Homecoming (28 page)

She set the folded note down on the tabletop and stared at her own name, written on the back. It was freaky. So freaky she'd almost woken Freddy up, but she'd stopped herself. He was out of the house for work at six, and he didn't need his sleep interrupted for something as silly as a ghostly piece of paper.

As much as she and Eleanora had their differences, she'd come to rely on the older woman's strength and force of will, and Dev dearly wished she could pick up the phone and call her now.

She knew Eleanora would tell her there was nothing to be scared of—
Just open the damn thing, for God's sake
—and as she thought these words, she could hear Eleanora's voice in them, and even this small remembrance was a consolation.

“Okay,” Dev said out loud. “I'm just gonna open it.”

She carefully unfolded the square, but even with her delicate fingers, bits of paper still flaked off onto the table.

“Damn,” she said as a chunk of the paper tore away in her hand.

She finished unfolding it and set the note on the table, putting the torn bit back in its place. Her eyes scanned the spidery cursive, the looping letters dancing across the page. Age had blurred some of the words, making the note hard to decipher in places, but, with context, she was finally able to piece it together:

My Dearest Devandra—

When you read these lines I will be dead, my corporeal body no more than dust. It is with a heavy heart that I have asked my daughter, Purity, to entomb this letter with the mourning wreath they will create upon my death. It will then be passed down from eldest to eldest, always in the keeping of the Montrose women, until, one day, it will come into your hands.

I wish the news were not so grave, but time and time again, as I draw the cards, the spread is always the same: Terrible things await you, my darling. A great evil is upon our world, waiting and biding its time. It will reach its zenith during your lifetime—and only you and yours will have the power to stop it.

But you must choose the right path: The World, The Magician, The Hierophant, The Devil, and The Fool.

Trust in the spread. It will guide you.

All my love,

Lucretia

The letter made Dev's blood run cold. It was Eleanora's spread—and it concerned the last Dream Keeper.

D
aniela enjoyed the feel of the wind on her cheeks as she walked through the silent neighborhood. She pulled up the collar of her jacket and picked up her pace, so that she was almost jogging, the syncopated
tap
of her feet on the asphalt calming her frenetic mind.

Sometimes she just needed to move—and the time she spent walking around her neighborhood was like a balm for her soul.

When she was a kid, she'd been incapable of sitting still for longer than a few minutes at a time. There was just so much to think about, so much to do . . . her brain was always running in fifth gear. Unless she was passionate about something—like painting—she just couldn't focus for very long.

Even as a kid, if she was bored by something the teacher was saying in class, she'd just get up and roam around the room, looking at stuff. Add in the strange seizures and then, later, the odd leather gloves she was forced to wear, and she knew she must've driven the already stressed-out and time-strapped public schoolteachers crazy.

The last Dream Keeper. Under my protection.

These words haunted Daniela.

Until the last few days, she'd felt torn. Her mother, Hessika, Eleanora . . . they'd all believed the girl would come. Daniela, on the other hand, hadn't known what to believe. Not until she'd come to Echo Park, and Eleanora had introduced her to Lizbeth. That was when she'd felt the first glimmers of possibility, a thing she'd long thought extinguished inside her.

Now there was actually something to hold on to. Someone real to believe in, so that the promise she'd made to her mother could be kept in good faith.

The sound of a car idling up ahead caught her attention, and she slowed down, instinct warning her to be cautious. It was a Lincoln Town Car with black-tinted windows, and the exhaust from its tailpipe curled around its metal body, creating a ghostly fog that caught the glow from the streetlights and reflected it.

As she came even with the car, the back passenger window rolled down, and, against her better judgment, Daniela stopped, curiosity getting the better of her. A pale white head appeared in the frame of the window, and Daniela let out a low whistle, her nervousness giving over to relief as she realized that she knew the man.

“You scared me,” Daniela said leaning into the window. “What're you even doing here? I thought you were in New York?”

The man shook his head, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile.

“We heard things were afoot here, and the Greater Council decided it was time to send in the big dogs,” the man said, shrugging.

“And by big dogs, they mean you,” Daniela said, grinning back at him.

Other than Eleanora, Desmond Delay had been her mother's closest confidant, and Daniela trusted him implicitly. Though he wasn't a blood relative, he'd always treated Daniela and Marie-Faith like they were family—and Daniela often wondered if he'd been in love with her mother.

“Get in the car,” he said, gesturing for her to join him. “You must be freezing out there.”

He opened the door and scooted over so she could climb in beside him. He was right. It was much warmer in the car—especially after he shut the door and rolled up the window.

“Shall we take you home?” he asked.

“I'd appreciate that,” she said, and then leaned over and gave him a hug.

He felt fragile in her arms, and she realized it'd been six months since she'd last seen him.

At her mother's funeral.

And the intervening months had not been good to him.

“I've missed you,” she said as she pulled away from him.

“I've missed you, too,” he replied, and there was a rheumy redness to his sad gray eyes. One that hadn't been there before.

To her pleasure and surprise, she saw he still carried the walking stick she'd had made for his sixtieth birthday. She'd chosen the silvery lion's head because to her, he would always be her lion, doing whatever was necessary to look after and protect her family.

The gift had been in recognition of this.

“You still use it,” she said, pleased.

“Of course,” he said, hoisting the cane in the air for her to see. “
You
gave it to me.”

Her heart was filled with love for the wily old man sitting beside her, and she took his hand, squeezing it in her own gloved one.

“There's so much to tell you, Desmond,” she said, finding herself, as always, intoxicated by his presence.

“Yes,” he said, pleasantly. “Tell me everything.”

S
tay busy, so you don't have to think.

This phrase repeated itself on a loop inside her head, her lips mindlessly reconstituting the hard consonants over and over again until the words ceased to have any meaning and only the intent of their message remained.

This was how she'd ended up in Eleanora's garden, elbow deep in soil, her black dress covered in mud. As the dusk had settled into night, she'd been forced to turn on all the outdoor lights to continue her work—and even when the moon had risen to its zenith, she was still out there in the dirt, lost in the thrill of physical labor.

Pausing for a moment to rub the gritty soil in between her fingers, she took a deep breath and pushed away any conscious thought before it could absorb her. She was in the middle of repotting some mint she'd found on Eleanora's deck. The springy green plant had outgrown its original clay pot, and Lyse had decided to place it into a larger container.

She held the plant's body in her hands, feeling its lifeblood—the soil—thick under her nails, the veinlike roots delicate and fragile between her fingers. If she dropped the plant or potted it incorrectly, it would die of shock, something her experience working in plant nurseries had taught her to avoid.

After a few minutes, mint plant tucked safely into its new home, she brushed a loose strand of black hair from her cheek and, ignoring the smudge of dirt on her nose, sat back on her heels. She rolled her neck in circles, the small motion releasing the tension in her shoulders built up after long hours of hunching over the dirt.

Hands still covered in humus, she stood up and stretched, exhaustion curling like a weed inside her. Her brain had been right. Going back to the earth had been exactly what she needed. She yawned and wished she were already in bed, covers up to her chin, a warm glass of milk on the side table—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft
thwack
of something firm slamming into the base of her skull. She fell forward onto her knees, pain blossoming in her head. Without her even having to shut her eyes, a growing blackness stretched out before her, and she skipped off into inky black oblivion.

*   *   *

Wake up, I said. Wake up now.

The sound was like a sawmill chipping away at her skull. She realized the voice had been goading her awake for a while now, pushing her back to consciousness with the persistence of its words. She tried to open her eyes—and realized they were already open. There was just nothing to see because she was somewhere dark.

Get up, Lyse. Push at the door with your back. It's time to get yourself out of here.

The voice was insistent—would not take no for an answer, even when she nodded her head and the motion jarred her brain, causing her to gasp out in pain.

“Leave me alone,” she said, as nausea roiled her stomach in waves. “I don't wanna.”

Get the hell up, or you're going to die.

The panic in the voice brought Lyse around, and she swallowed hard, her mouth sandpaper dry. She lifted her arms—or tried to lift them, rather—and unwittingly discovered how narrow her prison was.

Coffin narrow,
she thought as fat teardrops coursed down her cheeks, slipping off the slope of her chin and pooling in the dip of her collarbone. At least she knew she was standing upright, or the tears would've been switchbacking toward her ears—

Tears . . . ?
Her conscious brain had finally processed the fact she was crying—and not just tears, but sobs that came from deep in her belly, shaking her body like earthquakes.

Why am I crying?
she asked herself.

She had no ready answer. Her head hurt, a dark ache that throbbed with every pulse of her heart, but it was more than just physical pain. Something had sliced through the flesh and sinew of her chest to pierce the quick of her heart.

The voice.

It couldn't be real. It was a figment of her distressed mind, an old-school survival instinct from her primitive lizard brain.

Get out, Lyse. Save yourself.

She knew Eleanora's voice like she knew her own. She wasn't sure how it was possible, but somehow Eleanora was speaking to her from beyond the grave.

“Eleanora?” Lyse whispered.

No time for chitchat,
Eleanora said.
Time is slipping away from us. You have to hurry.

It was like a punch to her solar plexus.

“Where are you? Are you alive or dead? Eleanora . . . ?” The words came out in a rush.

They went unanswered.

Instead, it felt as though a blanket of calming warmth settled across the top of her skull, its arrival extinguishing the pain in her head. But the warmth didn't stop there. It trickled down to the rest of her body, enveloping Lyse and giving her back energy she hadn't realized she'd lost.

Time to go.

The voice was inside her head now, a part of her.

She raised her hands to her waist and gently turned them over, so her palms were pressing against the cold metal in front of her.

Push.

She did as the voice asked, taking all her new energy and channeling it toward escape. She pushed with her hands, pressing her back against the other side, using the wall in front of her for leverage. She strained, gritting her teeth, and heard a faint
pop
as the metal behind her gave way. She fell backward, arms pinwheeling as she tried to keep her balance. She did not succeed. Her head slammed into the concrete, stars blooming like daisies in front of her eyes.

She rolled over, hands scrabbling at the chilly cement floor as she raised herself onto her knees. She gave thanks for the ice-blue emergency light above the door in front of her—otherwise, she would've been entirely in darkness—and looked around the room, her eyes adjusting to the low light.

The room was small and square, no bigger than the interior of a car. There were three rusted metal lockers on the wall behind her, and up until a few seconds earlier, she'd been trapped inside the middle one. There was only one exit: the riveted metal door sitting below the emergency light.

“I'm gonna try the door,” Lyse said out loud—even though she had no idea if Eleanora was really there or just a figment of her imagination.

She dragged herself to her feet, her head beginning to throb again. The original warmth she'd felt inside the locker was dissipating fast. She grasped the door handle and pulled, the heavy door gliding silently on its tracks, and she shivered, her black sheath dress providing zero protection from the cold.

She stepped through the doorway, the stink of dank rot filling her nostrils, and found herself in the middle of a long, abandoned tunnel. Up ahead, she could see another door, and she headed toward it, moving quickly to fight off the cold.

Hurry, he's coming.

The voice again, but this time it was not inside her head.

“Eleanora?” Lyse said.

Just hurry!

It was darker at this end of the tunnel, away from the blue light spilling out of the tiny room, and it took Lyse a few seconds of frantic search for her hands to find the door handle.

Go, Lyse. Go!

She pulled on the handle, throwing all her strength into the action, and the door slid back with a
creak
. A burst of fresh air hit her in the face, and she was outside in the middle of a stand of trees, scrambling up an incline leading away from the door.

She hit the top of the hill and began to run—though she had no idea where she was going—the urgency in Eleanora's voice driving her forward. She cut through a dense swath of trees, the moon lighting her way, but came to an abrupt stop just before she stepped off the edge of a short cliff, one that would've dropped her out onto a massive freeway. Out of breath, she stood there uncertainly, listening to the rush of cars speeding below her.

She didn't know where she was or where she was supposed to go. She stared down at the cars, her nose itching from the stench of car exhaust, and was amazed that even at this late hour, so many travelers were making their way through Los Angeles. At least, she hoped she was still in Los Angeles.

“Shit,” she said, beginning to feel overwhelmed—and then, like a beacon in the night, she saw a forest-green road sign sitting high above the 101 freeway, an arrow pointing down to the Echo Park exit ramp.

She relaxed when she realized she was less than a ten-minute walk from Eleanora's house.

Leaving the roar of the freeway behind her, she headed back the way she'd come, jogging through the trees. She passed the door she'd just escaped through and paused. From the abandoned air of the place, she doubted anyone—not even the highway maintenance crews—used the tunnel anymore, and unless you knew to look for it, it was so well hidden within the underbrush that once closed, it would be almost invisible to the human eye.

No one would've ever found my body,
she realized.
Not once whoever put me there came back to finish the job.

Hurry, hurry,
the voice—Eleanora's voice—cried.

Lyse took off running again. It didn't take her long to hit the chin-high chain-link fence that separated the sidewalk of Bellevue Avenue from the wooded area bordering the freeway. She grabbed the metal top rail and pulled herself over the fence, adrenaline coursing through her body as she hit the sidewalk and kept going.

The street was empty. She could still hear the freeway traffic behind her, but it was getting fainter. Up ahead, she could see the bright lights of Echo Park Lake. She crossed the street, ignoring the
Don't Walk
sign, and jogged toward the park. From there, it would be a straight shot up Echo Park Avenue to Eleanora's bungalow.

Maybe I shouldn't go home,
she thought. Whoever had kidnapped her was bold. They'd plucked her right out of Eleanora's front yard, so maybe going to Dev's place, where there'd be lots of people, would be the better choice. Besides, it was close to the lake and would be easiest to get to.

Run, Lyse!

Eleanora's voice cut through her thoughts—and Lyse looked up just in time to see a figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt walking determinedly in her direction. She froze, not sure which way to turn. The figure was getting closer, speeding up now that it realized she was aware of it.

Go to the Lady of the Lake!

Lyse did as she was told, veering off the sidewalk and cutting across the grassy slope leading down to the water. Picking up speed, she circumvented a garbage can that was in her way, but before she could commend herself on her fast reaction time, the thick grass under her feet abruptly gave way to asphalt, and she almost went flying. Luckily, she managed to stay upright, and without missing a beat, she turned toward the path that would take her to the Lady of the Lake, the art deco statue that held court over the east end of Echo Park Lake.

She followed the curve of the walking path, able to run much faster now that she was on level ground. She glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to discover that the hooded figure was not following her. She eased up on her speed, slowing down to a jog in order to catch her breath.

To her left, she passed the darkened boathouse. Adorable in daylight, the little squat building with the red-tiled roof gave off an eerie vibe now that it was empty for the night. She increased her speed again, not wanting to linger in its shadow.

Lyse!

Eleanora's anguished voice filled her head, but not before she felt two gloved hands wrap themselves around her neck.

“No!” Lyse cried as her legs were kicked out from underneath her, and she collapsed onto her knees in the middle of the walking path.

In the darkness, she couldn't see the man's face, but she knew it was the hooded figure she'd seen up on the sidewalk—and there was something familiar about him, too. A smell, a feeling, a sense . . . She wasn't sure what gave him away, but she knew she'd met him before.

Not wanting to get trapped here under his control, she did the only thing she could think of that might set her free. She balled her left hand into a fist and punched her attacker in the crotch as hard as she could manage.

Bull's-eye. The man howled, enraged, and released her. Lyse didn't squander the opportunity. She crawled to her feet and took off, racing into the darkness. Pushing aside the mortal pain she'd inflicted on him, the man went charging after her.

He was faster than Lyse, and she had to zigzag back toward the east end of the lake to steer clear of his grasp. But he was dogged, matching her every move until, finally, he was close enough to shove her from the side and knock her to the ground. She rolled out of his reach and belly-crawled away, but he got hold of her ankle and yanked her back toward him.

“Leave me alone,” Lyse cried, kicking out at his face with her other foot.

Luck was with her, and she heard a
crunch
as her shoe connected with the soft cartilage of her attacker's nose. He yelped but didn't release her.