one way down at the front of the building.
Bzzzzz.
Damn.
“Hang on, Chiara. Someone’s at the portone. Let me call you right back.”
Holding my bloody hands out, like a surgeon prepping for surgery, I walked over to the intercom and pressed the talk button with my elbow.
“Pronto,” I said.
“Mr. D’Angelo? This is Inspector Paola from the metropolitan police force. We would like to speak with you.”
Forty Five
Florence, Italy
2016
Branwell
We have the surveillance tapes, Mr. D'Angelo. They clearly show Roberto Moretti leaving your storefront, and Ms. Snow waving goodbye to him. Tell me what you know about this.”
Inspector Paola paced in front of me—bobbed hair, official hat and uniform, dark Italian looks. Another police officer stood stoically behind her.
