Liv, Forever (28 page)

“Who?”

“The girls … the ghosts?”

Malcolm stood stone-faced.

“Come on, Malcolm—don’t you see? This is proof! It’s validation. We really have power. We can do anything we want. Don’t give this up.”

“It doesn’t prove anything except you killed innocent girls.”

Kent thrust a finger at the book. “If you burn that, they’ll go away.”

Malcolm clutched it tightly to his chest, seething. “I mean it,” Kent said. “Say goodbye to your girlfriend.”

Enraged, Malcolm pushed Kent and slipped away into the crowd. He looked up and asked me, “Liv, is this what you want? You want me to burn it? Is this what I’m supposed to do?! You have to give me a sign!”

Of course it needed to happen to end the murders, the cycle of darkness. Ruth, Mary,
all
the spirits had waited years to move on, to ascend—to see their loved ones, to be somewhere other than here, to reach their final place. It wasn’t necessarily what I wanted, though. Because it
probably meant I’d be ascending, too. Of course I knew I should go on to that place—heaven or whatever it’s called—but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t ready yet. But this wasn’t about me, I reminded myself. I
had
to let him burn it.

I looked around for a possible way to communicate. I didn’t have enough energy left to affect anything solid. The smoke—it was my only option.

I leaped off the edge of the fire pit into the smoke and wove through it, chopping the smoke up into pieces, like a giant smoke signal. But I wasn’t finished. I had to make it spectacular. As I dove and danced through it, I realized something: I was probably making my last piece of art.

Malcolm crouched low in the crowd, hiding from Kent. Abigail had spotted her twin and was making a beeline for him, followed by Sloan and Amos. They knew something was wrong. From his position, Malcolm looked all around—searching for my sign—but he couldn’t see a thing.

The crowd saw it first. They broke into a thundering applause. There was
oh
-ing and
ah
-ing and
only-at-Wickham-Hall
-ing. Finally Malcolm stood up and saw it: an angel in flight.

I paused on the side of the fire pit, exhausted but pleased. The smoke angel seemed alive, in slow-motion drifting up toward the heavens as she dissolved into nothingness. She was not precise and controlled like my old work—she was unbridled. She was pure emotion. She’d cost me my final bits of energy, but it was worth it.

I caught a glimpse of Ms. Benson nearby, eyes shining and with a secret smile on her lips, as if she knew it was me.
As if she knew that this was my art—finally big, bold, and seen by all.

And Malcolm knew. He rushed toward the fire until he saw that Kent blocked his path at the edge of the pit. Abigail and the others were close behind. Malcolm’s eyes met Kent’s. He stopped short, still buffered by a few people in the awestruck crowd. He used all his strength to hurl the book over those heads and into the fire.

Kent leaped up toward the book, a desperate lunge. And, unbelievably, he
did
grab it. It was in his hands. I saw his face—triumphant—and lifted myself to try to stop him. But it was too late. He’d missed his footing and was already falling into the flames. Abigail pushed her way to the edge of the pit and screamed, looking down in horror as her near-mirror image shrieked and spun, consumed by the raging fire.

The book seemed to hover for a moment, crackling and exploding into brightness like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

Ruth was immediately at my side. “I think I can go now. I think we all can. I can feel it.”

I smiled.

“You’re coming with us?” she asked.

“Not if I don’t have to. I’m going to linger if I can. There’s one more thing I want to do.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. She swept me into a brief and intense hug.

While Headmaster Thorton whisked the hysterical Abigail away from the edge of the fire and security guards pushed the crowds away from the scene in an attempt to
maintain order in the chaos, the other ghosts surrounded Ruth and me. All saying thank you. All smiling. Some probably smiling for the first time in decades.

Then, slowly, one by one—starting with Clara, who died first—they became lighter and lighter and brighter and brighter—until they became entirely immaterial and dissolved in a near-blinding light.

Nature Preserve Girl finally approached me. Dawn was her name. She told me her story, but she refused to show me her gruesome wound.

I grabbed her arm. “But why didn’t you join me?” I had to ask her. “You’re an activist. Why not help us expose the Victors?”

“Because Aiden’s last name was
Astor.
”

“Malcolm’s father,” I realized. Of course.

“And, they’re practically twins, man,” she said, gesturing to Malcolm nearby. It was true. The resemblance to his father was striking. But only skin deep.

“I couldn’t trust him,” she continued. “I couldn’t even
look
at him. But now I see he’s all right. He’s breaking the cycle. He’s good.” And with that, she smiled—content there was good in the world and people who’d stand up for it—and departed.

Finally, it was Lydia’s turn. She raised her arms up, still tripping no doubt, in complete rapture.

Only Brit was left. She seemed panicky. “What if it’s not heaven? What if I go to that other place? That dark place we’ve seen? I stole something once, you know.”

“You won’t go there for that,” I assured her.

“But what if it’s not heaven? I’m scared, Liv. I’m scared,”
she cried. I put my arms around her and held her until she vanished.

I looked to Malcolm. He was being questioned by security guards. I
had
to stay here for him. I chanted it in my head, even out loud.

“I have to stay here for Malcolm. I have to stay here for Malcolm. I
will
stay here for Malcolm.” I looked at my limbs. They remained. I remained.

My time to go had passed, and I remained.

MALCOLM REFUSED TO SAY
anything until the real police officers arrived, but once he was alone with them, he told them everything, except, wisely, the part about being pushed from the fourth story window and floating to the ground. Or anything ghost-related, for that matter. Even so, the police didn’t take him very seriously until they discovered the Victors had taken a trophy from each victim as a part of the ritual. There was enough evidence to demand a serious investigation—starting with my locket.

Though dead, Kent became the lead suspect in my murder. And as his prints were found on Malcolm’s boat, they also suspected him of attempted murder. Cases were reopened on each of the murders. Clara had told us where her body had washed up, so Malcolm was able to point the authorities to her remains, closing her missing-person case and indicting his own great-great-great grandfather posthumously. Malcolm’s father, Mr. Samuels, and the hooded others were all taken in for questioning.

Apparently Abigail had no idea what Kent was up to. Like Malcolm, she’d only covered up my death to protect
the image of the school as instructed by the Victors. I actually felt sorry for her. She left Wickham Hall almost immediately—half a twin—never to return.

Gabe was promptly released and returned to campus in a police car—the
front
seat this time. Malcolm greeted him with a hug. “I don’t know how you did it, but you did it!” Gabe hugged him, then pulled away, suddenly panicky. “Wait, are they all gone? Is she gone, too?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. She doesn’t have any energy left, no way to show me or tell me. I’ve felt some chills, I think, but it might just be wishful thinking.”

“Or the flu,” Gabe joked. Then he called out, “Liv?! Liv Bloom?!”

I was right there. I waited a moment, then said, “Boo!”

He jumped, then whipped around, pissed. “Not funny!”

“Come on,
kind
of funny.”

“Not.”
He turned to Malcolm to explain. “She scared me by saying boo.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Come on, it’s funny.”

“You two deserve each other,” he said, teasing and happy, but with a hint of envy. I could see Gabe longed to meet
his
match.

The officers asked Malcolm if he wanted to leave campus, go into some kind of protective custody. “No,” he said. “I’ve got protection here. And I don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.” He’d already vowed to never again go home, to never again see his father.

LATER, WE WENT TO
the catacombs so Gabe could see me as we told him everything that had transpired in his absence.
When I finished describing the girls’ dramatic ascensions, he asked, “What about Minerva?”

“She wasn’t there, but I saw other lights ascending in the distance. If they killed every ten years, there must’ve been other ghosts that we never saw, right? So I guess it was them and I assume she ascended, too, from wherever she was.”

“Why? You think she’s still here?” Malcolm asked Gabe.

Gabe shrugged, looking concerned. “Maybe,” he said. “But maybe not. Shouldn’t we go find out?”

Together we headed to Old Homestead. The campus was still crawling with police and media, even the FBI and CIA were getting in on it because so many of the Victors held office in the government.

The front door of Old Homestead was open; people were dusting for more prints. The top floor had been roped off by officials. But we found Minerva on the second floor. She was in what was once her bedroom, sitting in what was once her rocking chair. It was as if she’d been waiting for us. And, finally, she told us the whole story.

 

Neither Wallace nor I established the Victors—in fact, we had no knowledge of the Victors whatsoever. The Victors were established by our son, Elijah.

Elijah attended Wickham Hall in its first three years. Of course, any institution takes some time getting on its feet. Ours did as well. We stumbled those first few years as we explored how to best run the school. Elijah was displeased with the education we’d given him. He felt very strongly that Wickham Hall was not yet what it could be.

After finishing secondary school here with us, Elijah went abroad to London to pursue his advanced degrees. He studied Latin, Celtic tradition, and history. Also, he spent significant time exploring his own history. He met with Wallace’s sisters and his own cousins. He learned of their disdain for me and that his aristocratic grandparents had disapproved of our marriage. He discovered what Wallace had walked away from in choosing me as his bride.

I’m not entirely certain what other influences Elijah was exposed to in London, but when he returned, he’d changed. It pains me to recall this time. Elijah refused to look me in the eye or even address me. He called private meetings with Wallace to talk about the future of the school and the necessary changes to be made. For example, he just loathed that we insisted on taking students who could not afford to pay. He begged Wallace to dissolve our marriage and to marry “his kind.” Of course, it broke my heart and Wallace’s as well. And, of course, Wallace stood by my side.

Wallace’s allegiance to me and to our standards of equality enraged Elijah. They had screaming fights. Elijah would throw things, smashing them. He was filled with an anger we’d never seen before, and something we did not know how to manage. Neither of us had known violence before. We were peaceful souls.

One night in October, Elijah sent Wallace to Concord to meet with a prospective new teacher. After supper, Elijah called me to the cellar. I was quite excited he was addressing me and expressing interest in my presence.

But, when I got to the bottom of the stairs, he called me into the small, dank stone chamber and quickly locked the two of us in there. He began to utter phrases in Latin and ancient Celtic dialects. I didn’t know much Latin, but I recognized some words, of course. It was talk of power and death.

I asked what he was doing. I begged to know what I’d done, as a mother, to bring about this behavior toward me. Elijah told me I’d sullied the Wickham bloodline. I’d ruined his chances for aristocracy, his chances for success in this world. I assured him the world was changing rapidly, that he had every opportunity available. He silenced me and told me he intended to change things
at Wickham Hall. He planned to ensure primacy and success to every student of Wickham Hall in a way I never could. When I asked what exactly that meant, he would not reply.

When I realized what Elijah was aiming to do, I assured him I loved him and forgave him for what he’d said. But he simply continued to chant, and finally, he set the fire and left the room, locking me—alone—within it.

So, there you have the truth, children. I was murdered by my own son. I did not found the Victors. Rather, I was their first sacrifice to Wickham Hall, on October 29, 1875.

After Elijah locked the door, trapping me in a chamber of fire, I watched the flames surround me and I died—not of burning, not of suffocation, but of a heart attack. A broken heart. No mother should ever have to know what it means to be killed by her own child.

Elijah never told a soul. He knew even the Victors wouldn’t accept matricide. So my murder remained clandestine. Until now. Now you know how truly gruesome my own son was.

And I did commune with Wallace after my death. But I could never tell him what Elijah had done, or he’d have died of a broken heart as well. As horrid and incomprehensible as it may sound, I never wanted Elijah to be discovered. He was my son, after all. No matter what he’d done to me, I still loved him.

As the school changed, I saw he’d created something extraordinary. I loathed and mourned every single sacrifice, but I couldn’t stop them. So I kept the ghosts apart—weak and divided. Until you came, Olivia.

But what you don’t know, my child, is—just as I told you—we were lucky to be here at Wickham Hall. There is another place where every student of Wickham Hall goes sooner or later. Eventually.
It’s no use to attempt to avoid it. Every student who ever attended Wickham Hall is bound to this place—this future, this eternity—by blood. You three are no exception. It is a world where they pay for their prosperity in this world. And where Elijah rules.

I have seen it, and I fear it. But I must go.