But Violet just slaps you across the face with enough force to daze you, and then throws you over her back. You want to protest, but you’re nauseous, and disoriented, and there’s a flaming wreckage where the barn used to be, and Gracie is dead in the rubble, and Papa is lying on the kitchen floor. Oh, God, Papa . . .
Everything rolls to black.
You come to just a few minutes later in a sickeningly familiar cornfield—McGrath’s plot. You’re still slung over Violet’s back. The field is a mess of blackened, flattened corn husks. Embers still burn hot in pockets everywhere, like fireflies nesting in the wreckage.
It’s only when you see the charred remains of the scarecrow that you squirm until Violet is forced to set you down in the field. “We did that!” you scream, pointing at the scarecrow. “This is our fault! We have to go back for them, Violet! We have to go back! We . . .” You wrap your arms around your sister’s ankle and then fall into sobs.
Violet’s hand affectionately slips into your hair, then both of her hands cup your face so that you’re looking up at her. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she says, “but it’s just you and me now. We’re back in that washtub, anchored to the buoy, only this time no one’s coming to help us.” She leans closer and forces you to make eye contact. “We can only help ourselves. If you trust me, I’ll make sure we stick together—always.” She releases your face and holds out her hand. “Do you trust me, Lucy?”
You gaze one last time back over the McGrath household at the steady column of smoke rising into the night, circling the summer moon over the trees.
When you turn around, Violet is waiting patiently with a concern you’ve never seen before.
You take her hand. Her grip is strong, but there’s a resolve in your own that you never knew you had.
VINES AND VENGEANCE
Wednesday
Ashline woke up in what smelled like a mushroom cloud of cigarette smoke and wondered whether she’d passed out on the floor of a seedy bar.
But it was just her motel room, with the lumpy bed, the comforter that looked like it had been balled up in the corner of a basement for a few years, and the browning water stain in the shape of Arkansas directly over the headboard. She touched her forehead, which was damp, and couldn’t decide whether she’d been feverishly sweating in her sleep or something had been dripping onto her face.
Then came the vague whispers of her dream from the night before, the ugly patchwork quilt of disjointed images.
The scarecrow.
The farm.
The fire.
The pain.
Ash popped into the cramped shower and let the hot tendrils of water massage her face and extinguish the last images of the burning barn. But the shower couldn’t cleanse her of the sickening feeling that the dream was somehow real, not just a twisted historical nightmare.
Almost as soon as she exited the bathroom, there was a knock at the door.
She wrapped her towel more tightly around her. The knock on the door could mean that (1) the landlord was coming to tell her that her credit card had been declined, (2) Lesley Vanderbilt was here to kidnap her, or (3) her father had broken his word and flown down from New York.
“Please let it be Lesley Vanderbilt,” Ash whispered, and walked over to the door.
She peered through the peephole in time to see the landlord, with his mullet and ripped jeans, waddling back to the staircase like a satyr.
When Ash opened the door to see if he’d left anything, the package immediately landed on her foot.
At first she was hesitant to open it. She couldn’t find the sender’s name anywhere on the box, just her own name and room number scribbled on a Post-it note. But then she spied an insignia written in black marker on the upper left corner of the cardboard: a pair of wings, and a moon.
She smiled and carried the package into the room.
After a short-lived battle between the packing tape and her nonexistent fingernails, she tugged the top flaps open so hard that a handful of packing peanuts popped out and littered her bed. The first thing she found after she rummaged through the Styrofoam was a white knee-length dress. She unfolded it and held it up to her body in front of the grimy wall mirror next to her bed. It was going to take a much-needed steaming in the bathroom with the shower on hot, but it looked as though it would fit her perfectly. Either Aurora happened to be the same build or Aurora and Wes had correctly guessed her size.
Beneath the dress she found two more items. One was a new GPS. When she booted it up, there was already a destination plugged in, a little museum icon labeled “Villa Vizcaya” in Coconut Grove.
The last item was an embossed invitation, the fancy kind that people sent out for weddings. But this invitation was for a gallery opening—and it was dated for tonight.
The invitation was illustrated with a beautiful Renaissance-style Italian mansion sitting on the waterfront.
VANDERBILT VENTURES PRESENTS:
THE WINDS OF CHANGE:
A journey through new discoveries in Mesoamerican mythology, recently unearthed by Vanderbilt Ventures, and how the ruins of one culture may prophesy the ruin of our own.
~
Please join us for light appetizers and cocktails
7 p.m.
Main House and Courtyard
~
Presentation to follow
8 p.m.
Mound and Gardens
~
White tie event, entrance by invitation only
The invitation seemed fairly harmless to Ash. That is, until she read the last line, written in fine red print and nearly hidden beneath the lace border threaded around the invitation:
The gods walk among us
Next to the final message was the blurred silhouette of a human in motion, which might have been almost comical had it not been for the single eye that looked suspiciously like a blue flame.
But that wasn’t all. When Ash flipped the invitation over, she found a sticky note that was written in the kind of nearly illegible scrawl that could only belong to a man . . . in this case, Wes:
Call this number when you arrive,
and wait by the entrance for me to come get you.
DO NOT ENTER THE VILLA ALONE.
—W
“Overprotective much?” Ash muttered. She’d dealt with Lesley Vanderbilt before, and unless the woman had somehow fireproofed her skin since the last time they’d butted heads, it was Lesley who should be hiding. Besides, Lesley had Ash’s sister somewhere. If push came to fire, Ash wasn’t above dragging the eccentric millionaire into a back room and roasting her like a rotisserie chicken until she turned over Rose.
Ash dropped the invitation onto the rug. Looks like the party doesn’t start for another eight hours. She cast a look at the dress on her bed, then to the corner where her sneakers were looking especially worse for wear after her trip to the docks and the cigar factory.
Guess I have no choice but to go pick out shoes that will do the dress justice.
After all, it was all in the name of good camouflage.
Ash would have gone with something with a flatter heel if she’d remembered that she was taking the scooter to the gallery event.
Instead she discovered—almost as soon as she mounted the scooter—that Vespas were designed more for shorts and sneakers, and not for evening gowns and heels.
Still, with her gown bunched up to her thighs and partially flashing the commuters of Miami as she rolled over the bridge, she managed to follow the instructions of the GPS’s butlerlike voice.
In fact, the shiny new GPS reminded her of several questions that had been stewing since the night before, particularly about her two new friends. What sort of day jobs did Wes and Aurora have that they could afford to drive a Cadillac, purchase expensive gadgets for relative strangers, and reside in a city with such a high cost of living? How could they work and still find the freedom to participate in deity espionage at night? And, the guilty pleasure question of the hour, wh
at exactly was the relationship between the two of them?
The two security guards checking invitations at the Villa Vizcaya’s main gates both looked amused by her gown and scooter helmet combo. One of them attempted to flirt with her while the other scrutinized her invite with extreme care, as if she’d forged it, before they let her pass.
She parked between two news vans and paused to do damage control on her helmet hair, using the polished windows of a silver Mercedes as a mirror. She held up one strand and twirled it around her finger. How was she just now noticing how long her hair was getting? She hadn’t cut it since well before the events at Blackwood in May.
She sighed. There hadn’t been much time to look at her own reflection since the new life she’d tried to build for herself had started caving in around her, one ceiling tile and support beam at a time.
Ash followed the trail of newly arrived guests through the tree-lined pathway leading up to the west façade of the villa, which was much more regal and imposing in person than Ash could have guessed from the little image on her invitation. To either side of the villa’s entrance, the building rose up three magnificent stories to top-floor balconies. Every window glowed with a soft daffodil light against the gradually darkening sky.
Ash paused beside the fountain and opened her cell phone. Wes had told her to call him first and wait out front until he could escort her in. But she wasn’t about to wait in the gardens for Wes to show up fashionably late. He was the one who had gotten caught by Lesley’s Cuban mercenaries. He was the one they would probably be on red alert for. So she texted him “See you inside, vampire” and made her way into the villa.
The entrance consisted of three archways that opened up into a long open-air foyer—the loggia, according to the map of the grounds she’d studied earlier. The walls were draped in blue curtains, with flowered vases on pedestals and a curved roof to shelter the stone floors. Two hostesses were distributing bright red masks to guests as they entered.
Just great, Ash thought. The last time she’d gone to a masquerade ball, Eve had kidnapped her date—Colt—and Lily Mayatoaka had speared Rolfe through the heart. At least these masks were different. Where the masks at the Blackwood ball had looked like souvenirs from Mardi Gras, these were bright red, and almost serpentine, with feathers gathered around the face. And on the bright side, even though applying the adhesive mask to her face conjured horrible memories, at least it would partially disguise her if she bumped into Lesley Vanderbilt.
She continued to follow the general traffic into the stately entrance room, which was adorned with oil portraits painted in muted greens, then through a pair of open doors out to the arcade, before she finally exited into the open-air courtyard.
Twilight was just starting to descend on the terrace, which was packed with a sea of men and women, all in white and ivory, with the exception of their red masks. Much like the city itself, the guests hailed from a range of ethnicities, but she had a feeling that Polynesians constituted only a statistically small portion of the guest list.
Ash snatched a glass of champagne off a passing tray. Her nerves were already starting to flare up, and a survey of the courtyard on the tips of her toes failed to locate either Wes or Aurora. She wondered how Aurora could wear a dress and still manage to hide her wings.
Ash was just about to give up and join the walking tour of the grounds that one of the curators was announcing from the south arcade, when she spotted Lesley Vanderbilt.
Even with the mask covering the top of her face, the woman was unmistakable. Lesley looked as though she’d aged five years since their last encounter on the opposite side of the country. Her hair had very evidently been dyed a dark brown, and the lines around her mouth creased deeply when she smiled at the man standing next to her.
Whether it was worry or obsession that had aged Lesley Vanderbilt, one thing was clear when her eyes flashed between the guests in the circle growing around her—she hadn’t lost the dangerous edge that had given Ash the shivers last month.
Ash was so bewitched by seeing Lesley again in the flesh that she bumped into a waitress. She apologized, downed the rest of her champagne flute, and grabbed another from the tray before the waitress could wander off.
Perhaps it was the warmth and liquid courage from the champagne, perhaps it was some jungle instinct in her summoned by the tropical night air, or perhaps it was the first bubbles of her own family revenge starting to burst within her, but suddenly Ash was consumed with a seething disgust—no, flat-out rage—for the woman standing in the corner of the garden. Lesley had taken a quarrel from another century, which could have died with the people involved, and had stirred up a shit-storm on this side of the new millennium. And although Lesley certainly couldn’t be blamed for all of the events that took place at Blackwood leading up to Rolfe’s death, she played a big role in the cosmic jigsaw puzzle. Worse, now that she’d brainwashed Rose, she’d gone from being a minor player in Ash’s life to being a full-fledged villain.
That’s when Ash made the decision to walk right up to her. After all, what was Lesley going to do in front of a crowd of wealthy Floridians and journalists? Shoot her? And if Ash missed her opportunity to approach Lesley now, who knew when Ash would find her next.
She made it only three steps before a tall waiter wearing a white button-down stepped in front of her with a tray. “Shrimp cocktail, ma’am?” he asked in his rich voice.
“In a minute,” Ash said, and started to slide around him.
His hand caught her elbow to hold her back, and only then did she realize that the waiter was actually Wes. He had swept his long dark bangs down in front of his face, but his eyes were simmering beneath them through the holes in his mask. “This is not the time or place.”
“This is exactly the time and place.” Ash gently pulled her arm free. “We’re in public. What could she possibly do?”
Wes stepped in front of her, just in case she decided to beeline it for Lesley. “What could she do? She can go back to her villa, ship your sister off to a place where you’ll never find her, and then send all of her manpower after you. And in case you didn’t notice last night, when it comes to handling gods and goddesses, her people come prepared.”
Ash took another sip from her champagne flute. “Then, what do you propose that I do?”
“For starters?” Wes used his free hand to snap his fingers in front of her face. “Look at me and stop staring ninja stars at Lesley Vanderbilt. You’re only in control as long as she doesn’t know you’ve come to Miami.”
Ash huffed. Then, as her way of waving the white flag, she grabbed a handful of shrimp off his tray. “Okay, garçon. You win. So tell me why you got a girl all gussied up to go to the prom, only to forbid her from exacting her revenge.”
She went to dip her shrimp into the cocktail sauce on the tray, but he was already setting the tray down on the nearest table. He gave a quick look around to make sure the partygoers nearby were ensconced in conversation before he pulled on the jacket he had draped over his arm, instantly transforming from a waiter to an honored guest. “I have something to show you.” She didn’t follow at first, so he said, “You can bring the shrimp with you if you like.”
She bit the heads off the last two shrimp and tossed the tails onto the table. “This better be good.”
As they walked toward the south arcade, he allowed them to approach just a little bit closer to where Lesley’s entourage was chatting. “Watch the guy under the tree,” he instructed her. “But don’t stare.”
It was the large boy with the dreadlocks from Ash’s vision of the boat. Even with his white khakis and button-down, rolled halfway up his forearms, he looked rough and unsavory for a soiree like this. His tie was loose, probably to accommodate his massive pro-wrestler neck.
“Bodyguard?” she asked.
“You got it.” Wes directed her away as she edged in for a closer look. “The Incan sun god, Inti, but he goes by Rey—Spanish for ‘king.’”
“H
e seems like a real ‘Rey’ of sunshine.” Ash faked an obnoxious laugh.
“Oh, you’ll be a hit at the after-party,” Wes said.
They cut through the tea room first, which Ash thought was closer to a small ballroom with chandeliers than a nook for tea drinking. The temperature of the air instantly plummeted the moment they entered, and at first Ash figured it was just a very efficient cooling system.
Beyond a gaggle of women, who were all shivering, a familiar girl stood in profile with her back to the wall, gazing out the open portico onto the terrace outside and the gardens beyond. She wore the same hooded white robe she’d sported on the boat, and she was fanning herself despite the chill temperature. The cocktail glass in her other hand was lined with frost when she brought it up to her lips.
Wes cruised through once Ash had gotten a good look, but waited until they entered the dining room beyond to speak. “Skadi, Norse goddess of winter,” he said. “They call her Bleak. I think she’s a koi out of the koi pond, here in Miami, with the heat and everything.”
The next set of doors opened up into a smaller music room. Ash instantly recognized the boy standing next to the antique harp, in conversation with a large group gathered around him. He had ditched his mask and was gesturing wildly with his hands, to the boisterous laughter of his entourage. Ash must have been staring too conspicuously, because Wes elbowed her in the ribs. She thought she caught the boy’s eye before she turned away.
“And that,” Wes said as they exited out onto the eastern loggia, where the air simmered back up to a sweltering ninety degrees, “is Lesley’s right hand, Thorne, and the leader of the pack as far as I can tell. His true name is Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec god of wind.” He paused. “According to folklore, he’s my nemesis and we have the same father. Brothers from different mothers, as they say.”
“Your mom must have been taller, then,” Ash said. “Probably prettier as well. So are they just hanging around Lesley for the free booze and dinner parties?”
Embers and Echoes Page 8
