Liv, Forever (22 page)

As we walked away from Old Homestead, I told Gabe about Minerva. I was sure it was her. I told him what she’d done. Gabe started to repeat what I was saying to Malcolm, but Malcolm asked him not to speak.

“Why?” I asked.

But Gabe just shrugged at my question and kept silent. I realized Gabe was, for the first time, actually listening to Malcolm.

We retreated to Gabe’s dorm room, where we’d be less susceptible to a visit from Malcolm’s father. Malcolm went straight to Gabe’s desk and started writing frantically. I stood above him and saw he was scrawling phrases in Latin and other languages I didn’t recognize. I looked around Gabe’s room. It was bare and unadorned except for one framed photograph on his bedside table—two boys happy and full of light, one of them an almost unrecognizable Gabe looking up to his handsome older brother. Suddenly
I could see how much Gabe had changed since coming to Wickham Hall, how truly haunted he’d become. I felt even more committed to fixing things. For all of us.

Once Malcolm finished writing, he turned to Gabe. “Sorry, it’s just there was an old notebook and I couldn’t take it, so I tried to memorize as much as I could. Oh, and I also got these.” He pulled the small vessels out of his pockets and placed them on the desk. “What’d you find out?”

“Mrs. Slade told me the Victors President knows all. She made it sound like the regular members don’t know the true inner-workings of the club, only the presidents do.”

“Kent’s the president,” Malcolm said.

“That’s why he followed you downstairs,” I said. “He’s hiding something.”

Gabe told Malcolm what I’d said, and we all agreed it was likely. “But what are the secrets?” I asked.

“Let’s see if any of this tells us anything,” Malcolm said, gesturing to the phrases he’d scribbled.

Malcolm borrowed a laptop from a Fourth Former across the hall and typed the first phrase into Google while I looked at the objects on Gabe’s desk. They were each inscribed with an odd imagery of insects and bees and—if you looked carefully—death. Each featured a single crude-looking ritualistic murder. It all looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure from where.

Finally Malcolm read a translation from the computer:
“Sacrifice to prevail
and
the weak perish for perfection of the winners.”

“What winners?” Gabe asked.

Malcolm shrugged and dove back into the translations. But it was so obvious to me. “Winners are
victors
,” I said. “The weak perish for the perfection of
the Victors.
The Victors are making human sacrifices, Gabe! That’s what it says.”

Gabe was silent. He looked toward me, shaking his head, terrified. I knew what he was thinking: that this proved Malcolm
was
part of it. I went to Malcolm. I got close to him and looked into his eyes as he searched the computer for more information. I knew for certain he was as clueless and scared as we were. “It’s not possible,” I told Gabe. “He’s not part of it.”

“No?” Gabe said involuntarily.

“What?” Malcolm asked.

“Tell him,” I said forcefully. “He’s not a part of it. I
know
that.”

“
Winners
can also be translated as
Victors
, Malcolm,” Gabe said slowly, fearfully. “Meaning, the Victors killed them all.”

Malcolm paused to take it in. That one sentence—if true—destroyed everything Malcolm’s life was built upon. It cracked his foundation. But he only nodded, his head hung low, and said, “Of course.” As if deep down he’d always known something was terribly wrong.

“It means we—the ghosts—are not the killers,” I added. “We were the victims.”

“Except Minerva. She
is
the Victors,” Gabe insisted. “She must be in league with them.”

“What do we do now?” Malcolm asked.

“Well, according to what Mrs. Slade said, it’s probably the presidents.”

Malcolm nodded, absorbing the possibility that his best friend Kent had killed me. He asked the question we were all thinking: “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Gabe said.

“I mean, he didn’t like me being together with Liv but …”

“He’s a selfish prick,” Gabe said, finishing Malcolm’s sentence. “Why would he risk his future to kill Liv? What’s the motivation?”

Malcolm shrugged.

“Unless somehow he knew it was
not
a risk,” Gabe offered.

“We have to talk to the other girls—the ghosts,” I piped in. “So maybe we can get information. Piece things together from their answers.”

“No!” Gabe yelled, reacting viscerally.

“What?” Malcolm asked.

Gabe told Malcolm what I’d said, and Malcolm agreed. But Gabe started to get nervous and edgy—dressed differently, but still the same old Gabe—babbling, “I can’t do it. I can’t go see them. I can’t talk to them.”

“No, Gabe,” Malcolm said firmly, with the faintest hint of jealousy. “You
can
see them and talk to them. So you
have
to.”

Gabe sighed.

“I’ll be there,” I added. “I can protect you. I think I’m still stronger than they are. I’m stronger than Minerva, at least. I know that for sure.”

“And I’ll be there, too. For what it’s worth,” Malcolm added.

For the first time since I’d known Malcolm, he sounded scared. But I knew it wasn’t ghosts or even danger he was afraid of. It was the truth.

GABE COULD SEE ME
in any “charged” spot where a death had occurred, so we assumed he could see all the ghosts that way, too. We knew Minerva was in Old Homestead, and the others were spread all over campus. We decided to meet after curfew that night at the graveyard, both because it was centrally located, and we knew it was charged.

In the meantime, we agreed I’d stay with Malcolm and warn him if he was in danger. But, also, he said he wanted to talk to me. Alone. Through Gabe, I promised him I would follow him, not leave his side, and I would listen.

I followed Malcolm back to Pitman. As always, he opened the door and let me enter first. I smiled, always charmed by his chivalry. That would never grow old, so long as I was still here, still with him. But I imagined how sad it must’ve looked to other people, this guy opening a door and holding it open for no one. Nothing. But the guys in his dorm didn’t seem to notice.

Chatter about the big Fall Festival and bonfire the next day bounced around the common room—speculation on the celebrity alumni who might be there, and plans for various shenanigans like spiking the punch or tossing fireworks into the bonfire. Malcolm’s buddies tried to rope him into the conversation, but he shrugged them off, saying he was tired.

He closed the door to his room and sat on his bed. He looked down and leaned his chin onto his curled up
fist, his normally broad shoulders slumped. It was painfully silent. He was Rodin’s
The Thinker
: a broken man silently battling inside his own head. Suddenly I feared he had a confession to make. I got that same sick knot in my stomach I’d gotten when he approached me in the dining hall that first night. Only this time, I had no stomach. I wasn’t even sure how I felt such things.

He started to talk. “Kent told me to stay away from you. He
told
me to. If only I’d listened to him …” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Maybe he would’ve done it anyway,” I said, although I knew it was futile. I couldn’t bear to see him in such pain.

“If I’d given you up, he might not have done it. So, I am guilty after all, aren’t I? In some ways, it was my fault. But I promise to you, I had
no idea.
He told me to stay away from you. I thought the worst thing that could possibly happen was that he would tell my father. Can you imagine? Just a week ago that was the worst of my fears: that my father might discover who I really was?! Who I really
am
?! My life was so small. I was so weak. I’m so sorry, Liv.” He paused for a beat. He looked around the room, searching for me. “Things can change quickly, can’t they? In life … in death.”

He lay down on the bed, curling into a fetal position. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I could no longer stand uttering unheard words. All I wanted to do was comfort him. So I lay down next to him—facing him—and curled my knees up into his stomach. I draped my arm over his body and looked into his eyes. And I loved him.

I love you.

Love charged through me and made me feel as if I was still a vessel. As if I still had salty tears and a throbbing heart and blood churning through my veins. I didn’t know what I was made of anymore—or how or
why
I even existed—but I knew I loved him completely right there in that moment. And I always would.

He lifted his head and looked into my invisible eyes. “Thank you.” He said it so quietly I could barely hear. But I could see the relief wash over his face. He knew I was there, loving him regardless of what had happened. He felt it as powerfully as I did. Then he said it again, this time loud and unafraid, “Thank you, Liv Bloom.”

Right then, as if on cue, the steam heater under his window hissed on, startling us both and breaking the moment. He laughed quietly at his own skittishness. We both lay there silently and watched as steam slowly gathered at the base of the window. I knew he wanted me to write something, but he wouldn’t ask me to. And I knew I shouldn’t because my energy was diminishing, but I
had
to. I waited and waited until there was enough condensation for me to write a single sentence. It took every ounce of willpower to ignore the pain in my fingertip. But I did it.

I will hold u again
, I wrote on the glass.

He smiled sadly, knowing that would never happen. He would never hold me—the real me, the physical me, the
complete
me—in his arms. He’d never hear me speak. I fell onto the bed next to him, hurting. It was getting harder and harder to affect the real world. Both my power and my very substance were dwindling.

AT 11:45 P.M., MALCOLM
crept out his window. I followed. As we did so, he told me all the dorm prefects were Victors. The reason they all lived on the ground floor in fire-exit rooms—and had master keys—was so they could attend Victors meetings in the after hours. Of course that meant Kent could get out just as easily as Malcolm. And, as Malcolm walked away from his dorm, I saw Kent was waiting in the shadows alongside the building.

I raced up to Malcolm to warn him. As he slipped into the woods that led to the graveyard, I rushed beside him to give him a chill. But it was crisp and cold so he was already shivering. He felt nothing from me. I poured my feet through a small pile of dry leaves nearby, scorching my ankles. But, at that very moment, the wind picked up and rustled still more. Nature was conspiring against us.

I could not warn Malcolm, so my focus shifted to Kent. He had a scarf tied around his neck. I concentrated as hard as I could and attempted to tug at it—to choke him or at least slow him down—I could endure the pain, but my hand would not hold the material. I surged past him, hoping a chill would at least give him pause. It didn’t. He proceeded stealthily behind Malcolm.

Just after Malcolm swept past the weeping willow tree, I heard her.
“The way he treats me, girls, he’ll do the same to you! That’s the reason I’ve got those weepin’ willow blues.”

I looked over and saw Ruth at her tree. She looked different than before—solid and
real.
Oil paint, not watercolor. The wound on her neck looked almost fresh. Kent suddenly stopped and looked right at her. Kent
saw
her!

“He sees you!”

She nodded. “It’s that day I suppose.”

She turned to him and coyly asked, “Are you the one who sent the note, handsome? Did you invite me to the willow tree? For a little nookie, maybe?”

He approached her, looking at her with awe and fascination. He reached his hand to her shoulder—and he seemed to feel her.

“Do something!” I yelled. “He killed me! He’s going to kill someone else! You have to stop him, now!”

Kent was shaking with fear, but a look of excitement played across his face. “You’re proof,” he said. “I’ve heard you exist, and you come alive once a year for an instant. You’re proof that what we do works.”