Verum (2 page)

“
Y
ou’re ok
,” Finn tells me quickly, his gaze connected with mine, and with lips that are supposed to be dead. He sees my panic, he sees my terror. Because he knows me best.

Quickly, he crosses the room and kneels beside me, his hands cold as he grabs mine and holds them.

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.

It can’t be him. But yet, as I stare down at Finn’s white fingers, and the pale freckle that splotches across his middle knuckle, I know it’s him. It has to be. I know that freckle, I know those hands.

“Finn,” I manage to say, a whisper.

He nods. And he’s warm. Confused, I slide my hand against his chest, finding what I need to know. A heart beats against my hand, strong and true through this thin ribcage.

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

No.

This can’t be.

“It is,” he nods again, and I realize that I’d spoken aloud.

Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.

“Am I insane?” I ask limply, and all feelings have fled my body. I’m numb. I’m a piece of wood. I’m a sponge, and I have no feelings, and I’ve absorbed all of this insanity for so long that now I’m insane myself. That’s the only possible answer.

Finn’s slender arm stretches behind me, curling around my shoulder, and I’m limp against his chest, my ear pressed to his heart to make absolute sure.

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

Ba-bump.

“This is impossible.”

My words are whispers. Three of them. Six syllables of impossibility.

“You can’t trust your own mind right now, Cal,” he tells me solemnly, his pale blue eyes so light and clean and familiar. “So you’re going to have to trust me instead.”

I do. He’s the only one.

He knows that.

But…

Reality isn’t this. Reality is a red smashed car and a white tombstone.
Good night, sweet Finn.

There were dragonflies and sunlight that day. There was a cemetery and tears.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan.

“How can this be?” I ask tremulously, afraid to trust it, afraid to hope.

Finn looks away, his hands still wrapped around mine.

And all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

“Because it just is,” he says firmly. “I can’t tell you. You have to come to it. But you will, Cal. You will.”

Oh God, we’re back to that. We’re back to the “I can’t tell you because it will annihilate you” thing.

My chest deflates.

My breath rushes out.

I can’t do this again.

Not this.

It’s too much.

Finn sees my expression and catches me when I fall against him, limp and discouraged.
He always catches me.

“Your mind is an amazing thing,” he assures me. “It’s a gift, not a curse.”

He knows me so well. He knew what I’d been thinking.

“Are you real?” I ask in a whisper, as my eyes shutter closed.

He smiles.

That’s the last thing I see.

Then it’s blissfully, blessedly black.

Thank you, St. Michael.

When I wake, it’s dark. The room is shadowy, but I realize very quickly that I’m no longer in Finn’s room. I’m in a different bed, in my pajamas, with clean sheets wrapped around my hand.

I stare at the ceiling, at the walls, at the shadows, and then I stare at the figure sitting beside my bed, hidden in the dark.

“Finn?” I ask quietly, expecting it to be my brother.

I don’t expect the voice that answers.

“Calla-Lily.”

Dare.

Of course. Finn can’t be here, because Finn is dead.

I swallow as Dare leans forward, as the square of his jaw falls into the moonlight, as his eyes glint.

“Are you real?”

I whisper.

He smiles his
Dare Me
grin.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he answers quietly.

“That doesn’t mean anything these days.” My voice is small. “I can’t take much more, Dare. I don’t understand anything.”

“I’ve failed you,” Dare gets up from his seat and kneels next to me, his face earnest and dark and tortured. “I’ve failed you. But I’ll fix it.”

“How?” I whisper, and I don’t even ask what he was supposed to do to me. I don’t think I want to know. “How have you failed me? What have you done?”

I can’t.

I can’t know.

I can’t know or it might kill me.

My mind is a hollow reed and the breeze is blowing through it, blowing all of the pieces away. I want to chase them, but I can’t.

My hand is anchored by Dare’s.

His fingers shake, and I suddenly know what I have to do.

I have to step away from the man I love.

I have to

I have to

I have to.

Because I can’t take it otherwise.

My mind is elastic, and it’s going to snap.

“I’ve done a terrible thing,” he confesses, and each word is staccato. “I don’t expect your forgiveness. But I have to fix it. And to do that, I need your help. You have to help me, Calla. Help me save you.”

Save me, and I’ll save you.

Right?

I feel… I feel… I feel.

I feel a wave of déjà vu. I feel a wave of emotion, of sensation, of things I should know but don’t.

“What have you done?” I ask him through fractured thoughts. “What do I need saving from? From you? Because I don’t think I can be saved.”

“You’re wrong,” he insists, and his eyes beg me. “I can save you.”

I shake my head and the movement is painful. “There’s only one way,” I whisper and the words hurt my soul. “You have to leave me alone, Dare. You have to let me go. I can’t take anymore. I can’t take the secrets.”

“You love me,” he reminds me, his stare cutting me into pieces.

“I know,” I whisper, throwing those pieces away. “But I don’t think that’s enough right now. I’m going to break, Dare. I’m going to break.”

I draw my knees to my chest and look away, taking a deep shaky breath.

“I know I sound crazy,” I admit. “I know it. But I can’t help what I feel. I have to protect myself from you. I know that much is true. My heart is telling me to be afraid of you.”

And it is. It’s telling me there’s a reason.

I feel it in my bones, in my hollow reed bones.

Dare closes his eyes, and it is minutes before he opens them, and when he does, they’re so empty, so lost.

“Fine,” he says simply. “Protect yourself from me. Hell,
I’ll
protect you from me. But come with me to Whitley. That’s where you’ll find the answers. You can have your space, you’ll have peace and quiet, and you’ll recover, Cal.”

“The answers are at Whitley?”

I stare at Dare, at the body I love, the eyes that I can fall into, the heart that has held me up… and hidden so many secrets.

He nods, and it’s like the movement is painful for him. He doesn’t want to go to Whitley, but he’s willing to go for me.

“Your dad wants you to go,” he adds. “Can you do it for him?”

Can I?

An overpowering sense of foreboding cripples me, almost sending me to my knees. I don’t know. I only know… if I don’t find answers, I might lose my sanity.

The answers are at Whitley.

I exhale, realizing that I’d been holding my breath.

“Ok. I’ll go.”

For answers, and for my father. Because he’s been through enough already. He shouldn’t have to watch me fall apart.

Dare’s beautiful eyes shutter closed. “I love you, Calla.”

Pain ripples through me to the point of being physical, to the point of stopping my aching heart.

“I know.”

But I don’t think that’s enough.

I don’t say it.

Because he already knows. I see it on his tortured face.

I ache to reach out and touch it, to sooth him, to hold him.

But I can’t.

There’s something to fear here.

And until I know what it is, I have to distance myself.

It’s the only way I’ll survive.

T
he plane ride is long
, even though we’re in first class.

A flight attendant pays personal attention to me, bringing me blankets and warm cloths and icy drinks, and the whole flight, I’m on pins and needles with Dare.

Because I love him.

Because he’s a stranger to me now.

Seated next to me, in the wide leather seat, he tries to engage me in conversation, tries to pull me out of my shell, but I avoid every effort.

It’s so painfully, impossibly hard, but I have to.

I have to until I know what he’s hiding.

He’s hurt, I can tell. Because my actions are painful. They’re painful to us both. But there’s something giant and black and scary hanging over my head, and I can’t let it fall on us.

Everything depends on me.
I know that much is true.

But what is
everything?
I don’t know.

The perfectly made-up flight attendant bends next to me. “Only a few minutes until our descent into Heathrow. Is there anything you need?”

My sanity, please.

I shake my head and she’s gone, and before long, we’re walking into the busy airport. Dare’s hand is on my elbow, and even though I don’t want to, I shake it away.

His mouth is tight and he leans into my ear.

“You’re not safe, Calla. Whether you like it or not, you have to stay with me right now.”

I’m dumbfounded and he takes my elbow and I let him.

I’m not safe.

I’m in a fog as we walk to a tall man in a black chauffeur’s uniform waiting on the edge of the corridor. He’s got gray hair and a bulbous nose, and his face is thin and stern, but I see a flicker of warmth when he sees me. He looks at Dare, though, and his face cools.

“Mr. DuBray,” he nods as we approach, and for a second, I think he has mistaken us for someone else. But Dare answers.

“I hope the car is nearby, Jones. We’re exhausted.”

The man’s mouth presses firmly together. “It’s right outside, sir.” And somehow, I feel like he resents Dare. But he still takes our bags and we follow him outside to where a sleek black limousine waits. It’s long and glitzy and I’ve never been in a limousine before. My eyes widen.

What kind of family am I from?

To date, I’ve been solidly middle-class with a mortician for a father. We live in a funeral home and Finn and I have been the butt of a million jokes in school. We’ve been surrounded by death, isolated on the top of a mountain,
freaks.

But here…
here
… I think it might be different.

Maybe.

“You must be Calla,” Jones observes as he takes my bag. I nod.

“Yes.”

“You look just like your mother,” he tells me, and there is warmth for a second in his eyes, and I swallow hard because I miss her, because I’d do anything if she could just be here with me right now. “Welcome to England.”

“Thank you,” I murmur as he opens my door, then loads our suitcases into the trunk.

As the car pulls away from the curb, I close my eyes and press my forehead to the window, trying to force it all to fade away.

I’m not alone.

I didn’t lose my mother and brother.

I don’t have to give up the man I love.

I try hard to will it away.

But I know from experience it won’t work, from the million times I’ve tried it in school, to try and hide myself from sneers and taunts.

It never worked then, and it doesn’t work now.

I’m still here in England, I’m still alone, I’m not safe from
something,
although I don’t know from what. The man I love is next to me, but he might as well be a million miles away… because I can’t trust him anymore. Because my mind is fragile, and even I know it.

So since I can’t make it all fade away, I focus on the good points.

I’m going somewhere quiet, somewhere away from the sadness. I’ll be able to focus, to repair myself, to get answers.

I’m driving away from the airport in luxury. I pause at this.

If Finn were here, he’d be agog at the glitz of this car, at the fancy bottled water sitting in ice just for us, or the rolled up towels in a little steamer. We’ve never been pampered like this before, and with a lump in my throat, I decide it’s not fair that Finn isn’t here.

Because he’ll never be pampered like this now.

If Finn can’t use this stuff, then I won’t either.

I resist the water and the towels, and the tiny chocolate mints. I won’t have any of it.

I open my eyes, watching out the window as the bustle of the city turns into the quiet of the country.

“Take the scenic route, Jones,” Dare calls up to the driver. Jones doesn’t answer, but he does deviate from his route, and before long, I see glimpses of the ocean here and there among the trees and rocks.

“We live a little ways from Hastings. It’s close to Sussex,” Dare tells me, as though I know anything at all about English geography. I nod like I do, because so much of what we say is a pretense now. We go through the motions.

Thirty minutes later, our car is still gliding over the winding ribbons of road, but I finally see a rooftop in the distance, spires and towers poking through trees.

Dare stirs, opening his eyes, and I know we’re almost there.

I crane my neck to see. When I do, I’m stunned beyond words, enough that the breath hitches on my lips.

This can’t be my family’s home.

It’s huge, it’s lavish, it’s creepy.

It’s ancient, it’s stone, it’s beautiful.

A tall stone wall stretches in either direction as far as I can see, encircling the property like an ominous security blanket. It’s so tall, so heavy, and for one brief moment, I wonder if it’s meant to keep people out… or to keep them in.

It’s a foolish notion, I know.

As we pull off the road, large wrought iron gates open in front of our car as if by magic, as if they were pushed by unseen hands. Puffs of mist and fog swirl from the ground and through the tree branches, half concealing whatever lies behind the gate.

Even though the grounds are lush and green, there’s something heavy here, something dark. It’s more than the near constant rain, more than the clouds.

Something that I can’t quite put my finger on.

I’m filled with a strange dread as the car rolls through the gates, as we continue toward the hidden thing. And while the ‘hidden thing’ is just a house, it feels like so much more, like something ominous and almost threatening.

I catch glimpses of it through the branches as we drive, and each glimpse gives me pause.

A steep, gabled roof.

Columns and spires and moss.

Rain drips from the trees, onto the car, onto the driveway, and everything gleams with a muted light.

It’s wet here, and gray, and the word I keep thinking in my head is
gothic.

Gothic.

Despite all the beauty and the extravagance here, it still looks a bit terrifying.

I count the beats as we make our way to the house, and I’ve counted to fifteen before the limousine finally comes to a stop on top of a giant circular driveway made of cobblestone.

The house in front of us is made from stone, and it sprawls out as far as I can see. The windows are dark, in all sizes, in all shapes.

Rolling, manicured lawns, an enormous mansion, lush gardens. Stormy clouds roll behind the massive setting of the house, and one thing is clear. Ominous or not, this estate is lavish, to say the least.

“Is my family rich?” I ask dumbly.

Dare glances at me. “Not in the ways that matter.”

He pauses, and there is a rope between us, pulling us together, but at the same time, coiling around us, holding us apart.

“Calla, don’t let your guard down,” he tells me quickly. “This place… it isn’t what it seems. You have to…”

Jones opens the door, and Dare stops speaking abruptly.

I have to what?

“Welcome to Whitley,” Jones tells me with a slight bow. Dare and I climb out and suddenly, I’m nervous.

I’m in a foreign country, getting ready to meet a family consisting of strangers, and I know nothing about them.

It’s daunting.

Dare squeezes my hand briefly, and I let him. Because here, I’m alone.

Here, Dare is the only familiar thing.

Here, he’s the only one who knows me.

Jones leads the way with our bags, and before we even reach the front doors, they open, and a small wrinkled woman stands in the doorway. She’s slightly bent, barely a wisp of a woman, with an olive complexion and her hair completely wrapped in a brightly covered scarf twisted at the top. She looks like she might be a hundred years old.

“Sabine!” Dare greets the elderly woman in a warm hug. The little woman’s arm close around him, and her head barely reaches his chest.

“Welcome home, boy,” she says in a deep gravely voice. “I’ve missed you.”

Dare pulls away and glances at me, and I can see on his face that Sabine is important. At least to him. “This is Sabine. She was my nanny growing up. And your mother’s nanny, too. Sabine, this is Calla Price.”

Sabine stares at me, curiously, sadly.

“You’re the spitting image of your mother,” she tells me.

“I know,” I tell her, and my heart twinges because my mother is gone. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I offer her my hand, but she grasps it instead of shaking it. Stooping over, she examines it, her face mere inches from my palm. She grips me tight, unwilling to let me go, and I feel my pulse bounding wildly against her fingers.

Startled, I wait.

I don’t know what else to do.

The little woman is surprisingly strong, her grip holding me steady as she searches for something in my hand. She traces the veins and the ridges, her breath hot on my skin. Her face is so close to my palm that I can feel each time she exhales.

If Finn were here, he’d be laughing so hard right now.

But he’s not, and so there’s no one to share this hilarity with, because even though he wishes it weren’t true, Dare fits in here. He’s one of them and I’m not.

Abruptly, Sabine drops my hand and straightens.

Her eyes meet mine and I see a thousand lifetimes in hers. They’re dark as obsidian, and unlike most elderly people, hers aren’t cloudy with age. She stares into me, and I feel like she’s literally sifting through my thoughts and looking into my soul.

It’s unsettling, and a chill runs up my spine, putting me on edge.

She glances at Dare, and nods ever so slightly.

If I didn’t know better, I would almost think he cringed.

What the hell?

But I don’t have time to ponder, because Sabine starts walking, leading us into the house.

“Come. Eleanor is waiting for you,” Sabine tells us solemnly over her shoulder as she uses much of her strength to open the heavy front doors.

Dare sighs. “I think we’d better freshen up first. It’s been a long flight, Sabby.”

The nanny looks sympathetic, but is unrelenting. “I’m sorry, Dare. She insists on seeing you both.”

Dare sighs again, but we obediently follow Sabine through lavish hallways. Over marble floors and lush rugs, through mahogany paneled halls and extravagant window dressings, beneath sparkling crystal chandeliers. My eyes are wide as we take it all in. I’ve never seen such a house in all my life, not even on TV.

But even as it is opulent, it’s silent.

It’s still.

It’s like living in a mausoleum.

We come to a stop in front of massive wooden doors, ornately carved. Sabine knocks on them twice, and a woman’s voice calls out from within.

“Enter.”

How eerily formal.

Sabine opens the doors, and we are immediately enveloped by an overwhelmingly large study, painted in rich colors and patinas, encircled with wooden shelves filled by hundreds and hundreds of leather-bound books.

A woman sits at the heavy cherry desk, facing us with her back to the windows.

Her face is stern, her hair is faded, but I can see that it used to be red. It’s pulled into a severe chignon, not one strand out of place. Her cashmere sweater is buttoned all the way to the top, decorated by one single strand of pearls. Her unadorned hands are folded in front of her and she’s waiting.

Waiting for us.

How long has she been waiting? Months? Years?

For a reason that I can’t explain, I feel suffocated. The room seems to close in on me, and I’m frozen. Dare has to literally pull me, then pull me harder, just to make me move.

I feel like I can’t breathe, like if I approach her, something bad will happen.

Something terrible.

It’s a ridiculous thought, and Dare glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

We come to a stop in front of the desk.

“Eleanor,” he says tightly.

There is no love lost here. I can see it. I can sense it. I feel it in the air, in the formality, in the cold.

“Adair,” the woman nods. There are no hugs, no smiles. Even though it’s been at least a year since she’s seen him, this woman doesn’t even stand up.

“This is your grandmother, Eleanor Savage,” Dare tells me, and his words are so carefully calm. Eleanor stares at me, her gaze examining me from head to toe. My cheeks flush from it.

“You must be Calla.”

I nod.

“You may call me Eleanor.” She glances at the door. “Wait outside, Sabine.”

Without a word, Sabine backs out, closing the door. Eleanor returns her attention to us.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she tells me stiffly, but her voice lacks any sign of emotion, of sympathy or sadness, even though it was her daughter who was lost. She didn’t know Finn, so I can understand that, but her own daughter?

She looks at me again. “While you are here, Whitley will be your home. You will not intrude in rooms that don’t concern you. You may have the run of the grounds, you may use the stables. You won’t mingle with unsavory characters, you may have use of the car. Jones will drive you wherever you need to go. You may settle in, get accustomed to life in the country, and soon, we’ll speak about your inheritance. Since you’ve turned eighteen, you have responsibilities to this family.”

She pauses, then looks at me.