Sunblind (22 page)

“They are the marks of Orion,” she explains. “My husband was a descendant of the original hunter, the hunter who looms in the night sky. His light shines brighter than the moon and more powerful than the sun.”

Now the connection makes sense, but it's impossible. “Orion is a myth!” I shout. “He never existed.”

“And neither do werewolves,” Nadine retorts. “And yet here you are.”

She's got me. One impossibility means there can be others. They don't need explanation, but Nadine offers one.

“The original plan was for my grandparents and their child to be the triumvirate,” she explains. “But your father ruined that and soiled my father's spirit, turning him into something that could only wilt in Orion's shadow, not prosper.”

“Silence!” Luba cries out, obviously able to hear my private thoughts. “Our spirits had been untouched. We were living solitary lives, living off the land until your father poisoned us with man's evil.”

“And in return you cursed us with yours!”

“Because that, Dominy, is the way of the hunter!” Nadine sounds as vindictive as her grandmother. She truly has inherited more than a birthmark; she's inherited Luba's vengeful spirit as well. A spirit that bypassed Luba's only child.

“Daddy didn't agree, and that's why he moved us from here,” Napoleon adds, picking up the story. “He told me that he wanted to keep us from his past. He never believed in the prophecy or the powers of Orion.”

“Because Orion never believed in him!” Luba scolds. “And Orion will refuse to believe in you if you continue disparaging his name.”

Unable to control her disgust with her grandson, Luba flicks her head in his direction, her hair whipping around her like serpents' tongues, and Napoleon is slammed into the wall of silver light. This time, perhaps because Napoleon wasn't prepared, the light penetrates and wraps around his body, his arms, his legs, and his neck. Grasping desperately at the light around his neck, Napoleon tries to pull it away from his throat so he can breathe. The one thing he doesn't do is call out for help, because he knows neither his sister nor his grandmother will run to his side. I'm a different story.

I only succeed in running about three strides before the light I'm standing on shifts and breaks apart to wrap itself around my legs. I'm frozen in my spot, unable to do anything but watch Napoleon suffer and his relatives gloat.

“My son was a jealous fool,” Luba relays. “He never understood the power that we're after because it is not a power he would ever be able to share in. Luckily his wife did.”

“That's why she finally got Daddy out of the way,” Nadine finishes.

My body doesn't move this time, but the images around me do. Gone is the nursery, gone are the infants. In their place is a kitchen. The twins are now about ten years old, and they're sitting around the table eating with their parents. They keep on eating even while Thorne begins to choke.

“Melinda,” Thorne gasps. “What . . . have you done?”

Little Napoleon stops eating and watches his father clutch his throat in horror, much the same way Napoleon in the present is doing right now. It's an eerie double-vision, like father, like son.

“Napoleon,” Melinda sweetly chastises. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”

Obediently, Little Napoleon continues to eat, but his eyes never leave his father. Not while Thorne chokes, not while his face turns blue, and not even after he slumps forward onto the table, upturning his plate and spilling his glass of water. The water drips off the table in a quick, steady flow until it connects the past to the present, connecting the Jaffe kitchen with the silver light, one unbroken line of undisputed evil.

“Your mother poisoned your father?” I ask dumbfounded.

“In order to prepare us for our rightful roles in the world,” Nadine replies, as if her mother's actions were completely normal and justified and sensible.

“Self-righteousness doesn't become you, child,” Luba sneers. “You and your father have also killed, so there should be no room in your heart to cast blame.”

An accident doesn't add up to murder and neither does killing while possessed. No! My heart and mind and soul may not be pure, but they are not blackened by the sin of premeditated murder. That's one thing I know for sure. And now that I know the truth, I am not going to let these . . .
sick, twisted
psychopaths get away with it!

“Witches!” I shout. “That's what you are! Witches who deserve nothing but payback!”

In an instant Nadine appears before me, gliding through the silver like a strong wind.

“Bring it on!” Nadine curses. “I've been dying for a real challenge ever since I came to this backwoods town!”

When her mouth opens again, words aren't hurled into the air; insults and curses and enchantments don't come. The only thing to escape her foul mouth is a stream of black smoke, exactly the kind that slithers out of Luba's pores.

Nadine thrusts her head at me like a ram knocking heads with another of its kind, and I'm terrified, not because a black ball of smoke is heading at my face, but because we are born from the same spirit. We both come from Luba's energy, which means, as disgusting as it sounds, we share the same heritage.

But if we share the same heritage, that means we share the same power.

Mustering every ounce of strength I have, I yank my feet free from the silver shackles binding me to the floor. Diving to the left, I hear the black ball fly past me, its flight filled with the sounds of terror and sorrow and fear. My own.

I escaped in time to miss the bulk of the impact, but Nadine's weapon still skimmed my arm and burned my flesh right off, leaving behind a gross wound of mutilated skin, the bone underneath jutting out. It reminds me of how Jess looked after I killed her.

“Enough!” I scream, and once again a red cloud tumbles out of my mouth and flies at Nadine's face. At the last second she jumps up, saving herself from the impact of my fury and preoccupying her long enough for Napoleon to take action.

“Leave her!” Napoleon cries as he lifts me up off the ground.

He shoves something in my pocket before hurling me into the bowels of the silver light and through the tunnel. When I open my eyes I'm in my bed. I have no idea what time it is or how I returned here, but when I feel my arm throb, I know where I've been. So does Jess.

Working quickly she takes my shirt off and lets her preternatural light drip into my wound. The pain is devoured by her sunshine, and I'm not surprised to see the gash heal itself and close up. My arm looks unmarked in a matter of seconds. There is goodness in the world, and Jess is proof of that. She points a finger at my pocket, and it's like she's pointing a flashlight at me.

“I'm not the only proof, Dom,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically wistful. “There's more.”

Opening the note Napoleon tucked into my pocket just before he freed me from his sister's wrath, I see that he's written “Help me.”

How? How can we help him if Nap has never been able to help himself?

“All I can tell you, Dom, is that we still need to keep Archie away from him,” Jess informs me. “Just because Napoleon wants to be good and do what's right, doesn't mean he's not going to hurt those who try to help him.”

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“We'll do everything we can,” Jess replies, the tone of her voice not changing. “But sometimes evil has to win out.”

What?! Why? “That can't be a rule.”

“Oh but it is,” Jess replies. “There has to be balance in the world. Good and evil, life and death, hunters and the hunted. If everything were equal, there would be chaos.”

I ponder her words. I know they must be wise, but I don't understand them.

“You will,” Jess replies, sounding reassuring and cryptic at the same time.

The flesh above my healed wound reopens briefly, but this time there is no pain, only reassurance that a golden light shines within me. From now on, no matter what enemy I face, I'll carry a little bit of Jess around with me.

And after what I've witnessed tonight, I'm going to need as much backup as I can get.

Chapter 20

“Way to go, Domgirl. You just got Archie killed.”

What?!

“He told me about Napoleon's note.”

Okay, now Caleb's accusation makes a little more sense. Even though he's just accused me of being an accessory to a crime, he looks even more handsome than he usually does. His hair is tucked underneath a Two W ski hat, and except for a few rebellious wet curls peeking out and resting on his forehead his face is uninterrupted, touched by nothing more than the crisp afternoon air. He must've taken a shower after football practice, which is when Archie probably filled him in on what I told him earlier.

“I told Archie not to tell anyone,” I say.

The words sound foolish to me too. I mean really, what did I expect Archie to do? I couldn't keep this amazing discovery to myself; why should he? And that's exactly what Caleb is trying to make me realize, that by sharing Napoleon's information I've put my friend's life in jeopardy. Again!

“Napoleon is Archie's
boyfriend,
and you've told him that Nap's being held captive inside some paranormal prison!” Caleb rants. “Any of that sound familiar?”

If I can't make the correlation that Caleb is setting up, comparing my plight with Napoleon's, then I'm an idiot. And now that I think about what I've really set in motion by sharing Nap's plea for help with Archie, that might be exactly what I am.

Archie's got natural hero sensibilities. For so many years and for so many different reasons he's played the victim, the one who had to be rescued from fights, both physical and verbal. So now that he's stronger and more confident and self-assured, he almost feels as if it's his duty to come to the aid of the less fortunate, the bullied, and the powerless. Since his boyfriend definitely falls into that category, Archie is going to do whatever is necessary to save him. Have I unwittingly led Archie right into a death trap? I thought I was doing the right thing, but did I just make another huge mistake? But as the British would say, wait one bloody second! If Napoleon is just like me, then isn't Archie just like Caleb?

“Would you prefer not to know about my secret?” I ask.

Caleb tilts his head toward me so the stray strands of hair dangle in the air. “What do you mean?”

“I didn't want you to know about my curse, I wanted to shield you from the truth, but you found out anyway,” I explain. “And didn't that make you feel better? Didn't it bring us closer together?” I don't wait for his reply; I continue my assault. “And wouldn't you have resented it if you found out years later that I shut you out from knowing about the most important, life-changing thing that's ever happened to me?”

His smirk tells me everything I need to know. He agrees with me. He knows that while my disclosure about Napoleon's letter may have put Archie in danger, it was the right thing to do. Let's face it, just being my friend means he's in danger anyway. Luba and Nadine are not just loose cannons; they're loose nuclear missiles. Their actions are unpredictable, and we don't really even know what they're fully capable of doing. Their power might be like Jess's, otherworldly yet limited, or they could hold the fate of not only our lives at their evil fingertips, but the lives of the entire world as well. Two words scribbled on a piece of paper from a desperate friend really aren't going to change Archie's fate. It was sealed the day he decided to be a member of my Wolf Pack.

“You know, you're a lot more insightful ever since you became part wolf,” Caleb quips.

He's being flippant, but he's right.

“The curse is a blessing in some ways,” I reply. “It's kind of forced me to grow up and look at the world through a new set of eyes. Literally.”

“Still the most beautiful eyes I've ever looked into,” he whispers.

His fingernails feel smooth rubbing down the side of my cheek, and my body fills up with warmth when he tugs on my earlobe, softly, just letting his skin connect with mine. Resting my forehead against his chin, I cover his hand with mine to embrace the warmth, collect and contain it, because the days are getting colder and I'm going to need Caleb's spirit for protection, just as I'm going to need the wolf's spirit for strength.

I shiver, and Caleb wraps his arms around me, drawing me close to his body. His heart is beating normally; adrenalin isn't racing through his veins; he's acting like a prince should, stalwart and calm and ready to do battle. But he's so calm that I wonder if he understands a battle is brewing, a new fight is underway. When he speaks, I know that he understands this, probably understood it before I did.

“You have to promise me from now on you'll think things through and not just react without understanding the consequences,” he whispers.

“You forget that I'm part animal now,” I say. My words bury themselves into his chest before they can be whisked away by the wind so they stay just between the two of us. “We react; that's how we survive.”

“No,” he corrects. “You survive by how you react.”

I push away from Caleb so I can look him in the eyes. “Now who's being insightful?”

Before Caleb replies, he leads us to sit on a patch of grass, frosty, but not snow-covered. Both of us are cross-legged, facing each other, holding hands, like we're doing some joint meditation.

“You need to be cunning and clever,” he instructs. “You have to listen to the wolf spirit speaking to you, guiding you, but then you have to act upon that guidance wisely.”

His voice is so solid, so tangible, so strong, that I can almost see our invisible string materialize between us and become one unbreakable line from Caleb's lips to my heart. I tug on his hands so he knows that I'm tugging on our string, so he knows that I understand what he's trying to teach me. For as much as I've grown and for as powerful as I've become, I still need a tutor. Even if I don't always want to listen to what he has to say.

“I don't want to hear you speak at another one of our friend's funerals,” Caleb says, his tone of voice much less blunt than his words.

“Caleb!” I shout.

I try to break free from his grip, sever our invisible string, but Caleb is too determined to maintain our connection. He isn't letting me go.

“I'm not trying to frighten you or piss you off, but you have to understand that everything has changed,” he says, his gaze never leaving my eyes. His stare is almost hypnotic, and I want nothing more than to look at the grass or his knee or the part of the sky that exists far, far away from where we're sitting, but I can't because I know that he's speaking the truth and I know that I need to hear the words come from someone other than myself.

“Now that we know Luba isn't acting alone and her curse wasn't a one-time-only effort, but the beginning of some larger plot,” he says, “we have to reexamine everything, and you have to accept the fact that even though you're the center, this is no longer just about you.”

I know that, Caleb. I may be the bull's-eye, but the target's gotten a whole lot wider.

“I do understand, I really do,” I confess. “And I've never been more frightened in all my life. I thought that the scariest thing that could ever happen to me was the start of the transformation, because I know there's absolutely nothing I can do to reverse it; I can't stop the pain or the inevitable change that's about to happen. But at least I know what's on the other side; I know that when the transformation is complete, I'm going to be this . . . thing.”

Caleb scootches closer to me, uncrossing his legs so they wrap around me, and he leans his forehead into mine. I'm so flustered by the beauty and the intimacy of the moment, I can't tell if his skin is cool or damp or warm, but it doesn't matter, as long as it's touching mine, as long as we have a connection and there's no separation.

“I don't ever want to hear you say that again,” he sighs.

“It's what I am.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, I'm this . . .”

“You, Dominy, are this amazingly special creature,” he pronounces. “Beautiful and wild and special.”

His eyes are so close to me that I can see them for what they truly are, brown patches of earth, unwavering and secure and reliable. And they're mine. I don't move; I can hardly breathe I'm so filled with emotion, but I can feel our string pull us even closer together when Caleb speaks practically the same words that I've just spoken in my mind.

“And you're mine.”

Once again I can feel passion stir inside of my stomach and rise up and down and throughout my body. I don't blush despite the fact that I want Caleb to make love to me right here on the grass. I want him to push me down onto the dirt, and I want to experience what it's like to be physically connected to another human being, no separation, no beginning and no end. But then I look into his eyes. He's not crying, but they're moist, and I realize I already know what that feels like. Our consummation can wait; the pleasure I've heard about will be ours one day, I know it will, but for now we don't need to do anything further to know that our commitment to one another is real. No matter what Napoleon's fate is I hope that he and Archie experience this. Everyone deserves to know that there's another person on earth who will sacrifice everything for them.

I'm so blessed that I've had two.

 

My father's tombstone looks like all the others, and yet it stands out among the rows of rectangular stones. His name—Mason Barnard Robineau—is carved into the slab of concrete or whatever the material is that's used to create your final nametag, and it always surprises me. I never knew him by that name, just Daddy, so it's almost like I'm looking at the gravestone of a foreigner instead of my father. In some ways I am.

In the last few months of his life he fully exposed himself to me and shared his secrets and regrets and shame with me, but that was only because he felt he had no other choice, only because he knew his time on earth was coming to an end and he had to arm me with as much ammunition and information as possible so I could live after he was gone. Kneeling on top of the dirt that covers his coffin, I wonder what other secrets he took with him. What stories didn't he share with me, what parts of him will I never know? Who is this man who called himself my father?

“If only we knew then what we know now,” I say out loud. “Maybe things would have turned out differently.”

I can't bring myself to speak the rest of my thought out loud. Maybe you would still be alive.

When Luba told me the only way to break the curse was for me to kill my father, it sounded like an insane proposition. But time not only heals, it makes the unfathomable palatable. We thought we were doing the right thing, but we didn't know what we were really dealing with; we didn't know how easily we could be duped and betrayed and oppressed. That's what Caleb was trying to tell me before: We need to learn from our mistakes, learn that if we want to overcome this unknown evil, we need to acquire as much information as possible before reacting. Or else this cemetery will be littered with the tombstones of more of our loved ones.

Inhaling deeply I hold the cold air in my lungs for as long as I can and then let my breath rush out of my body, taking along with it the fear that lives deep inside of me. I know that like honey in a jar, not all the fear will leave me, some will cling to my soul, determined and resilient, but enough of it will be gone so I can speak the words out loud.

“If only you had told me all of your secrets, Daddy, maybe we wouldn't have been so scared and confused, maybe we would've done things differently,” I say. “And maybe you'd still be alive.”

“I doubt that.”

Nadine's presence next to my father's headstone doesn't surprise me as much as it disgusts me. I can almost see the silvery slime drip off of her flesh and contaminate my father's grave. I imagine her spirit burrowing through the ground, drilling through the exterior of my father's casket, and latching onto his body, whatever's left of it, and infecting his remains with her malicious energy. Not that it matters. Pieces of his body may still linger, but his soul, the most important part, is long gone, and it's gone to a place that Nadine will never be able to enter.

“Get away from my father's grave,” I growl.

Smiling, Nadine plops onto his tombstone like she's sitting on a barstool, one foot pressed into the dirt, the other dangling in the air.

“Why?” she asks. “I have just as much right to be here as you do.”

“You have no rights when it comes to my father!” I scream. “He's dead because of your grandmother.”

“No, you idiot,” Nadine replies. “He's dead . . . because of me.”

A serpent shoots out of Nadine's hand, no, not a snake but a silver lasso that curls around my wrist, cutting into my flesh, bringing me on another journey into the past, another flash of history that will now be a part of my memory. Before the scene even begins I know that it will be an unwanted piece.

We're in Nadine's cabin, and I'm watching myself as a wolf stare at my father. If I focus only on the eyes of this majestic animal, I see it's as if I'm looking in a mirror; the color and the expression of the eyes are the same. The only sound in the room is from my breathing, quick pants that remind me of the sound I heard when I transformed in Arla's bedroom and the first time I transformed unexpectedly when I was with Jess. The sound is no longer frightening, but oddly comforting because it links me with the wolf. It's what I see that is unbelievably frightening.

My father looks at me for the last time, his eyes peering deep within the wolf's eyes in search of his daughter. It breaks my heart when he shuts his eyes tight, because I know that he thinks he's lost her forever; I know that he thinks she can't possibly see him from underneath the fur and fangs and claws, but she's there, she's looking right at him, she'll never leave him! Until the black lightning strikes her in the back.