Girl of Nightmares (17 page)

Jestine nods and smiles without showing her teeth. Her eyes linger on me, amused and appraising. What is she looking at? Everybody looks this crappy after an international flight. When she leaves without saying good-bye, Thomas says, “Good night,” very loudly in her wake, and rolls his eyes. Whoever she is, she’s successfully made it on his shit list.

After Thomas and I take a few minutes to call Morfran and my mom to reassure them we made it safely, Gideon leads us upstairs, toward the guest room where I stayed when I was a kid and Mom and Dad and I spent the summer with him.

“That’s it?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

“I know why you’re here,” Gideon says darkly. “You can sleep in the guest room. And in the morning, you’re going home.”

*   *   *

“Some goddamn welcome wagon,” Thomas grumbles after we’ve hauled our suitcases to the second-floor guest room, and I stifle a grin. When he’s upset, he sounds just like Morfran. “I didn’t even know he had a niece.”

“I didn’t know either,” I reply.

“Well, she’s a real ball of sunshine.” He’s placed his suitcase at the foot of the better bed. The guest room, oddly enough, seems like it was outfitted just for us, with two twin beds rather than one double like one might expect in a guest room. But then, Gideon did know we were coming. Thomas pulls the quilt back and sits down, prying his shoes off with the opposing set of toes.

“What was that, anyway, that she was doing to me?” I ask.

“Some kind of curse. I don’t know. You don’t see it very often.”

“Would it have killed me?”

He wants to say yes, but he’s honest even when he’s cranky. “Not as long as she stopped after you blacked out,” he says finally. “But who knows if she would have stopped.”

She would have stopped. Something in the way she jumped us, the way she threw her punches; it was all just practice, just a test. It was there in the tone of her voice and the way she gave up. It amused her to have lost.

“We’ll get our answers in the morning,” I say, pulling back my quilt.

“I just don’t like it. And I don’t feel safe in this house. I’m not going to be able to get any sleep. Maybe we should sleep in shifts.”

“Thomas, nobody’s going to hurt us here,” I say, pulling off my own shoes and getting into bed. “Besides, I’m sure you could stop her if she tried. Where did you learn that spell, anyway?”

He shrugs into his pillow. “Morfran’s taught me my share of the black.” His mouth sets in a firm line. “But I don’t like to use it. It makes me feel pissed off and slimy.” He looks at me accusingly. “But
she
didn’t seem to have a problem with it.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Thomas,” I say. He grumbles a bit more, but regardless of what he said about not feeling safe, he starts to snore thirty seconds after the lights go out. Quietly, I slide the athame under my pillow and try to do the same thing.

*   *   *

Jestine is in the kitchen the next morning when I go downstairs. Her back is to me as she washes dishes and she doesn’t turn, but she senses I’m here. She doesn’t have her cap on today, and about two feet of dark gold hair falls down her back. Streaks of red cut through it like ribbons.

“Can I make you something for breakfast?” she asks.

“No, thanks,” I say. There are croissants in a basket on the table. I take one and tear off a corner.

“Would you like some butter?” she asks, and turns around. There’s a large, dark bruise shadowing her jaw. I did that. I remember doing it, doubling her over. When it happened I didn’t know who she was. Now the bruise is staring at me like an accusation. But what do I have to feel bad about? She attacked me, and she got what she got.

She walks to the cupboard and gets a saucer and butter knife, then sets a pot of butter on the table before ducking into the refrigerator for jam.

“Sorry about your face,” I say, and motion vaguely toward the bruise.

She smiles. “No you’re not. Not any more than I’m sorry about pulling the air out of your lungs. I had to test you. And frankly, I wasn’t that impressed.”

“I was jet-lagged.”

“Excuses, excuses.” She leans on the counter and slides a finger through the loop of her jeans. “I’ve been hearing stories about you since I was old enough to listen. Theseus Cassio, the great ghost hunter. Theseus Cassio, the wielder of the weapon. And the moment I meet you, I kick your ass in an alley.” She smiles. “But I suppose if I was dead it’d be another story.”

“Who told you the stories?” I ask.

“The Order of the Biodag Dubh,” she says, her eyes flashing green. “Of course, of all the current members, Gideon has the best stories.”

She tears off a piece of croissant and pushes it into her cheek like a squirrel. The Order of the Biodag Dubh. Until a few days ago I’d never heard of it. Now here it is again, and pronounced correctly. It’s a struggle to keep my voice from rattling.

“The order of the what?” I say, reaching for the butter. “The Beedak Dube?”

She smirks. “Are you making fun of my accent?”

“A little.”

“Oh. Or are you just playing dumb?”

“A little of that too.” Giving away too much would be a mistake. Especially since what I’d be giving away is that I know approximately jack squat.

Jestine turns back to the sink and plunges her hands into the water, finishing off the last of the plates. “Gideon’s gone out for some things for lunch. He wanted to be back before you woke.” She drains the sink and dries her hands on a towel. “Listen, I’m sorry if I gave your friend a scare. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to get one over on you.” She shrugs. “It’s like Gideon says. I’m always running in with my fists first.”

I nod, but Thomas is going to need more of an apology than that.

“Who taught you magic?” I ask. “Was it the Order?”

“Yes. And my parents.”

“Who taught you to fight?”

She lifts her chin. “Didn’t need much teaching. Some people just have a knack for it, isn’t that right?”

There’s a knot in my gut about this girl, pulling in different directions. One side tells me that she’s Gideon’s niece, and that I can trust her for that reason alone. The other side takes one look at her and tells me that niece or not, Gideon couldn’t control her. No one could. She’s got agenda written over every inch of her body.

Thomas is moving around on the second floor. His footsteps creak and we hear the rush of water as the shower turns on. It feels strange, being here. Almost like an out-of-body experience, or a waking dream. Most of the things are just how I remember them, right down to the organization of the furniture. But others are glaringly different. The presence of Jestine, for instance. She moves through the kitchen, cleaning up, wiping things down with a cloth. She looks at home; she looks like Gideon’s family. I don’t know why, but that essence of belonging makes me miss my father in a way that I haven’t missed him in years.

The door opens, and seconds later Gideon tramps through the kitchen. Jestine takes his grocery bag and starts to unload it.

“Theseus,” Gideon says, turning. “How did you sleep?”

“Great,” I reply, which is a polite lie. Despite the jet lag and overall exhaustion, there was too much unease in the air. I lay awake until time didn’t exist, listening to Thomas’s gentle snore. When sleep did come, it was light and laced with menace.

Gideon studies me. He still looks so young. I mean, he looks old, but he doesn’t look much older than he did ten years ago, so that’s young in my book. He’s got the sleeves of his gray shirt rolled up to the elbow above his khaki trousers. It’s a rakish sort of look, a retirement-age Indiana Jones. Makes me wish I wasn’t about to accuse him of being a lying, backstabbing member of a secret society.

“I suppose we should talk,” he says, and motions out of the kitchen.

When we reach the study, he pulls the doors shut behind us, and I take a deep breath. They say that smell is the strongest memory. I believe it. Your brain never forgets a distinctive smell, and the odor of the ancient, leather-bound pages that populate this room is definitely distinctive. I glance through the shelves, built into the wall and stuffed full with not only occult books, but also copies of the classics: there’s
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
,
A Tale of Two Cities
, and
Anna Karenina
standing out amid the stacks. The old rolling ladder is still there too, resting dormant in the corner, just waiting for someone to ride it. Or use it, I suppose.

I turn around with a big grin on my face, feeling all of about four, but the feeling fades quickly when I see just how far Gideon’s glasses have slid down his nose. This is going to be one of those conversations where things get said that won’t ever go away, and I’m surprised to find that I don’t want to have it yet. It would be nice to relive things here, to listen to Gideon’s old stories of my father, and to let him show me around. It would be nice.

“You knew that I was coming,” I say. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“I imagine most of the paranormal world knows why you’re here. Your search has been as subtle as an elephant stampede.” He pauses and adjusts his glasses. “But that doesn’t quite answer the question. I suppose you could say I know what you’re after. But not exactly why you’re here.”

“I’m here for your help.”

He flashes a smile. “Just what kind of help do you think I could give you?”

“The kind of help that lets Thomas and me open a door to the other side.”

Gideon’s eyes flicker back toward the hall. “I told you before, Theseus,” he says carefully. “That it isn’t possible. That you need to let the girl go.”

“I can’t let her go. That cut that Anna took after the first ritual at her house. It’s tied her to the athame somehow. She’s breaking through. Just tell me how to get her out, and everything goes back to normal.” Or at least as normal as it ever was.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” he snaps. “What makes you think I even know how to do such a thing?”

“I don’t think that you do,” I say. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the photograph of him and the rest of the Order. Even looking at it in my hand, it doesn’t seem real. That he could have been involved with something like this the whole time, and never spoken of it. “I think that they do.”

Gideon looks at the photo. He doesn’t try to take it. He doesn’t try to do anything. I expected something different. Outrage, or at least backpedaling. Instead he takes a deep breath and slips his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Who are they?” I ask when I’m sick of his silence.

“They,” he says ruefully, “are members of the Order of the Biodag Dubh.”

“The creators of the athame,” I say.

Gideon puts his glasses back on and walks wearily to sit behind his desk. “Yes,” he says. “The creators of the athame.”

It’s what I thought. But I still can’t believe it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “All these years?”

“Your father forbade it. He broke with the Order before you were born. When he grew a conscience. When he started to decide which ghosts would be killed and which to spare.” Fire briefly blooms in Gideon’s voice. Then it’s gone again, and he just looks beaten. “The Order of the Biodag Dubh believe that the athame is pure of purpose. It is not an instrument to be wielded according to someone else’s will. In their eyes, you and your father have corrupted it.”

My father corrupted it? That’s fucking ridiculous. The athame and its purpose have driven me my whole life. It cost my father his. The damned thing can serve my purposes for once. I’m owed. We’re owed.

“I can see into your head, Theseus. Not as well as your psychic friend upstairs perhaps, but I can see. My words aren’t swaying you. None of it is getting through. The Order created the athame to send the dead. Now you want to use it to pull a dead girl back. Even if there was a way, they’d rather destroy the knife than see it happen.”

“I have to do this. I can’t let her suffer there, without trying.” I swallow hard and grit my teeth. “I love her.”

“She’s dead.”

“That doesn’t mean to me what it does to other people.”

A blankness washes over his face that bothers me. He looks like someone facing down a firing squad.

“When you were here last, you were so small,” he says. “The only thing regularly on your mind was whether or not your mother would allow you two servings of apple cake.” His eyes drift to the rolling ladder in the corner. He’s picturing me there, laughing while he pushed it along the shelves.

“Gideon. I’m not a kid anymore. Treat me like you would have treated my father.” But that’s the wrong thing to say, and he squints like I struck him across the face.

“I can’t do this now,” he says, to himself as much as to me. His hand waves dismissively, and the way his shoulders hunch as he lowers into his armchair, part of me wants to let him rest. But Anna’s scream is forever in my ears.

“I don’t have time for this,” I say, but he closes his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

“She’s in Hell, Theseus. Time has no meaning for her, long or short. The pain and fear are constant, and any minutes or hours that you spare her, you will find, will prove irrelevant.”

“Gideon—”

“Let me rest,” he says. “What I have to say is of little consequence. Don’t you understand? I didn’t send you that photograph. The Order did. They want you here.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

The door slides shut softly behind me. I’m surprised, because I want to slam it, rattle it around on its track. But Gideon is still in the study, thinking quietly, or maybe even napping, and his voice in my head says that throwing such a fit just won’t do.

“How’d that go?” Thomas asks, poking his head out of the kitchen.

“He’s napping,” I reply. “So what does that tell you?”

Walking into the kitchen, I find Thomas and Jestine seated together at the table, sharing a pomegranate.

“He’s old, Cas,” she says. “He was old the last time you were here. Napping is nothing out of the ordinary.” She spoons up a load of the purple fruit and chews carefully past the seeds.