Текст книги "Arise"
Автор книги: Tara Hudson
Соавторы: Tara Hudson
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 7 страниц]
Chapter
SEVEN
By hour six of our drive to New Orleans, I wished I had slept last night. Nightmares, involuntary materializations—any number of unpleasant things would have been preferable to this car ride.
With bleary eyes I surveyed the interior of the Mayhews’ SUV. Though it looked spacious enough, the vehicle had already proved too small to handle this particular grouping of people.
In the front, Jeremiah and Rebecca continued to trade positions between the driver and passenger seats. Despite this split of duties, the two couldn’t seem to stop bickering over who had the best set of directions. As a result, we’d spent half the drive on the highway and the other half on a disconcerting maze of back roads. So instead of four remaining hours in the car, we had at least six more ahead of us.
To no one’s surprise, Joshua and Jillian weren’t handling the endless claustrophobia well, either. Like young children, they’d occupied hours of this drive with snide remarks, kicked seats, and passive-aggressive sighs. Now, in a rare but nearly blissful period of silence, Jillian stretched across the first row of bench seats, listening quietly to her iPod while Joshua napped beside me in the back row.
While he slept, his head rolled backward on the top of the seat, affording me a good view of his profile. I watched it for a moment and then sighed. If only I could find a way to sleep without nightmares, I might forget how little time I had left to look at him.
I turned to stare out the window, at the other problem plaguing our drive. Apparently, the winter storm had decided to follow us south. Although we’d driven hundreds of miles away from Wilburton, the snow continued to fall, piling up in the ditches alongside the highway and shifting like thin, insubstantial ghosts upon the surface of the road. Flurries swirled against the windows, distorting the landscape that moved past us.
Without the responsibility of navigating through this storm, I might have found the scenery peaceful. But my mind still reeled as much as it had last night. In fact, it hadn’t stopped reeling. For many hours I’d alternated between trying to find a way out of my exile and reminding myself that, by evading the dark spirits, I would keep them from hurting anyone else.
I’d also spent a great deal of time wondering where I’d materialize to once the Mayhews returned home. I couldn’t decide whether I should pick the location in advance, in case I was too upset to make a decision when the time came, or whether I should just vanish to somewhere unknown. Somewhere so far from Wilburton I could never find my way home again.
As I stared out the window, with my mind jumping from one bad option to another, my eyes occasionally caught on an individual snowflake. I mindlessly followed one’s progress until the wind whisked it away and another flake took its place. The longer I watched the flakes, the more they mesmerized me, like a thousand tiny hypnotists intent on distracting me from the problems at hand.
While the storm held my attention, another part of my mind caught glimpses of the landscape behind it. White hills and valleys—indistinguishable from one another in the heavy snow—rushed past us. I started to suspect that an empty world waited just beyond this vehicle. A world untouched and blank: not for me to write my story upon, but to disappear into. To fade against, finally, like the ghost I was.
I shook my head lightly, trying to focus, but I couldn’t make anything out in all that infinite white. Soon my eyes glazed over and my vision blurred until I’d had far more of the bright emptiness than I could take. I turned back to the dark interior of the SUV for some relief.
And then I gasped.
The upholstered seats, the low ceiling of the SUV—everything was gone. Replaced by the bright, blinding snow.
I looked down to find that my legs, instead of being curled beneath me in the back row of the SUV, were buried ankle-deep in the snow. Inexplicably, I’d gone from the safety of the vehicle to the center of the blizzard. From what I could see—which wasn’t much—the SUV had disappeared, wiped from existence by the storm.
Upon realizing this, I could actually feel the blizzard: the cold wind gusting around me, battering my shoulders and whipping my dark hair into tangles in the air; the frozen ground stinging the soles of my bare feet; the snow soaking the hem of my dress until it clung, wet and uncomfortable, against my legs.
But just as abruptly as I’d entered it, the storm ended.
I watched, stunned, as the dark clouds broke apart to reveal a soft, summery blue sky. The last shriek of the winter gale died in the air, and a warm breeze took its place. Then, like the grand finale of some fantastic play, the heavy layer of snow melted into lush, green grass—grass that should have died months ago and shouldn’t now sprout a blanket of wildflowers.
Within seconds I’d gone from the Arctic Circle to some prairie paradise.
I lifted one foot and marveled at the daisy that had just popped up beneath it. “What the …?” I murmured aloud.
“More like ‘where the,’ actually,” a pleasant voice chirped from somewhere behind me.
I spun around, sending an impossibly thick cluster of dandelion seeds into the air. For a moment I didn’t see anything but their wispy cotton strands. Only when they drifted up, toward the clear sky, could I see her.
She stood only a few feet from me, with her hands clasped in front of her. Her feet were bare like mine, and she rocked back and forth on her heels as if she had news she couldn’t wait to share. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle with that same exciting secret. She ran one hand through her wild auburn hair and then, unbelievably, waved at me.
“Hi, Am—a.”
Her voice crackled like radio static in the middle of my name. The weird noise obviously didn’t bother her, though, because she broke into a warm smile.
Too baffled to do much else, I smiled back.
“Um … hi,” I said. “And you are? And I’m where?”
Her smile turned dimpled, and mischievous. “Not—lat—someone wants—talk to you.”
Again her words crackled, as if she were trying to speak over a broken connection. She shook her head, auburn curls bouncing against her shoulders. Then, without so much as another staticky word, she vanished.
I stared openmouthed at the empty space she’d left. There was no evidence that she’d been there at all except maybe the wildflowers now seemed a little thicker, a little wilder where she’d stood.
“No, really.” I spoke to the vacant field, feeling dizzy from all this weirdness. “Where am I?”
“Don’t you know?” another unfamiliar voice teased, not much louder than the breeze.
I spun around again, searching for the new speaker. This time, however, I found no one watching me. Nothing surrounded me but the flowers, the ankle-high grass, the cloudless blue sky.
“Who’s there?” I called out, still spinning, still finding nothing.
“Me,” the voice whispered again.
“Me, who?” I demanded, my own voice sharp and impatient. Another second of this eerie place, these cryptic visitors, and I’d have to reevaluate my sanity.
“You know who, darlin’.”
My mouth twitched and then pulled itself down into a disbelieving frown.
Darlin’.
The way the disembodied voice dropped its g and drawled out the word with affection … only one person in the world had called me darlin’, and had said it in that way.
My father.
The voice sounded like it had in all my nightmares about him. But here, in this beautiful place, it also sounded richer. Clearer. Which shouldn’t be the case since my father was trapped in the dark netherworld.
I felt the muscles in my neck tense. “No, really,” I almost growled, defensive for reasons I didn’t fully understand. “Who are you?”
“There’s not much time,” the voice cautioned. “I need you to listen. I need you to uncross your eyes, darlin’.”
I froze. No part of my body moved, except perhaps for the frown, which released its hold on my mouth.
The image sprung into my mind before I had time to think. A flash of memory. I hadn’t had one in months, not since the struggle this fall on High Bridge. But suddenly, without warning, I could picture my hands clasped around a math textbook. Calculus, judging by all the letters and numbers dancing impossibly around one another on the page.
“Ugh,” the flash-me groaned. “This stuff is making my eyes cross.”
I heard my father speak from somewhere to my right: “Then you’ve gotta uncross them, darlin’.”
He’d said that at least a thousand times before, and who knows how many times after. This was our routine, our own goofy comedy bit. Whenever a problem bothered me, I’d say it made my eyes cross; and every time, my father would suggest I uncross them, as if the problem was that simple to solve.
Just uncross your eyes, darlin’. Nothing to it.
Silly. Meaningless, really. But it always made me laugh, even helped me to focus, because the phrase was ours.
Besides than my mother and me, only one other person knew that phrase, knew what it meant to me.
“Dad?”
I breathed the word like a prayer. I received one quiet word in acknowledgment:
“Amelia.”
Maybe I should have been more skeptical, demanded more proof. Instead, I started to cry. Because I knew how my father’s voice sounded when he spoke the name he’d helped give me.
“Dad,” I called again, frantic. “Dad, where are you? I’ve been trying to find you. I’ve been trying to—”
“There’s no time, Amelia,” he interrupted. “You have to listen to me. They’re coming.”
Immediately I knew whom he meant. And the warning chilled me just as much as when Eli delivered it last night. But this time I steeled myself against the fear and drew my head up so my father would see—if he could see me at all right now—that his daughter’s backbone had survived her death.
“I know, Dad. That’s why I’m leaving Oklahoma.”
“That’s not enough,” he said. “You have to—but not without—”
The same static interference that had broken up the girl’s voice now distorted my father’s. Like the two of them were speaking on the same radio frequency.
“They want—but it’s hard to—the rivers—mustn’t rise.”
“What? Dad, I can’t hear you. ‘The rivers mustn’t rise’?”
I moved to the right and then the left as I’d seen Joshua do when he wanted to get better cell phone reception. Then I craned my neck up, my face pointed to the sky as if my father’s face might appear there.
No such luck. My father continued to speak, but infuriatingly, I could only catch a few words at a time. Worse, his voice began to fade, the volume lowering until I could barely hear him at all.
“Darlin’, you need to—please—not soon eno—”
His last word faded entirely and, after a long silence, I realized he was gone.
I stood perfectly still, staring at the field of wildflowers without seeing them. My father had tried to warn me about something, that much I knew. Something to do with the demons of High Bridge. Something urgent.
A thin shiver of fear ran through my heart. I’d wanted to contact my father so badly, for so long. But his visit—if that’s what just happened—brought me no comfort. Still, I wanted it to, very much. So for a brief moment, before I tried to analyze what few words he’d given me, I closed my eyes. In the quiet of my own mind, I replayed his warning, if just to hear his voice.
When I opened my eyes, I had the second shock of my already-strange day.
Without any effort on my part, I’d moved again. Instead of a flowering prairie, the window of the SUV faced me. Through it I could see other cars, so close to the SUV that I could touch them if someone opened the window. But these cars weren’t passing us on the highway. They were parked in line outside a long stretch of ancient-looking, cramped-together buildings. I leaned closer to the window, just enough to see the tops of the buildings reaching up to a dark, starry sky.
The cars, the buildings, the night sky—all things that shouldn’t be there, if you considered the fact that the last time I sat in this vehicle there had been nothing to see outside but a midafternoon snowstorm raging over the middle of Nowhere, Texas.
I frowned and then turned toward the interior of the SUV. There, two astonished faces stared back: Jillian, sitting openmouthed and wide-eyed in front of me; and Joshua, looking basically the same, beside me.
Another uncontrolled materialization, I supposed.
I sighed wearily and met his eyes. “How long was I gone this time?” I asked him.
“Gone?” he whispered, frowning. “Amelia, you’ve been right beside me for the last twelve hours.”
Chapter
EIGHT
I opened my mouth to respond to Joshua but then popped it shut. What did he mean, I hadn’t left his side? That wasn’t possible. Not after everything I’d just seen and heard.
I tilted my head to one side, studying Joshua’s confused expression. “Did I … was I sleeping again?”
Still staring at me intently, he nodded. “Yeah, for a couple hours, actually. But in the last few minutes, you were … shouting.”
“Huh?”
“Shouting. Loudly.” His eyes darted to the front of the car and then back to mine. “Even my dad said he thought he heard something. That whole inactive-Seer thing, I guess?”
“Oh.” My voice sounded flat. “Sorry. I didn’t know. I must have been … talking in my sleep.”
Or screaming out to my dead father.
Across from me, Jillian whipped her head from side to side, obviously trying to shake away the fact that I’d frightened her. Then she rolled her eyes, composed her face into its far more common look of disapproval, and dropped back down into her seat. Before she sunk out of sight, I heard her mutter, “God, you’re creepy.”
Before yesterday her words would have bothered me. Hurt me, like they always did. Tonight, however, I didn’t really have the energy to care what Jillian thought I was.
I glanced back up at Joshua. He still watched me with that slightly unnerved expression.
“Sorry,” I repeated in the same emotionless tone I’d used earlier.
He gave me a small, uncertain smile. “No biggie. It was just a little, you know …”
“Creepy.” I sighed.
Then, with a shrug, I turned away from him to scrutinize the fabric of the headrest in front of me. At this moment, all I wanted to do was bury myself in my own thoughts. But Joshua leaned forward, trying to recapture my gaze.
“Want to talk about it?” he offered quietly.
“Not really.” After a beat I added, “No offense.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head as if to say None taken. Which probably wasn’t entirely true.
I felt a twinge of regret, so sharp it actually hurt. I didn’t want to hurt Joshua. In fact, I wanted to tell him everything I’d just seen. But I shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not now, when our expiration date loomed so close. Besides, I could hardly force more than a few words past the bitter taste of disappointment in my mouth.
I just couldn’t believe it: the whole thing had been another useless, haunting dream? Standing in the field, seeing the girl, talking to my father—all an illusion? It seemed impossible.
But if Joshua said I hadn’t left, then I suppose I hadn’t. Instead, my brain had created everything in some sort of frenzied, tantalizing fit of wish fulfillment. After ten years apart, and after months of searching for him, I guess it made a cruel sort of sense that I would imagine some mystical interaction between my father and me.
I wanted to shout aloud, to protest how unfair it all was. And more than anything, I wanted to confide in Joshua. I didn’t want to spend my last days with him locked in some secretive prison of my own making.
Screw it, I thought and turned to him, mouth open. But Rebecca’s voice interrupted me.
“Holy crap, hallelujah,” she sang out from the front seat. “Ursulines Avenue. We made it.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Jeremiah agreed, and then pulled the car to a stop outside a redbrick building. “Troops,” he commanded, “prepare to disembark.”
“Gladly,” Jillian groaned as her father killed the engine.
I heard the clicking of seat belts and then the snap of someone’s door handle. Immediately, the overhead lights flooded the SUV. In the darkness, I hadn’t seen Jillian sit up again. Now, for just a moment, her gaze caught mine as we both blinked against the sudden brightness. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw something strange there, in the depths of her eyes. Curiosity? Anticipation? She looked away too quickly for me to decide.
“Ready?”
Joshua’s whisper in my ear made me jump.
“Y-yeah,” I stammered. “Sorry.”
“For what?” He laughed and then leaned around me to push part of Jillian’s seat forward so that we could get out of the back row.
Without so much as a glance at me, Jillian scrambled over the inclined seat and out of the open passenger side door. Joshua touched the inside of my elbow softly, indicating that we should follow her. I looked down at the place where his hand rested—where my skin had already started to tingle and burn. Then I sighed, so low Joshua probably couldn’t hear me, and pushed myself up.
After I’d climbed out of the SUV, I walked over to the uneven sidewalk and waited for Joshua to climb out too. While I waited, my eyes strayed upward, to the buildings that surrounded the narrow street on which we’d parked. Each separate structure—whether made of brick or colorful clapboard—flowed seamlessly into the next; each of their wrought-iron balconies almost but not quite connecting, hanging heavy with flowering plants and ferns. Beneath the balconies, most of the windows looked dark and unlit behind tall, wooden shutters. Something about the houses gave off a well-cared-for but unoccupied air.
The town house in front of us, however, had its shutters thrown open, and warm yellow light poured from its windows onto the street. Behind the curtains I could see figures moving. On both sides of the front door, someone had lit the gas, outdoor lanterns. Their flames flickered wildly, casting shadows onto the sidewalk and into the corners where this town house met its neighbors.
Before I had time to survey the rest of the house, the front door flew open and an enormous crowd of people came rushing out to greet us. Leading the charge was a pretty brunette woman who could have been Ruth’s middle-aged doppelgänger. Behind her, what seemed like fifty other relatives gathered, all smiling and all talking at once.
“Whoa,” I muttered. Joshua came up behind me, bag in hand, and subtly placed a few fingers on the small of my back.
“Meet the Mayhews,” he said through the side of his mouth. “All nine hundred and seventy-five of them.”
“No kidding. Did your entire family tree decide to visit for Christmas?”
“Basically.” He shot me a sheepish, sideways look. “Which, um … kind of means we’re sleeping in the attic.”
“Fine by me.” I shrugged, and fought the urge to add, I can’t sleep anyway. Obviously, that just wasn’t true.
As I continued to stare at all the new faces around me, Jillian walked up to my side and hissed, “Hey, Casper—forget your bag, or do you just like wearing the same thing every day?”
I raised one eyebrow. “I thought I didn’t exist in your world?”
“Obviously I’m not that lucky,” she whispered, and then sauntered away toward a group of what had to be more aunts and uncles.
With a tired sigh, I turned to Joshua. “Please tell me no one else in your family can see me. I don’t think I could stand any more compliments tonight.”
He gave me an apologetic smile. “Not according to Ruth. When she told me about all this Seer business, she also said we were the only ones who’ve had our triggering events. Oh, and now Jillian. So you’re in the clear.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
A few feet away I saw Jeremiah hug the pretty brunette woman. While returning the hug, the woman leaned around Jeremiah’s shoulder and waved directly at us. Well, at Joshua anyway.
“That’s my aunt, Patricia Comeaux—Trish,” Joshua said from the corner of his mouth, waving back at her. “I don’t see Annabel or Celeste anywhere … guess they’re inside.”
Joshua had given me a brief lesson in Mayhew family history during the first hour of our car ride. But I could only keep a few crucial details straight.
Ruth Mayhew—formerly, Ruth Angeline—had grown up in New Orleans. She’d also met and married her late husband here. They had one son and two daughters before moving to Oklahoma, ostensibly for her husband’s business (although Joshua and I knew the real reason: so that Ruth could lead her own group of Seers). Once grown, only Jeremiah chose to stay in Oklahoma; both of his sisters had returned to Louisiana, settling down to raise families in or near the French Quarter, where many of their relatives still lived.
Watching the Angeline and Mayhew descendants flock together on the sidewalk tonight, the only names I could remember were those in Ruth’s direct line: Aunt Patricia and her daughters, twenty-year-old Annabel and ten-year-old Celeste; Aunt Penelope and her nineteen-year-old son, Drew. Who I couldn’t pick out of this crowd if someone paid me to anyway.
But there was one conspicuous absence on the curb tonight: Ruth. Not that I was complaining.
“Josh,” Trish called across the crowd. “Most of the kids are in the drawing room. Why don’t you go say hey before you put your stuff up? I think Annabel’s got something planned for you all.”
“What is it this time?” he asked. “Movie night? Ritual sacrifice?”
Trish chuckled, letting go of Jeremiah to extend another hug to Rebecca. “She’s saving that last one for Christmas morning, actually.”
When Joshua laughed loudly, she gave him one final smile before turning away to talk to his parents. Joshua waited until everyone’s attention was otherwise occupied and then looked fully at me. He tilted his head toward the open front door and mouthed, Inside?
I felt a sudden twang of nerves. But I nodded and held out my arm, pointing to the town house.
“Lead the way.”
With a last, fiery brush of his fingers against the back of my hand, he walked past me toward the front door. I took a deep breath, told myself that not every Mayhew house held a nasty surprise for me, and then followed him.
Normal, I reminded myself. These are your last moments to feel normal. So take advantage.
But as I passed by the gas lamps at the entrance of the town house, their flames sputtered, plunging the nearby sidewalk into darkness. From behind me a chorus of voices cried out in protest. After that I could swear I heard a rush of whispers from somewhere close—maybe from Joshua’s family … maybe not.
I stopped, one foot on the cobblestones and one foot hovering in the doorstep. Then, unthinkingly, I let that foot drop onto the welcome mat inside the house. The moment I did, I heard two soft pops, and the gas lamps brightened again.
I gritted my teeth and shook my head, hard. That doesn’t mean anything. Those lamps are probably a century old—I’m sure they go out all the time.
“Amelia?” Joshua whispered from inside the house. “You coming in?”
“Yes,” I whispered back, like I was one who needed to worry about my volume. Then I laughed softly.
You know, I told myself, for a ghost, you get spooked way too easily. So I straightened my back and stepped fully across the threshold.
There, in the tiny foyer, the light was almost as dim as it had been outside. The only illumination came from an electric-lit pendant hung above a winding staircase down the hall and from the rooms leading off of the foyer. Through the archway to our right, I could see a tiny dining table, still half covered with the remains of tonight’s meal. To our left, a set of young voices filtered through the opening between two French doors.
Joshua angled his head toward the doors. “Sounds like Annabel and Drew are in there. Want to ‘meet’ the rest of my family?”
I blew out one sharp breath and said, “Okay. Sure.”
He paused for a second to study my face. Then his expression softened. “You know I’m really glad you’re here, don’t you?”
The little ache in my heart uncurled itself ever so slightly, and I had to clench one hand to my side to keep from pressing it to my chest. “Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “Me too.”
He gave me that boyish grin, all dimples and full lips and inevitable heartbreak, and then pulled open one door. I heard a girl cry out a greeting, so I ducked behind him, feeling oddly shy as we entered the room together.
Once inside, however, Joshua moved aside too quickly for me to hide. At that moment I had a full view of the room. All over the walls, from the tops of the antique furniture to the base of the crown molding, were hundreds of framed photographs. I could just make out Joshua’s smile in a few that hung near the fireplace. But aside from some current family photos, most looked ancient, clustered together in groups of black-and-white or sepia-toned portraits. Generations of Angeline Seers, all staring eerily out at us.
On the other side of the room, two teenagers sat together, draped over each other on a red velvet couch. The boy looked up briefly at Joshua and made a gesture with his head that was either a nod of acknowledgment or just an attempt to get his floppy dark hair out of his eyes. Almost immediately he turned back to his companion, a pretty blonde with a chic bob who’d snuggled suffocation-close to his side.
Across from us, another couple huddled together in a pair of overstuffed armchairs near the fireplace. The couple leaned so close to each other, I thought they were kissing. But when their heads turned toward Joshua, I could see they’d just been talking, heads together in intense conversation.
The girl broke away first, leaning back in her chair and flashing Joshua a wide grin. She brushed back her hair—jet-black like his, but cut ultrashort on one side and longish on the other. The long side flopped back, but not before I saw that she shared Joshua’s midnight blue eyes.
As Joshua had promised, the girl didn’t seem to see me. But when we came close, her friend abruptly sat up like someone had pinched him. He rested both his hands on his knees and then slowly turned his upper body toward us.
For a full minute he stared at Joshua. As he did so, an awkward silence fell over the room. I looked around and realized that everyone else—the black-haired girl, the two lovebirds on the couch—watched him, as if waiting for some kind of signal.
Aside from being creepy, their behavior also didn’t make a lot of sense. After all, this boy didn’t seem like someone this small crew would follow. First of all, he was significantly older—at least twenty-two. Then, the others wore artfully messy clothes and up-to-the-minute hairstyles. But the boy in the armchair appeared more like a young politician, in his white dress shirt and crisp gray suit. His light-brown hair was so short, I’d be hard-pressed to call it anything but a buzz cut, and I could barely see his eyes through the glint off his wire-rimmed glasses.
When he turned his head slightly to the right, however, the gleam off his lenses disappeared and I had a clearer view. His eyes were a cold gray—steely, almost. And unless I was imagining things, they moved from Joshua … to me.
“Well,” the boy said, “nice to see the two of you made it safely.”
I froze. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joshua arch an eyebrow. “Uh … the ‘two of you’?” he asked.
“Yes,” the boy said. “The two of you.”
“Who—,” Joshua began, but the boy cut him off midsyllable.
“You, and the ghost next to you,” he said matter-of-factly. Then he locked his eyes directly—unmistakably—onto mine.
