I never considered that Descendant politics would affect people like Jaxon, and definitely not in this way. “That’s horrible.”
Jaxon studies my face. “That’s why I have no patience for all this supernatural stuff.”
The waiter returns, placing the fettuccine on the table and the pizza on a stand. The smell of cream and mushrooms and fresh dough swirls around me like a hug.
I grab a slice of pizza. “I get that. My introduction to Salem magic wasn’t exactly gentle. And my dad would flip if he knew how intense things got.”
“So you don’t talk to him about it?”
I look at my food, not completely comfortable with the truth. “No. I basically act like it didn’t happen. We don’t talk about Vivian.”
“I get it,” he says, and I look back up at him. “Protecting your parent through selective information, I mean. I used to do the same thing.” Jaxon takes a sip of root beer. He sets his glass down and taps his fingers against it like he’s trying to decide something. “Also…what about the noise at breakfast the other morning? Was denying it about protecting him, too?”
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
Just then an awful briny smell fills my nose and I drop my fork. The drowned man appears next to our table, dripping salt water all over the floor. He has stubble on his cheeks, and his hat shadows his eyes.
My heart beats a muffled thrum in my ears.
“Sam?” Jaxon says, but I’m not looking at him.
The drowned man extends his arm toward me, holding an old-fashioned dog collar in his open palm.
I stand, shoving my chair away from the table.
“Sam, what’s going on?” Jaxon asks, standing now, too.
The drowned man steps forward, pushing the dog collar at me. “Don’t be daft. Take it,” he says in an accent that sounds Irish.
I step backward, colliding with the chair. I reach for the table to steady myself but secure only the tablecloth and manage to pull it and all the food down with me as I fall.
I hit the floor so hard it knocks the wind out of me. The drowned man tosses the dog collar under the table and blinks out. Jaxon is at my side in a flash, and the whole restaurant is staring. I pluck a napkin off the floor and wrap up the collar before Jaxon can see it.
“Sam? What happened?” Jaxon helps me to my feet. “You’re bleeding.”
There’s a patch torn out of my sweater, exposing a cut. “I have to go.”
I race down the sidewalk toward the harbor. The cold air seeps through my clothes.
“Sam!” Jaxon yells, running after me. He grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. “What the hell just happened in there?”
I look back at the restaurant, disoriented. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Jaxon takes note of my jittery hands. He unzips his coat and puts it around my shoulders. “Let me get my truck. I’ll bring it to you.”
“Yes. No. I can’t go home yet. I don’t want my dad to see me like this. I just need a minute to think.”
Jaxon looks over his shoulder. “How about we go to my studio?”
I nod.
I follow Jaxon down the brick sidewalk through the moonlit streets and work on slowing my heart rate. He stops near a streetlamp, pulls out a key, and unlocks an old door. The house is two stories tall with charcoal-gray trim around the windows. The arched roof has dark shingles, reminiscent of a cottage, that are spotted with greenish, mossy patches, I guess from being so close to the water.
He pushes the door open.
The house has a stronger version of Jaxon’s pine scent. He flicks on a light switch and closes the door behind us.
The room has high ceilings with exposed beams, hardwood floors, and walls whose chipping paint reveals other colors behind the cream top coat. It’s filled with workbenches and beautifully carved furniture.
I run my hand along a rustic wooden table with a complicated grain.
“That’s one of my new favorites,” he says, and comes to stand next to me. “See how there are no seams? It’s one piece of wood. It took me a long time to find it. It’s the type of thing my dad used to make for my mom. I’m a…I’m giving it to her for her birthday.”
I look up at Jaxon. He rarely talks about his dad. “It’s perfect. She’ll love it.”
He beams at the compliment. “Come, sit down.”
I make my way to a navy-blue couch in front of a fireplace, and I sink into the soft cushions. He flips a switch and flames shoot up in the hearth.
I type into a group text I have with the Descendants.
Me: I just saw the drowned man again. Can we meet up sooner?
Jaxon grabs a first-aid box off the mantel and sits down next to me. “Let’s take a look at that arm.”
I slip his coat off. “Sorry I ruined our dinner.”
“Actually, you didn’t ruin it at all. I got a few good bites in before you took down our table.” Jaxon adjusts my sweater, trying to get at the cut. “Can you take this off? I mean, do you have a T-shirt or something underneath?”
“No, but…” I pull my arm out of the sleeve and readjust the fabric around my side so that my bra isn’t showing.
The cut isn’t deep, but it’s a good three inches long. What did I land on? A knife? A piece of glass? Jaxon dabs the cut with an alcohol wipe and I wince.
His sandy hair falls in his eyes. “You saw another ghost, didn’t you?”
“He was dripping salt water.”
Jaxon tenses. “Hold on, what?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. He smelled like he’d walked straight out of the ocean. I saw him once before at school, and he scared the crap out of me then, too.”
“So you’ve been seeing ghosts a lot, then?”
I pause. “Define ‘a lot.’ ”
“I’m pretty sure that answers my question. Besides looking creepy as hell, though, is there anything they can do? I mean, can they blow out all the lights or—”
“Actually…I’m not sure. What I do know, though, is that spirits feel exactly like living people to me. Solid.”
“So this guy could’ve hurt you?”
I nod. “Probably. Hence the backpedaling and destroying the restaurant.”
“So any dead lunatic could wander in and potentially do something to you? Do you even know what this guy wanted or who he was?” Jaxon squeezes antibiotic cream onto my arm and covers it with a piece of gauze.
I help him hold it in place while he tapes it up. “It’s complicated.”
Jaxon lets go of my arm, and I slip it back into my sweater. “Okay, start from the beginning. We both know I’m not great with all the magic stuff, but I’m gonna do my best.”
I consider his offer. “You know what, it might be nice if you knew.”
“Let’s make a deal,” he says. “We’ll be honest with each other, even if it’s weird and uncomfortable.”
“Deal.” I smile. “Oh, and about our conversation yesterday morning, I changed my mind. I am going to go to the dance.”
Jaxon reaches out and pulls me into a hug. His warm hands grip my back. He doesn’t come off as the guarded type, but in some ways he is. He laughs and jokes with everyone, but there is a lot more to Jaxon than his humor.
Jaxon pulls back and looks at me. He doesn’t take his arms from around my sides. Oh no. His look is focused. He’s not going to…I…Shit. He leans forward, his breath hot on my lips.
I put my hand on his chest just before his lips touch mine. “Wait.”
Jaxon lets go of me and rubs his neck. “Sorry, I definitely didn’t plan to do that. I don’t know what…Sorry.” He laughs, but his expression shows his disappointment.
My cheeks are blazing. “No, it’s fine.” I shift uncomfortably. “It’s not you. I’m just…I don’t know. We’re friends. I like our relationship the way it is.” Why did he have to do this now, when we’re finally talking? “Today has just been intense. And last night. There was this thing with this dress, and Elijah showed up.” The moment th
e words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake.
His embarrassment disappears. “Elijah’s back?”
Great, now he’s going to assume I just dropped that information to explain not kissing him. Smooth.
Jaxon’s frustration is obvious. He scans the room. “Is he here now?”
“No.” I pull at my sweater sleeves.
Jaxon focuses on me again. “And ghosts can touch you.”
I meet his eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.” Jaxon stands up so quickly that I wince.
“Hold on. Are you mad right now?”
“No.”
“You’re pacing.”
Jaxon picks up my coat. “How ’bout we call it a night.”
My mouth opens. “What happened to wanting to help me figure things out? Was that all about kissing me?”
“Don’t be stupid. I just need…Let’s just go.”
“You want me to tell you things, be honest with you. Just not the things you don’t want to hear?”
He exhales and hands me my coat.
I yank it from his hands.
I sit on my bed frowning at the dog collar and chewing on my thumbnail. What does this thing mean? Why would the drowned man give it to me? It seriously makes no sense. I can’t help but think about Redd saying “possibly” when I asked her if I was going to be the one to die.
My cell phone buzzes on my nightstand and I jolt.
Alice: Takeout was a disaster. Food poisoning happened. Are you okay?
Mary: You’re welcome to come over. But fair warning that we’re paying homage to the toilet bowl.
I check the time: 10:27 p.m. Damn, I was really hoping seeing them would calm my nerves.
Me: Don’t worry. The drowned man story can wait. Just get some rest and feel better.
Susannah: Text us if you change your mind. Sleep is unlikely.
I drop my phone in my blankets. Crap. That means I’m gonna have to look for those family records alone. Or I could ask Elijah? No. Definitely no.
I slide off my bed and grab the flashlight out of my nightstand drawer. I make my way quietly into the hall, listening for my dad. There are no lights on besides the small sconces. He’s probably still downstairs in his office. And if he’s downstairs, then sneaking into the study isn’t the best idea. I guess I could start in the attic?
I tiptoe down the hallway where my dad’s room is and press the flashlight on. Mostly, the rooms at the back of the house are unused or have become a place to store extra furniture. But behind one of these doors is a staircase. I discovered it when I first moved in and made the rounds.
I stop at a door with a wrought-iron latch instead of a knob and unhook it. “Bingo.”
The signature musty smell that inhabits attics wafts out. I grab the wooden railing and latch the door behind me.
The room is bigger than the secret study and much less refined. There are boxes stacked in piles and loose floorboards. Nails stick out of the slanted walls at all angles like a torture device from the Dark Ages. Please, please don’t let me trip. The thing that’s noticeably absent, though, besides good light, is spiderwebs. Shouldn’t they be all over this room? I swear, if Elijah was cleaning the attic instead of spending time with me, he’ll have officially achieved a new low.
I shine the flashlight at the stacks of cardboard boxes. Most of them have labels like MATHER CHINA and CANDLEHOLDERS. Nothing so far that looks like it might contain old family documents. Against the far wall is an open wooden crate with about ten cloth-wrapped squares in it. Paintings? Hmmm. Waving the flashlight around me to be sure I wasn’t wrong about those spiders, I walk to the crate and peer inside. Yup, definitely paintings. All neatly packaged and tied up…except the one on the end.
I pull at the cloth, and it comes off in my hand. I almost drop the flashlight. It’s the painting. The one from the hall with the woman that changed.
A chill runs down my spine. Did my dad move this up here? Maybe I didn’t hide how creeped out I was about it? But still, wouldn’t he have said something? I look quickly over my shoulder at the musty room. Nothing’s there but shadows.
“So was I right? Are you Myra?” I ask the painting as I examine it.
I tip the frame forward and shine my light at the brown paper backing, looking for one of those note cards my grandmother sometimes used to catalog things. But I find a small plain envelope instead, taped to the bottom corner, and poke it tentatively with one finger. Nothing happens. I put my hand on it and leave it there for a second.
Seems safe. I carefully dislodge it, brace my flashlight under my arm, and open it, only to discover an older envelope inside. It’s written in my grandmother’s cursive and reads:
Letter to Grandmother Haxtun (Maria DeLong Haxtun) from her cousin Helen Hopson. Account of the Titanic disaster.
My heart beats faster. Aren’t letters like these supposed to be in museums? Could this be real? I carefully pull out the folded paper.
Monday
TWO HUNDRED TEN RIVERSIDE DRIVE
NEW YORK, N.Y.
Dear Cousin Maria,
Aunty Myra and Uncle Harry are both home safe and fairly sound considering all they have been through, which means that they are nervously tired out, though otherwise well.
When their ship struck the iceberg Aunty Myra saw the great wall of ice scraping along past her porthole for the lights were turned on still, and she knew just what had happened, so she got Uncle Harry + valet up to dress him. He had been so ill with grippe he had to be helped up and almost carried onto the deck. They made their way to an upper deck where were very few people, and were the last to leave that deck. Both were warmly dressed so did not suffer from exposure but the boat was so crowded all the men could not sit down, and in that state they waited and watched for the first steamer.
It was so clear that all through the night they could see stars so near the horizon they thought must be ships, lights. When daylight broke they seemed to be completely hemmed in by a field of ice and yet that other little steamer made straight for them. The people on it did their utmost to make things comfortable for them, gave up their beds, took off their clothes for them almost and saw that every thing possible was done to relieve their suffering. But I do feel that we have a true miracle come our way this time in having our own people so wonderfully saved.
Mother knows everything now, and has stood it very well, but the rest of us are pretty well worn out. You see we didn,t get any real news from them until Thursday evening just before they got home and what a relief it was!
I,m sorry this is so short + sketchy. Perhaps I,ll have time to write more fully later, and hope it hasn,t been so long either as to make your poor bruised head feel any worse.
Mother says to tell you that she means someday to send you a picture of my father and will try to find one of herself to send too.
This letter is a disgraceful one to send to anyone who writes such lovely ones as you do, but I didn,t want to wait any longer to send you even a scribble if it was a good news one.
Lovingly Helen T. H.
A board creaks behind me, and I whip around to find a black cat staring at me. It’s pear-shaped and squints at my bright flashlight. Is this a joke? I head for the stairs, full speed, letter in hand.
I take the steep wooden steps so quickly my heel misses one, and I slide down three of them on my butt. I land unceremoniously with a clunk in the hallway, holding the letter away from my body so I don’t crease it. The pain sharpens everything into focus.
I latch the door behind me and instantly feel guilty for leaving the cat.
“Sam?” my dad calls from what sounds like the bottom of the main staircase. “What was that noise?”
“Nothing. I just tripped! Don’t worry!” I yell back, staring at the attic door.
Of all the ridiculous…I’ll just run up, scoop up the cat, and come right back down. I grab the latch, and something moves by my feet. The cat walks right through the door and into the hallway, its fat belly
swinging between its legs.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stand by the railing, watching the porthole lights reflect off the dark water. A salty breeze blows a couple of wisps of my hair free from their pins, and they tickle my cheek.
“I thought you might need this,” says a familiar voice, and I turn around.
Alexander holds my long white coat. I’m surprised to see him after I embarrassed myself in the dining room. But I’m happy he came looking for me.
“Thank you. I’m sorry I ran out on you during dinner like that.” Why did I run out on dinner? I open my mouth to ask him what he remembers, but the question disappears from my thoughts.
I slip my arms into the sleeves as he holds my coat up for me.
“It is of no concern. Lots of passengers are unused to the motion of the ship. I will admit that even I ran from the dining room on the first day.”
He watches me intently. I focus on fastening the small silk buttons on the bodice of my coat, but my lace gloves make it nearly impossible to hold on to the slippery things.
“I’m pretty sure the world would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to wear these confounded gloves.” I shake my hands in the air. Since when do I use words like “confounded”? I frown. Why don’t I sound like myself?
He laughs, breaking my train of thought, and my worry disperses like smoke.
“That is precisely why I make it a point never to wear lace gloves when I have buttons to do,” he says.
I laugh, too, and breathe in the ocean air. What was I just thinking about? It must not have been that important. “You were going to tell me a story before I ran away earlier, I believe.”
“Ah, yes. The story of how I wound up here with you instead of stuck in France with my insufferable aunt for another week. Shall we walk?”
He offers me his arm and I accept it. My dress limits my movements, and we walk at a slow pace.
“As you know, many transatlantic ships were canceled because of the coal strike, and everyone was rescheduled to board the Titanic.”
I nod. That does sound like something I know.
Haunting the Deep Page 10
