Dreaming Darkly

by Caitlin Kittredge

  “Remember who you’re talking to, Veronica.” Simon’s voice suddenly had a sharp edge I was surprised he was capable of. “Ivy is a Bloodgood. Doesn’t matter who her father is. She’s my blood. Don’t call her a bastard again.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mrs. MacLeod muttered. “That she is a Bloodgood, through and through. You remember as well as I do what Myra was like when she—”

  “I said enough!”

  I didn’t even have to eavesdrop for that one. Simon was yelling. “I know what could happen with her being here. I can handle it. And if you’ll remember, Veronica, you’re in this up to your neck.”

  Mrs. MacLeod gave a laugh that sounded like gravel crunching. “Just because you’ve got yourself a sword to hold over me doesn’t mean I’m wrong, Simon.”

  “For the love of everything, Veronica, I’m not turning her out. That would be the opposite of what I want.” A chair pushed back, and I retreated down the hall. I could just hear Mrs. MacLeod reply.

  “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  I was sitting in a front parlor overlooking the sea, eating a ham sandwich, when Mrs. MacLeod came in carrying an armload of firewood. “How much of that did you hear?” she said, dumping it into the grate.

  I didn’t bother trying to look innocent. She wasn’t anyone who could punish me. “Enough,” I said. “How did you know I was there?”

  “I came to this house when Simon and Myra were barely ten. I’m well aware that the less you want children to overhear, the harder they’ll try. None of your sneaking about goes unnoticed,” Mrs. MacLeod snapped.

  I raised a hand. “I heard a lot, but don’t worry. I get why you don’t want me here. And for the record, I have no idea who my father is, and if I did, I’d be living with him a long way away from this island, not conspiring to murder the two of you. You’re so not worth the effort.”

  Mrs. MacLeod shook her head, shoving crumpled newspapers in between the logs. “Dear God, girl, what did Myra do to you to make you this hard at sixteen?”

  I shrugged. “Sounds like you knew her pretty well.”

  “Nobody ever knew Myra. Not really. She was locked up tighter than a tomb even as a girl.” She sighed, sitting back on her heels. “Regardless of how you and I started, I have no desire to be rid of you. You’ve got no one but Simon now. I would never try to sever that bond.”

  “Please don’t act like you care about what happened to me,” I said. “I can tell when you’re faking it.”

  “Ah, but I do care,” Mrs. MacLeod said. “I care that Simon cares about you, because I don’t want to see him hurt. So I care that you understand exactly what being a Bloodgood means, Ivy. I care that you realize your blood carries a weight.”

  I don’t know why I decided to tell her. Maybe I wanted her to show her true self, to get pissed and yell and threaten me. I could deal with her being mean—this about-face into awkward compassion was just uncomfortable.

  Maybe I just wanted to tell someone else about Doyle’s story and get confirmation that he was out to lunch and the whole bit about people in my family dying violent deaths was just his trying to creep me out. “I met a guy today,” I said. “He told me the family was cursed.”

  Rather than yell, Mrs. MacLeod touched a match to the paper, watching as fingers of flame worked their way over the wood, leaving sooty bruises in their wake. She breathed in, out, a rattling sigh that mimicked the wind outside. “I did tell you not to go near those Ramseys, did I not?”

  “Since you’re here alive and talking to me, I somehow think you’re not my mom,” I said.

  Mrs. MacLeod pursed her lips. “Lord, even Myra never gave me that sort of mouth,” she said. “It was Doyle you met, wasn’t it? The youngest one, with a touch of the devil in him?”

  “A little more than a touch,” I said. “And, you know, nuts. You’d think he could come up with something scarier than ‘You’re cursed, ooo.’” I waggled my fingers, casting spooky shadows in the firelight.

  Mrs. MacLeod smiled at me, and it was so creepy I prayed she’d go back to the usual hatchet face. She took the other chair opposite me in front of the fire, picking up the poker and jabbing at the logs, eliciting a rush of flame and smoke.

  “The first man on Darkhaven was your ancestor Connor Bloodgood.” She used the poker to point at a portrait above the mantel. The guy in it resembled a male version of my mother, dressed up in clothes I usually associated with the Pilgrims. He also looked like he might cut you for looking at him sideways, so that was consistent with the profound emotional instability that seemed to be my family’s one defining trait.

  “What a charmer,” I said.

  “Aye, charm and looks to spare, but that wasn’t enough for him.” Mrs. MacLeod stared at the flames. They caught her face and made it hollow, until I couldn’t see her eyes, just black holes. “Connor sold half his land to a pair of brothers, Declan Ramsey and his younger brother, Sean. Irishmen with more money than sense. Declan was salt of the earth, but his brother was another story, a thief and a silver-tongued rogue. Sean had a pretty wife, Aislinn, and he left her a widow inside a year. Washed up on those rocks right below your window, dead as a doornail.”

  I hoped I looked encouraging, because this was actually halfway interesting. Mrs. MacLeod settled back with a sigh, and I leaned forward. “That’s it? The brother died and the wife just hung around with her brother-in-law?”

  Mrs. MacLeod waved her hand. “It’s just the history of the island. Nothing so exciting as a film or even a ghost story. All the interesting bits are just hateful gossip the mainlanders spread over the years.”

  I tucked my feet under me. “I can get on board with hateful gossip. I know literally nothing about my family. When I had to fill in those genealogy trees in elementary school I’d use the alias names of superheroes.” If you stick to the second-tier Justice League, it works pretty well. Barry Allen and Hal Jordan had each been my fake dad more than once.

  Mrs. MacLeod sighed. “I’m only telling you so you’ll understand what it means to be a part of this island. Not giving credence to silly stories.” She pointed a stubby finger at me. “And don’t repeat this to your uncle. The terrible things people over in town say about the family upset him.”

  I made the lip-zipping motion and she finally continued.

  “Some say Sean Ramsey fell from the cliff in a storm. And some say Connor Bloodgood pushed him. Connor loved Aislinn, you see. She was a fair woman in a rough land, and that’s a prize better than gold.”

  If Doyle was anything to go by, his great-great-whatever had been a looker, for sure. My dour-faced great-great-whatever with the crazy eyes hanging above the mantel was a serious downgrade. Poor Aislinn.

  “Aislinn knew the old ways, the magic of the daoine sídhe,” said Mrs. MacLeod. “That’s the fairy folk back in the old country. White magic, likely just herbs and ways to ease childbirth and such. You could be called a witch for any damn thing back then.” She pursed her lips, and I nodded encouragingly.

  “It totally sucked being a woman in the olden times, got it.”

  “She was a good woman,” Mrs. MacLeod said, “and she came to love Connor with all the force of her power. But Connor wanted more than Aislinn. He wanted the riches Sean Ramsey brought with him to the island, the money and the fine things the Ramseys got through their business on the mainland. Connor wanted more than that, always more.”

  “What a tool,” I said, and Mrs. MacLeod flicked the poker toward me. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  “Some say Connor Bloodgood made a pact with the devil,” Mrs. MacLeod said. “Some say that the dark power was merely Aislinn whispering in his ear. But as he used Sean’s nest egg to blackmail, kill, and steal his way into an earthly fortune, Aislinn’s eye strayed. A mistreated woman’s will, eventually. I don’t blame her one bit.” Mrs. MacLeod bit her lip, and I noticed the hand holding the poker was shaking, ever so slightly. “She came back to her former brother-in-law, Dec
lan, and together they made plans to rob Connor of all the gold and riches he’d plundered from Sean’s estate, to restore the Ramsey fortune. But when they arrived, the coffers were empty. Connor had hidden his wealth somewhere on the island, somewhere only one of his bloodline could find it. Aislinn was with his child, you see. She could go back to life as his wife, rich beyond belief, trapped in a loveless marriage with a violent man. Or she could give up her child to be with Declan, and bear the disgrace of being an adulterer. Connor’s rage forced her to make a terrible choice.”

  I didn’t want to say anything now. All I could hear was the snap of the fire and the wind wailing outside.

  Mrs. MacLeod shook her head. “In the end, she chose neither. She followed Sean Ramsey over those cliffs. Connor arrived in time to cut the baby out of her, but it was too late for his wife. With her dying breath, Aislinn cursed Connor. He wanted to possess both her and his wealth, so she cursed him to have one or the other but never at the same time. Every generation of Bloodgoods will either slay another or die by their own hand. Always wealthy, but always spilling blood to stay so. Always close to the one they love, but always forced apart by death. The Ramseys were destitute by comparison after Connor stole Sean’s estate, but they never left this island, and the Bloodgoods never really let them be. Generations of bad blood, of killings and suicides and backhanded thieving, all because of one silly man and his selfishness over one poor woman who never asked for any of it. The Ramseys’ fortune died out, but the Bloodgoods’ only grew, to the point where it’s rumored that Connor filled an entire cave with riches, starting with what he hid from Aislinn. That part’s bunk, obviously. Even if it existed, no amount of money could buy back the few moments of happiness that miserable man ever experienced.” She sighed and looked at me. I realized my heart was pounding, and tried to act like the story hadn’t bothered me. “And now you and Simon are the only Bloodgoods left. It’s said when the line is broken, the curse will be ended, and your family can find peace at last.”

  My mouth was dry, and I licked my lips, my voice coming out a whisper. “So it only ends when we’re all dead? You’re saying you believe all of this?”

  Mrs. MacLeod stood up, smoothing her hands over her denim shirt. “I’m not a Bloodgood, Ivy. I don’t have to believe anything. But rest assured the Ramseys do. Even if you don’t believe, your family and theirs have been feuding for so long that there’s more than a few in their clan who would like nothing more than to see you dead.”

  Chapter 7

  Simon didn’t have a television, of course. I’d have been surprised if the manor even had a radio, since he and Mrs. MacLeod were clearly happy to live like they were Amish, passing the time by freaking me out with ghost stories.

  I managed to find a library, which was mostly stocked with history books, all of them mildewed and dusty, and a shelf full of legal thrillers marked with V. MacLeod inside the flap.

  I put them all back. I was bored, not stupid enough to take Veronica’s property without asking. Besides, I couldn’t stop thinking about her story, and even though I didn’t believe in magic and curses and whatnot, I did wonder a little about the violent-death-and-murder part. Rather than poor Aislinn’s curse, maybe there really was something wrong with all of us, something medicine at the time couldn’t explain, and still couldn’t.

  It sure would explain a lot about Mom. And me.

  Finally I found a trove of Dark Shadows novels. Set in Maine, the copy told me, based on the TV show, so I took an armload to my room. Vampires and witches and a campy Bela Lugosi–looking guy on the covers were about what I could handle right now. Silly vampire books were always easy to find at thrift stores and book sales, and I’d pretty much read them all at one time or another—Interview with the Vampire, ’Salem’s Lot, I Am Legend—if it involved blood drinking and brooding, it was the perfect distraction from real life.

  Reading didn’t work this time, though. When I was really upset, I couldn’t focus on print or much of anything else. My solution used to be to go for a walk, but it was just before full dark outside. Gulls screamed, and I watched the black dots of their shapes track back and forth from the lighthouse as they wheeled over the sea.

  Stupid gulls. They were free, able to fly away from here at will.

  I threw the book back into the pile on the floor. Campy vampires weren’t going to help me stop thinking about the weird shit that had started happening since I’d gotten to this island. About Doyle clearly knowing who I was before he met me, about my uncle, even that story about Aislinn and Connor.

  I looked at the drawer of my nightstand and then sighed and yanked it open. Yeah, they held bad memories, but if I admitted it to myself, I knew why I’d kept the tarot cards. When I’d had bad dreams, my mother and I would look through the cards, at the major arcana, and she’d tell me the meanings and the stories, tracing the faded drawings with one of her thin fingers, nail spotted with the remains of black or purple or crimson polish until I drifted off again.

  I could recite them in my sleep: the Fool, the Hanged Man, the Tower, the Magician. One of the only times my mother used a calm voice, spoke to me like she cared, even held me if I’d had a really epic nightmare. Ignoring that her comforting me over a nightmare caused by her own actions was kinda fucked-up, I remember it as one of the few good times we had.

  I pulled at the drawer again, but it wouldn’t open wide enough to get at the cards. Damn damp manor house. I might as well live in a cave.

  Reaching under the nightstand, I tried to knock the drawer loose. Instead, my fingers brushed cloth, and I pulled out a crumple of white fabric, jammed behind the drawer, hidden from all sight.

  I knew what it was before my shaking fingers smoothed it out, but I still couldn’t accept it. I stepped back like it was a snake, my foot kicking over the pile of books and sending paperbacks slithering around the room. It couldn’t be, but it was, sitting on my bed, real as everything else in this ratty bedroom. This time, I was definitely awake.

  The thing hidden in my nightstand was my tank top. And the front was covered in dried blood.

  I grabbed the plastic bag out of the trash can beside my bed before I could spend time thinking things over. Like how my nightclothes were covered in blood, and how they’d gotten hidden. The tank top went in the bag, and I went out the door, making myself slow down and walk like I wasn’t about to go find a place to dispose of what could easily be called evidence. Of what, I had no idea, but nothing good left you covered in that much blood that wasn’t yours.

  Once I was outside, I froze. The woods were out—after what had happened earlier, I couldn’t risk one of the Ramseys seeing me. The landscaped gardens wouldn’t work. I was sure Mrs. MacLeod watched the entire grounds like a hawk.

  I didn’t even consider telling anyone. Who would I tell? Sorry, Simon, it turns out the delinquent teenage niece you took in out of the goodness of your heart is off hacking up woodland creatures, serial killer–style.

  At least I thought it was animal blood. It had to be—there was nobody unaccounted for on the island as far as I knew, unless you counted the dead guy in my dream, which I certainly didn’t. And while my mother might have been convinced I was evil incarnate most days, homicidal blackouts would be a new wrinkle.

  A gull screamed out over the water, and I headed for the steps to the beach, crumpling the bag between my fingers. Mrs. MacLeod had said the steps weren’t safe, but if it were between breaking my leg and somebody finding the bloody shirt, I’d risk a limb any day. I didn’t know either Simon or Veronica, not really. I had no idea how they’d react if they found this, except that it wouldn’t be good. I wasn’t ending up in juvie or some ward for disturbed teens, not when I was so close to being on my own. Destroying the bloody clothing anywhere in or near the house was way too much of a risk, given how damn nosy Mrs. MacLeod was. So I sucked up my fear of the creaking steps and started down.

  I would dispose of the tank top, I told myself. That was step one. Step two was figur
ing out what the hell was going on. One step at a time. That’s how you keep from losing your cool, panicking, and getting caught. Don’t think too far ahead.

  I tested the first tread, and when it held my weight, I picked my way down the cliff face. The beach was a good fifty feet below me, and the stairs swayed with every step. The wood was slick and rotten, and I clutched the railing.

  One almost-fall and a bunch of splinters later, I found myself on a small strip of rocky sand. The waves pounded the cliffs around me, hollow booms that sounded like thunder. There was a cave entrance off to the right, and I headed for it.

  I couldn’t even see the house anymore. It was just me, the fog, and the waves. It was unsettling, to say the least, especially coming from places where you could see the horizon in every direction.

  I’d never thought I’d miss Kansas, or Minnesota, or New Mexico—any of the places my mother dragged us—but it had to be better than here.

  I climbed up a flat rock at the cave entrance, perfectly smooth like a table, with four smaller rocks set on top. There was even an indentation in the middle for some kind of fire pit. Maybe when the weather didn’t suck, some long-ago owner of this place had actually had fun; picnics on the beach, back in the era of giant hats and those weird woolen bathing suits that went down to your shins.

  I looked at the swirling tide pool before I slid down the other side of the rock, and that cold stole over me again. The wind was turning all my exposed skin numb, but this was more than that. Bad memories always made me cold, ever since the time my mother had shoved my head in the bathtub.

  It caught me hard—black swirling water, salt in my mouth, cold bottomless ocean waiting to accept me and keep me.

  I fell hard, landing on my butt inside the mouth of the cave, salt water soaking into my jeans. If my phobia of water had gotten to the point where I couldn’t even look at it, I was sort of screwed. Maybe now that I had a rich relative, I could get some pills to help out with that.