Phantom Heart Page 19

  Wrenching my body, I managed to swing myself around in the whispering mob, which fell suddenly silent as the cellar door opened itself wide to a vat of blackness.

  “No!” I yelled, but then my instinct to fight dissolved into dumbfounded wonder as a stark white mask, that of another woman, bled through the darkness.

  The girl, adorned in an elegant drop-shoulder gown of burgundy, her raven hair piled atop her head and studded with tiny roses, extended one white-gloved hand to me, as if expecting me to take it. As if she thought I’d want to descend with her into whatever horror waited below.

  Captivated by her undeniable resemblance to me, I stopped struggling against the other masked figures so intent on bringing the two of us together.

  And though I didn’t dare take this figure’s waiting hand, I did not try to pull away, either, when she reached to take mine.

  FORTY

  Zedok

  I fought my way through the figures, sword-to-sword and blade-to-dagger. In each instance, I won the fray by ripping my assailant’s mask free.

  Despite many of them reassembling to block me a second time, I progressed in the direction Stephanie had been taken. Though I anticipated the moment Wrath himself would reappear, he never did. Why bother when he had so many masks willing to bring her to him?

  If that were to happen, I was sure he would present me with a choice. Give in to him willingly, or have my mask again stripped away in front of her. Either scenario would doom me to become Wrath, and Stephanie’s liberty would be forfeit.

  Always, Wrath played to win, and now it all became clear. My resolve as Valor to see Stephanie free of this place, free of me, did outweigh his—my—desire to possess her forcibly. And so Wrath’s aim had not been to challenge Valor outright, as I had feared. Not so much as it had been to undermine that resolve by decimating me.

  He knew what I knew. That I could not have withstood the sight of Stephanie’s face had she seen mine.

  Valor would have cracked, and Wrath would have won me. But . . . was there truly not one other shard of my soul that wished for her freedom? Was there no other glimmer of light amid the shrapnel of my ravaged spirit?

  It would seem not.

  Delayed and parried, attacked and detained, I won my way to the kitchen at the great cost of time, certain I would find her already transported to the bowels of the house. Miraculously, though, I arrived at Stephanie’s side in time, if only just.

  A gentle tug on my part was all it took to dislodge the porcelain facade of the mask whose likeness and name I now could no longer deny. With the dispatching of Desire, I turned to the real Stephanie.

  My plan from this point had been to flee with her, to put as much space as possible between her and the greedy hands of the distorted soul that wanted her at all costs. From there, I would fling open the first door I encountered and see her through to her side. But the execution of that plan was not to be. And this time, it was none other than Stephanie herself who thwarted my efforts. Or the efforts I would have made, if she had not, in that moment, devastated me utterly by canceling the distance between us with a swiftness I could not have stopped, her arms lifting to wind around my shoulders and draw me into the first embrace I had experienced in over a century.

  Time fell away, the world as well, while within me, bliss warred with agony.

  Had I ever known either of them until that instant when her fiercely beating heart crashed against my nonexistent one?

  Warmth. I had forgotten what it felt like.

  “Human,” Rastin had called me. This moment suggested that, perhaps, against all odds, the medium was right. For human was how she made me feel.

  Distantly, I became aware of the masks unfurling around us, each of them dispersing as if suddenly relieved of their power to be. Why? I could not know.

  Stephanie. This girl who embraced me in spite of now knowing what I was.

  She had to be the reason why.

  Masks or no, though, she needed to leave.

  My hands. They trailed up her arms, gloved fingers unable to help stealing a forbidden caress on their way to wrapping her wrists. With gentleness, I undid the link of her arms. That I was able to do so gave me hope. For her.

  I turned from her then, staying connected to her by one hand only. With it, I drew her from the kitchen and into the darkness of the hall.

  “You must go,” I told her without stopping or looking back. Because I could not risk vacillating for even one more instant. Not when it was her freedom, her sanity, on the line. “You must leave here tonight. Take Charlie and your father and never return.”

  Hurried steps, far more certain in their purpose than I, brought us to the front door. Though she yielded and followed, I registered resistance, too. Either she did not trust me or she somehow sensed my plan to eject her from my world and was now hesitant to leave. For what reason, I could not fathom.

  The masks had gone. But I was not fool enough to believe they would not return. Now was our only chance.

  I gripped the front door handle and pulled open the entrance to Moldavia, hauling Stephanie through and releasing her with momentum into the glow of her own porch light.

  Stephanie freewheeled into the autumn night, her beautiful dark curls flying forward to frame her stricken face. She reached for me until the moment she stumbled down from the stairs and over her front walkway.

  I kept my arm extended toward her, shocked by my own action. That, after having been so close to holding her, I’d actually let her go.

  “Erik!” she shrieked. “Look out!”

  But I’d already felt them. The return of the masks. The innumerable hands that gripped me and drew me backward, into the house that would forever hold me prisoner.

  She charged up the porch steps, concern and terror twisting her no less lovely features.

  Terror for the masks. And concern . . . for me.

  Mercy. Could I believe what I was seeing? That she would again cross the threshold of this hated place, risk life and freedom to reenter its boundaries for my sake?

  I kicked the door shut, blocking out the sight of that expression, so wrought with distress.

  The realization that she cared what became of me, no matter in what capacity, coupled with the knowledge that I—some version of me—had done her harm, brought with it the return of the pain.

  Awful and searing, it bloomed once again from the center of my chest. I cringed beneath my mask, grasping at the spot, as though that could do anything to lessen the ache while the masks dragged me backward.

  My conversation with Rastin. My resolution to try to go so that she could stay . . .

  My masks had borne witness to all of this. In the same way they had overhead Stephanie’s voice. The same way they had been present for all my interactions with her.

  No doubt they had also relished her embrace.

  They would set another trap. And keep setting them. Until they had what they wanted.

  What I wanted.

  But what I wanted was madness.

  Madness . . .

  Out of all my masks, he was the only one that floated. Like roiling clouds of smoke, his coal-colored silk robes swirled and wafted every which way, winding and unwinding about him.

  He hovered above me now, twining the chandelier while Guile, Spite, Envy, Guilt, and Shame forced me down, struggling, to the floor, their collective laughter echoing in the cavernous space.

  His whole visage, apart from the white and gold-filigreed three-faced mask itself, gave the impression of a blot of black ink that had been dropped into water. Through his nebulous form raged a lightning storm, jagged white illuminating the insides that, as was true in my instance, too, he did not possess.

  The chandelier swayed as Madness circled it, trailing a gloved hand over its dripping crystals.

  Until this moment, I had tried to fight
against them if only to buy the Armands time. Enough to allow them to vacate the premises before I became something worse than what I was.

  Delaying the inevitable seemed to be a knack I’d never lost.

  Valor was doomed. And if he was, then so, too, was Rastin. So were we all if Stephanie did not do as I had instructed and seize her chance for freedom.

  I wanted her to go. I wanted her to stay.

  A moment ago, one wish had been stronger. Now, in her absence, the other grew to consume me.

  Closing my eyes against the hisses and whispers of the masks, I did something I had not done since I was a small boy.

  I prayed. To the God of the Bible, no less. My father’s God.

  Let her leave, I pleaded even as I opened my eyes to see the bird-masked Malice do the honor of pulling my mask free, like a magpie ripping flesh from a carcass.

  The masks screamed and recoiled.

  Wails of horror filled the house—mine among them.

  Because of what would come next.

  Please, I beseeched. Let her leave unharmed.

  This I repeated in the mind that would soon be taken from me as well.

  Because even as I willed her to take flight and never look back, I could not bear the thought of never seeing her again.

  Above, Madness’s head rotated, his three-in-one face aiming itself directly toward me.

  “I don’t know who you think you are begging,” he growled, his three distinct voices speaking at once. “No one can hear you in there. No one but us.”

  Madness laughed. And then he dove for me.

  FORTY-ONE

  Stephanie

  “No!” I shouted the moment the door slammed shut in my face.

  Immediately, I latched on to the knob, only to find that it wouldn’t twist in my grip.

  Somewhere inside, Charlie wailed.

  “Charlie!” I pounded the door. “Dad!”

  I’d seen and felt so much that could not be explained. And now here I was. Back in the world I knew, locked out of the house I didn’t.

  Just when I’d decided to abandon the front door and try the back entrance, its stained-glass sidelights and transom lit up—signaling that someone had come into the foyer.

  The sound of Charlie’s crying grew louder. A large shadow painted the panes. The lock clicked. Then the door opened, and I found myself staring up into my father’s stunned and sleep-drawn face, my little sister bawling in his arms.

  Behind him lurked the stripped walls and creaky worn floors of our house.

  “Where in God’s name have you been?” Dad bellowed at me, furious and frightened.

  “We have to go!” I said, collecting Charlie from him, her face red and streaming with tears. She clung to me, small arms wrapping me tight. “We have to get out of the house. Now!”

  “Why?” he demanded. “Stephanie, what the hell is going on?”

  Leave, Erik had said. But where were we supposed to go? More importantly, how could I convince my father to take us away?

  “Dad, please!” I pleaded as, inside, the blazing light from the chandelier flickered a warning. “I-I’ll explain everything on the way, I promise. But right now, we need to go.”

  He studied me, eyes searching.

  “Fine,” he said as he strode back into the house. “Stay here while I get my keys.”

  “Wait—” I called, cut off by the exact thing I had feared might happen if we became separated by entryways.

  All on its own, the front door swung shut with sudden violence, slamming in my face.

  “Dad!”

  Charlie screamed. Shuffling her to one arm, I took hold of the doorknob. The nightmare wasn’t over yet.

  Inside, through the stained glass, the lights flickered a second time.

  “Dad!” I shouted again, rattling the locked door in its frame. “Go out the back! Get out of the house!”

  I didn’t wait for his reply. Instead, clinging fast to my little sister, I tore around one side of Moldavia. Reaching the rear door, I found it wide open, like someone was playing a game with me.

  “Dad?” I screamed into the house—and felt my heart immediately loosen when he came into view, his expression even more confounded as he took in the sight of the lights going haywire.

  Sensing another trap, I waved him toward us.

  “This way, Dad! Hurry!”

  Scowling more out of confusion and irritation than fear, he started in my direction, closing the distance with a fast walk.

  “Run!” I yelled too late, bits of plaster raining down on him. Then came the tinkling of crystals followed by the snick of metal snapping.

  It careened into view then—plummeting straight for his head.

  The ancient and dust-caked chandelier.

  FORTY-TWO

  Ze do k

  I took care in crossing to Stephanie’s side.

  Not to be seen.

  To steal there. Before she could leave

  me.

  How did we come to

  the landing so fast?

  How else?

  Through Charlie’s closet do— Or, rather, us.

  Stop. Leave your

  knife

  sheathed.

  I

  Don’t!

  want to do this.

  But.

  How else to make her stay?

  No. Not the chandelier.

  You mustn’t.

  Ha ha! Yes, the chandelier!

  Smashing idea!

  You’ll kill him.

  Only if he’s lucky!

  Tell me.

  If she is to go, what other choice have we?

  None!

  Your knife blazes.

  You must

  not

  aim for the chain!

  I

  I

  I

  I

  I

  HER

  There’s no more time.

  No matter what we now become.

  chhhccckkk

  The chain cried only once at its severing.

  Mr. Armand dove, of course. Perhaps in time. Perhaps not.

  Yes. What a crescendo!

  What a display!

  The cacophony of crystal kissing—rending—the floor.

  The light snapping of bone.

  Bravo!

  See what you’ve done.

  The girls. Now they

  are crying, too.

  It

  doesn’t matter.

  Not when time wasn’t impo rtant to be gin w ith.

  No t whe n i t was n’t import a nt to m e.

  N o t whe n we’d b e e n s o un will ing t o se e re as o n.

  T i m e . . . B es i d es i t, w e have so l i t t l e l e f t.

  A n d t h e h o u r s.

  d i d s h e n o t m a k e t h e m s o m u c h m o r e b e a r a b l e ?

  True. Time didn’t matter. Not to me.

  Not without her.

  But.

  It was about time, I would say.

  For we’d never liked that chandelier anyway.

  FORTY-THREE

  Stephanie

  Charlie and I rode to the hospital in the ambulance with Dad.

  After the chandelier’s chain had snapped, the fixture had plowed into the wood floor, landing with enough force to crash partway through.

  The noise had been like an explosion. So had the impact.

  Splinters and shards had flown, pelting the walls.

  Running on pure adrenaline—pure panic—I’d barreled through the back entrance to where Dad lay unconscious, one leg pinned beneath the chandelier’s heavy metal frame.

  I hadn’
t really been thinking about what I was doing. I didn’t even remember putting Charlie down. I’d only wanted to get to the only parent either of us had left.

  I’d called 911 after that. And as soon as Dad was admitted to a triage room, because I hadn’t known what else to do, I had called Lucas.

  He came. Of course he came.

  “Are you okay?” was the first question out of his mouth when he’d arrived in the waiting area. I’d told him over the phone that Dad had suffered a broken femur and a concussion.

  If I was going to be truthful, I would need to tell him no. And that I wasn’t sure I ever would be “okay” again.

  There’d been only one other time in my life when I’d been less okay. And that had been the night Charlie had been born. The same night Mom had left us—all three of us—forever.

  But I couldn’t think of that. Not right now. Not if I wanted to keep the sanity that I felt fairly certain I still had.

  I had Charlie in my lap, too, her little head resting against my shoulder, thumb shoved into her mouth. So I couldn’t fall apart into little pieces like I had back then.

  “Dad’s going to be okay,” I muttered at last to Lucas, who’d waited more patiently for an answer than I would have. “So . . . I’m okay.”

  I said this purely for Charlie’s benefit. But I gave Lucas a look that I hoped conveyed all I couldn’t say. That I was terrified. That there were things I needed to tell him with words. At the same time, I relished the sensation of his shoulder pressing into mine as well as the embrace of his jacket, which he’d insisted I wear when he saw me shivering. Could he guess that I hadn’t been shivering from the cold?

  Either way, the jacket calmed me. It was safe. The same way Lucas felt.

  Guilt lobbed itself on top of my dog-piled emotions, telling me I should have told Lucas everything sooner. About Charlie’s drawing and Erik, too. Would any of us be here now if I had?

  Surprising me, Lucas took my hand. Perhaps his way of conveying that he got the gist of what I was trying to telepathically communicate.

  The contact, warm and gentle, soothed the rawness inside me.

  Throughout my life, people had always commented on how mature I was for my age. And maybe I was that way naturally. But after Mom passed, I hadn’t really had any other choice but to grow up fast. Not when Dad stayed lost longer than me. Not when Charlie couldn’t know how broken her arrival had left us.