Sunblind (21 page)

Oh my God! What have I done? Why do I get the feeling that I've just sealed Essie's fate?

“Nothing,” I say quickly and stupidly. “Nothing at all.”

But Melinda knows I mean exactly the opposite.

“That's what I suspected,” she replies.

Shaking my head erratically, I try to get the image of the woman standing in front of me out of my head. Not because I agree with Essie's declaration that she's a witch, but because in this room she looks exactly like my mother.

No! I close my eyes so the image disappears and in my mind so does the resemblance. “Get out of my way!” I command, eyes closed tight.

Stumbling into the hallway I'm so distraught and confused and outraged that I start to walk right into the depths of The Retreat instead of to the left toward the front desk. I'm about to turn around to correct myself when I hear squeaking. Nadine is here. She's not carrying her clipboard, which is usually soldered to her hands, so this must not be a professional visit. When I see her staring at me, smiling devilishly, her hands clasped in front of her, I know that her trip here was completely personal.

“Hello, Dominy,” she calls out. “I have something to tell you.”

Her voice is different. It's deeper and flatter and devoid of any emotion. This is who she really is, a soulless creature, just like Luba. And this is why my father wanted to talk to my mother, to tell me to listen to whatever this freak has to say. Jess probably can't relay such messages, but there's no law stating that a mother can't talk to her own daughter.

Even if Nadine weren't leading the way, I would know that we were headed to Room 48. Once inside Luba's room, however, I would never have imagined I would find Napoleon sitting in a chair next to her. I must look shocked, but it's not for the reason Nadine thinks.

“You haven't forgotten my grandmother already, have you?” she asks.

The plastic bag is ripped off my head; globs of honey are spooned back into the jar; the truth returns to my mind like water rushing through empty streets during a flood. I couldn't stop the memories if I wanted to. Luba is Napoleon and Nadine's grandmother; Melinda is Luba's daughter-in-law; and I've officially been lured into enemy camp.

I'm quick, but Nadine proves quicker. By the time I reach the door, Nadine has telekinetically locked it, and even with my super strength I can't reopen it. I'm in human form, but I'm a wolf, trapped in a cage.

“The time has come, Dominy,” Luba hisses, “for us to tell you about our heritage.”

All I want to do is escape from this prison. Maybe if I can make it to the window, I can break through the glass and be free. We're only on the first floor; the fall won't be that steep. But then I remember my father's message.

“I'm listening,” I reply.

Smiling like some grotesque coquette, Luba grabs her grandchildren, one emaciated hand clutching either descendant, and yanks them close to her body so three become one.

“Good,” she replies. “Because it really is one helluva story.”

Chapter 19

The last time someone told me a story, it was my father telling me about the origin of the curse. I have a feeling this story is going to be worse.

“It's time to go back to the beginning,” Luba states.

I was right. I don't want to hear what she has to say; I already know everything I need to know. Jess warned us to keep Barnaby away from Luba, Nadine, and unfortunately for Archie, even Napoleon. He may be cringing slightly as his grandmother's bones press into his, he may not want to be an active participant among this triumvirate, but for whatever reason he cannot escape. He cannot break free, and therefore he cannot be my friend's boyfriend.

The fourth member of their troop, Melinda, must also play a part, but hers is by default. She bore Luba's grandchildren; she's not connected to her by blood though, and that must be the reason she's being left out. She's close enough to revel in their glories, close enough to convince herself she's been offered membership to their cult, but she can only bear witness; she has no power of her own. These three have the power, and I'm about to be told what it is, how they obtained it, and, perhaps, what they plan on doing with it.

Correction, I'm about to be shown.

“Ready, children?” Luba asks, her normally dull, black eyes suddenly gleaming.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Nadine replies excitedly.

When Napoleon answers I can only detect obedience in his voice. “Yes.”

Together they raise their hands and point them at the door, making it vanish and replacing it with a silver tunnel. Squinting, I can't see anything contained inside. It looks unfilled and unending and unreal. And yet I know that if I want answers to Luba's family's origin, answers that may help me break this curse, I have to walk inside this hollow shell. Could lead to revelation, could lead to destruction. The only thing I'm certain of is that I have no choice.

“Follow me,” Nadine commands.

Standing at the threshold of the man-made—or maybe that's creature-made—tunnel, Nadine doesn't hesitate; she walks right into the silver light. Well, if she can do it, so can I. We may be on decidedly opposite sides of the moral tracks, but I'm just as strong as she appears to be.

I can feel and smell Luba's stinky breath on my neck, and I think that she'll follow me into this new space, but I'm wrong. She may love both her grandchildren, she may need both of them, but she clearly doesn't trust them both.

“Napoleon,” she says. “You're next.”

Quickly falling in line, I don't have to turn around to know that Napoleon is behind me; I can smell him. His scent is as strong as his grandmother's, but much more pleasant. Oddly, it smells like the incense that the priests burn at St. Edmund's, and, unless I'm deluding myself, unless I'm trying to make Nap better than he actually is, I smell the faint trace of cherry blossoms within that musky fragrance. If he has the church and Jess on his side, maybe there's hope for him after all.

When I feel his hand tugging against the sleeve of my jacket, I know there's hope for me. He's reminding me that I may be on my own for the moment, I may be plunging into unknown and evil territory, but I'm always connected to goodness.

Walking through the silver tunnel is like walking through water. I can breathe and see easily, but the air around is tangible. It doesn't prevent movement; it comes along for the ride. Whatever this substance is—natural or magical—it's clinging to me. It's not becoming part of me or trying to burrow into my skin. It just wants me to know that it exists.

Looking down past the silver light, I see nothing but blackness; Luba's hospital room is long gone. So is the earth for that matter. Somehow the four of us are walking, our feet not touching anything solid, and yet we don't fall through to be swallowed by the emptiness below. Above us, beyond the silver canopy is more blackness. It surrounds us, kept at bay, but I suspect it longs to make us a part of its massive nothingness.

When I think about exactly where I am, walking through an enclosed corridor with my enemies to witness the tale of their beginnings, I start to panic. If only I could hide within the wolf's body, disappear within the soft contours of its fur, maybe I could feel safe. As it is I feel like I'm walking through space with escorts leading me to my doom. When we land I realize we've merely walked through time.

“Welcome to my past, Dominy.”

Luba is standing in a field of overgrown wildflowers and weeds. I have no idea where we are, and yet I know that we've touched ground outside Nadine's family cabin. Glancing to my right I see confirmation, one small cabin, sturdily built, the same cabin where I tried to kill Archie the night of my second transformation. The same cabin that now stands in the shadow of the larger one that was built decades later, which in the time I'm currently standing in, doesn't yet exist.

Three arms rise at the same time, emitting three beams of silver light that fuse to become one, and instantaneously we're all transported inside the cabin. Wincing, I turn away from the sight I'm shown, but I'm immediately drawn back to the young woman lying on the floor, her legs bent and spread, trying to coax out the child who refuses to be born.

“Get out of me!!”

The woman is young and beautiful and terrified. Sweat covers her face and makes her pale white skin glisten, mats down her jet-black hair. Guttural cries and anguished groans tear out of her body with such ferocity that the sounds threaten to slash open the flesh around her mouth. She is in pain; she is in labor; she is in Luba's memory.

“This is the woman your father created,” Luba narrates. “This is me about to give birth to my only child, alone, without my husband, shunned by my people.”

Stupidly I ask, “Where's your family?”

“When you cannot produce your husband's killer, everyone thinks he's taken his own life,” Luba replies scornfully. “And if your husband will not stand by your side, neither will your tribe.”

Annoyed at either my interruption or the lonely vision of herself as a younger woman, Luba angrily swipes her hand in the air, marking it with a trail of silver. She reminds me of Jess and how golden sunlight follows her wherever she goes, however she moves. I'm startled by how similar good and evil can look.

The scene within the cabin changes, and young Luba is now holding her son. But there's no sigh of relief, no beatific smile as she gazes at her newborn, who lies naked in her lifeless arms except for the slime and blood that still cling to his fresh skin. There's no joy in her eyes, only anger.

“You are fatherless,” she says, her voice flat and dead. “He was taken from you by an evil man, and you are now an albatross, a thorn in my side, a reminder of how shameful my life has become and how glorious my life should have been.”

My heart breaks for this child even though I know he will grow up to become the father of the twins, because her words are more hateful than any curse Luba could inflict. These are words no child should ever hear. And they're followed by instructions no child can ever disobey.

“Together we will avenge your father's death,” Luba continues. The formulation of her plan is beginning to bring life back to her, her words starting to employ the rhythm of a lullaby. “Together we will make this vile man and his own child pay for destroying our lives. Your father and my husband will not have died in vain. That is our blessing; that is our curse.”

This child, this innocent baby is exactly the same as me. His only crime was being born to wickedness, having a mother as immoral as sin. My only crime was being born to a man who made a fatal mistake, who for a brief and solitary moment became wicked. We both survived only to suffer for the actions of our parents. Only one of the twins, however, seems to agree with me.

Nadine is staring at the scene of her father's first moments on this earth with indifference; the man means nothing to her, while Napoleon looks as if he is fighting every muscle in his body to stand still and not race forward to snatch the baby from Luba's disinterested arms. But he gives in to the power enslaving him and doesn't move. It doesn't matter that he probably can't break the time barrier and actually become part of the scene we're watching unfold; he doesn't even try. I know if that were my father being held by such an unmaternal mother, I would make every attempt to free him from a life filled with misery. A sense of relief floods my body. I may be a victim, but I'm not a coward. As we travel into the future, turns out that's just what Luba's son is.

“Thorne?” Luba says.

“Yes, Mother,” he replies.

“She said yes?” she asks.

Now Luba's slightly older, but still looking more like the young woman who gave birth to an unlucky boy moments ago than like the old, withering woman standing next to me.

“Yes, Mother, she did.”

I know the man I'm watching is the twins' father, but how could I know that? Suddenly, my mind melds with the wolf's, and I remember that I've seen his face in a photo before! In the cabin, while stalking Archie and Nadine, I saw a photo of this man, the twins, and Melinda. I thought they were what they appeared to be—a happy family. How wrong I was.

“How surprising,” Luba replies. “Obviously Melinda sees the majesty and power and magic that lie just outside your grasp.”

“No, Mother, she sees the man that lies inside of me!” her son snaps. “The man you refuse to see!”

Old Luba smirks; Young Luba laughs out loud. Instinctively, I know that this is a rare occurrence, Thorne's showing courage and standing up to his mother. Even the twins sense that this is something out of the ordinary, and they begin to watch the past unfold with more interest than before. Thorne's victory, however, is over before it truly begins.

“That's because there is nothing to see,” she mocks. “Only a bastard child.”

“I am not a bastard!” Thorne shouts, but his voice cracks on the last syllable, voiding out all the strength he was trying to attain. “I have a father.”

Slowly, Young Luba walks toward her son, and he physically cowers, growing smaller during her advance. His face is etched with a fear that is not born from surprise, but from a lifelong education.

“If your father were alive, he would disown you,” she whispers through her sinister smile. “You have proven yourself over and over again to be an unfitting heir. You do not embrace his power; it is not your mission to see it fulfilled.”

“Because you only want to use it for destruction,” Thorne argues.

“The Hunter wants me to avenge his spirit!” Luba cries. “Your father would have discarded you with the trash and led me to our bedroom to produce another, more appropriate and satisfying and worthwhile heir. Do not fool yourself, Thorne. You are only alive because your father is dead.”

Cheeks flushed, fists clenched, Thorne wants to remain silent. He knows the consequences speech will bring forth, but his mother's words cannot remain unchallenged. “If I'm so disgusting, why have you let me live?!”

A shadow drops over Luba's face—no, not a shadow, her true spirit, dark and relentless and merciless. When she speaks to her son, it's in a voice I've never heard before. “Because mankind has left me with no other legacy, so I have no other choice but to let you live.” Looking forward at nothing and at her older self at the same time, Young Luba continues. “Until you have served your purpose and I can be finally be rid of you.”

The silver light swirls around me, and I can feel my body being tossed in the dry liquid, like snowflakes inside a snow globe. Drifting and spiraling and falling with no control to stop or change direction until there is no more movement, until the decision to stop moving has been reached by someone else.

When Luba and her grandchildren drop their hands, I see that the decision has been made. We're in a hospital room. Melinda Jaffe is propped up in bed, exhausted from recently giving birth, attended by a doctor and a nurse, with Luba by her side. Thorne is nowhere to be seen because he doesn't matter any longer. He has done his job; he has fathered Melinda's twins.

Holding one child in each arm, Luba whispers, “Orion's prophecy is fulfilled . . . and three shall lead.”

I lose my balance as the images swirl and the hospital room is gone. We're in a nursery tucked away in a part of a home. Melinda is holding Nadine, and Luba is holding Napoleon; Thorne is holding the empty air in his hands. The way his fingers are opening and closing it seems as if the air doesn't want anything to do with him either.

“I thought I was to be part of the prophecy,” he whines.

“The stars found you unworthy,” Luba replies, never taking her eyes off of her grandson.

“Let me prove myself!” Thorne wails.

“It's too late,” Melinda says. Nadine cries out and her infant voice sounds very much like agreement. “The children have the sign that you were never born with.”

The poor man has no idea what he's up against; he never has. “What sign?” Thorne asks.

The women raise each child triumphantly and let their blankets fall to the floor, like white flags signaling the beginning of a race. In this instance, it signifies the end of Thorne's. Each child bears a mark just underneath his or her left hip bone, three stars in one line, Orion's constellation. We were wrong—they're not tattoos; they're birthmarks!

“It's the same mark your father was born with,” Luba says proudly. “The same mark that never touched your skin because when you were conceived it was given to me. I should have known then that it was a sign that you were unworthy, but I was foolish.”

Slowly Old Luba raises her thin, white hospital gown to reveal legs that would look paler than her face if they weren't invaded by blood-red veins and purple-gray bruises. Proudly, she lifts her gown just high enough to show me the same row of stars that are on her grandchildren's skin and presumably were on her husband's skin as well.