STAIN (My Soul To Wake Book 1) (13 page)

“September 29, 1692.”

“That’s right. Exactly 300 years to the day before your birthday.”

I quickly do the math in my head. He’s right. 300 years.

“And do you remember what I told you about the number three? The Triad? The perfectly balanced number and its magical properties?”

He must have planned those parts of his story after he had seen my license, for it all to fit together like this.

“What are you saying, Will? That
I’m
the witch’s daughter? That Marcelle de les Songe was my mother? How could that even be possible?”

“I have to tell you the rest of the story for you to understand.”

~*~

He was calm as he spoke the words, relieved even, as he told the story.

“Malcolm found me soon after you were hanged. I was in the one place I could think to go. I was in the field. Your favorite place, the place we planned to meet after you were released. I was frantic. I had no reason to live. My greatest reason had just been stolen from me, and I couldn’t bear to live without you. I wanted to burn the judges’ houses down, to make them feel the pain they had inflicted on you, on me.

“They hanged you with no notice, in the middle of the night, right after I left you. I wasn’t there to protect you, to save you. I couldn’t live with that. I had my hunting knife in my hand but I hesitated to make the cut. I kept thinking I couldn’t spill blood over that field, to desecrate it like that. Malcolm convinced me to hand him my weapon and listen to him speak. He told me he was your father. He told me Marcelle was dead. He swayed me with his words, with his promise of a way we could be together again.”

“He used magic. He cast a charm for you to be reborn, to come back to me. He could ensure that I would be reborn with you, to be given another chance to find you. I swore loyalty to him, and in return, he said words to lure me into sleep. That sleep was a permanent one.”

I interrupt his story at the first loophole I can find. “If this is true, and I’m not saying I believe it is, how is it that you remember it and I don’t?”

“When a person dies tragically, horrifically even, something happens to them. It has an effect. A part of them, their essence, or soul as some call it, is separated from them. That’s what many people believe ghosts to be. The essence left behind after a person is taken in that kind of way.

“
Every language, every culture, has a legend or a folklore like this. I
t’
s something so powerful and essential for explaining the unknown, that it transcends barriers, lands, and seas. Religions have found ways to incorporate it.  I
t’
s woven into all of these things
.
”

“
I mean something so profound and universal
has
to have some truth to it. When a perso
n’
s essence is taken from them, it does something to the place, the actual physical place that it happened. It stains it. Tha
t’
s why places where terrible things have happened have a certain sense to them. A vibe to them. Those places are stained with the essence of those people who were robbed of it
.
”

“
If a person is reborn, whether through magic, or reincarnation like many old religions believe, they are missing that essence. But, it calls to them, lures them, begging to connect, to be whole
.
” He stops a moment and sighs.

“
I found my essence
.
” Will continues. The place where Malcolm did what he did to ensure my rebirth. I found my stai
n…
and when I did, I remembered everything. Liza found her stain, she remembers. When you find yours, your essence will be one with you again and yo
u’
ll remember. Yo
u’
ll remember everything. Our love, your power, yo
u’
ll remember it all
.
”

The mention of Liza in this is just too much
.“
What does Liza have to do with all of this
?
”

“
Sh
e’
s Malcol
m’
s daughter. The witc
h’
s daughter. Your siste
r…
sh
e’
s Elizabeth. I did
n’
t know sh
e’
d be here. When I went to sleep, she was still there, in 1692. But she found me, here, two years ago. She told me she had uncovered the truth about Marcelle, about yo
u…
that she needed to ensure you two would be joined with your essence so you could move on
.
”

This is all too much.

“
Wait. Marcell
e’
s here, too? Where
?
”

“
I do
n’
t know. She has
n’
t been back here, not that I know of. Not that Liza knows
.
”

I sit in silence. He has an answer for everything.

“
Say something
,”
he begs.

The early morning light begins to filter through the darkness as the sun rises in the east.

“
I do
n’
t know what to say. I mean, tha
t’
s a lot to take in. What am I supposed to say
?
”

“
I can show you. The old hanging tree. The place where your essence was ripped from you. I can take you there. You can find your stain and know
I’
m right. We can be together again
.”
He attempts to earn my acceptance of his story.

Everything that
I’
ve seen, that
I’
ve heard, felt, dreamed these last few days is colliding. How can his story have been planned so perfectly to match with my dreams, my nightmares, Mamia Magda! The skeptic in me believes the most plausible explanation. H
e’
s a grieving widower, desperate to reclaim his wife in some way.

But his eye
s…
his smile. I look into both of these as my eyes adjust to the growing dawn. He believes this. With every fiber of his being, he believes this. I know i
t’
s crazy, dangerous even, but I want to believe him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“
What do you mean yo
u’
re going to spend the day with him again
?”
Nina whines from her perch atop of the sturdy wooden bureau.

“
I promised
I’
d go somewhere with him
.”
I towel dry my damp hair as I feel the guilt from knowing
I’
m disappointing them.

Court rummages through the suitcase lying open on the nearby table.

“
How did he like the waxing? Or more importantly, how did
you
like how
he
liked the waxing
?
” She selects a cream-colored peasant style cropped blouse and holds it out for her inspection
.“
H
e’
s her
first
Nina. Sh
e’
s gonna take every moment she can with him. Hell, you did the same thing when you lost your v-card
.
”

“I’
m not blowing you guys off
,
” I argue.

Court laughs as she hands me the outfit sh
e’
s chosen.
“
Please tell me yo
u’
re blowing
something
, Leah
.
”

They both laugh at my expense. I grab the shirt and throw it on.

“
I
t’
s more important than just a booty call. I do
n’
t know if I can see him after today. H
e’
s got some serious issues, I think
.
”

“
Do
n’
t we all
?
” Nina jumps down from her elevated seat, turning to stop briefly in front of the mirror to wipe at her recently applied makeup.

Tha
t’
s a good question.
Do
n’
t we all
. Are
n’
t we all a little screwed up? Do
n’
t we all have a touch of madness that shapes us? I have my dreams, my nightmares. Will claims them to be memories. I do
n’
t know what to believe anymore.

He claims he can prove it to me, can find a way to make me remember. I do
n’
t know what I want. If what he says is true, then ther
e’
s a reason for everything, an explanation. A destiny that w
e’
re fulfilling.

If h
e’
s wrong, then I know I cannot torture him by pretending.
I’
ll have to move on, even though I know that will most likely wreck me.

How can this be?
I’
ve known him less than a week and the thought of being without him makes me want to curl up and disappear. Maybe that means something. Maybe 300 years was long enough to be without him.

~*~

The streets are lined with tourists, buzzing in and out of the local shops. The magic shops, the souvenir stands, the attraction
s
… the
y’
re all busy with happy customers making purchases.

W
e’
ve been walking for at least twenty minutes, weaving our way through the growing crowd. The sexual attraction sizzles between the two of us. With every step we take, the sway of our walking bodies, the possibility of accidentally touching sends a thrill through me. His loose fingers dangle, twitching. Mine are pin still, anxiety coursing through them.
Oh God!
I clench my lips together.

A street artist has his easel set up, palette of colored paints displayed on a round wooden board in hand.

“
Come on
,
” Will grabs my hand and leads.

The man sees potential customers approaching and begins his sales pitch
.“
Ten dollars, folks. For just ten dollars
I’
ll paint the picture in your mind
.
”

I look to Will, rolling my eyes. I thought
I’
d seen everything, but leave it to Salem to have a psychic artist.

“
Here
!
” Will calls to him to reserve the next picture before another of the curious bystanders jumps in.

He works the worn leather of his wallet to expose the inner heap of bills. He hands a few to the man.

“
For my lady. Paint her picture, please
.
” He smiles to me as he procures my artwork.

I gaze at him as he laughs behind his eyes at successfully putting me on the spot. The street entertainer safely secures his profit into a small tackle box under his seat and sets to work, retrieving a wood handled paintbrush from a nearby container of cloudy water.

He wiggles the long brush, cleaning off any residual paint.

“
Le
t’
s see
.”
The man sets his eyes on me.
“
Hmm. I see many things. Some dark, imposing. Some old. But none of those are it
.
”

He dips his brush in some blue paint and begins to set his mark on the paper before him. It occurs to me that h
e’
ll paint one of the terrifying scenes that haunts me. He pauses, lifts his eyes from his creation and shakes his head at me, smiling, before furiously returning to his project.

Colors begin to swirl, still a mystery to me, with no true shapes showing themselves just yet. A crowd grows, bystanders curious as to the picture of my mind.
I’
m growing embarrassed at the attention. This guy will probably draw some generic painting of something he thinks a girl my age would think about.

“
So, what are the chances he draws a picture of me
?
” Will whispers in my ear, his breath tickling me.

I pinch his side.
“
Shh. Let the
artiste
work his magic
.
”

Several moments and about twenty more onlookers later, he sets down his art tools and declares h
e’
s finished. The crowd behind him erupts into applause. Will and I step forward from behind the easel to witness the masterpiece.

A crisp blue sky is painted along the top of the makeshift canvas. Below that wispy cloud-filled heaven, an expansive pasture of wild flowers, brightly colored with green strokes and patches throughout.

I
t’
s breathtaking. Every single stem seems to stand out among the sea of blossoms. I turn to the artist as he begins to clean up.

“
Thank you so much. I love it. I
t’
s absolutely beautiful. What is it
?
”
I’
m truly in awe of his talents.

The man presses on the clips on each side of his easel, releasing the painting.
“
I
t’
s the scene in your mind that begged most to be freed. There were others, as you know. But, this one is special
.
”

“
It is
?
” I take the painting he offers to me, wondering if he is somehow connected to Will. Some acquaintance perhaps that was given a prearranged assignment to paint.

“
It is
.
” Will answers my question.

The next customer steps forth to hire the street artist. Attention has been transferred to him, and I pass the torch, gracefully stepping down from the center of attention.

“
Thank you. I love it
.
” I hold the wet piece of art carefully as not to smudge the drying paint.
“
Is this what I think it is
?
” I ask Will.

He smiles that beautifully radiant smile that takes over the moment and becomes the focus of my attention. I
t’
s not just that i
t’
s breathtakingly handsom
e
… i
t’
s that i
t’
s somehow completely genuine. Honest. Trustworthy.

He nods his head, the smile never wavering.
“
It is
.
” He leans in and presses his mouth to my the corner of my forehead, his lips idly resting on the skin easiest for him to reach as we walk side-by-side down the cobblestone street.

W
e’
re near the water, I can feel it somehow. This small city is by no means big and
I’
ve been here a few days now, so
I’
ve gathered some sense of direction when it comes to the winding streets and buildings, though
I’
ve never been in this part. Every fiber of my being tells me that
I’
m near the water, even if I ca
n’
t see the blue from over the shops blocking my view.

I can feel the weight of the tide pulling, the salt from the air flowing in with each passing gust of wind. I close my eyes and breathe it in.
I’
d grown up by the water back home in Maryland, but this feels different. It relaxes me. It calms me. It brings peace to my thoughts.

“
Wil
l
… I know according to you, this place is from all those years ago, but-- is it still here? Does it still exist or has it been ruined
?
”

Surprisingly,
I’
m afraid to know the answer. I have no connection to this field of flowers other than what
I’
ve been told, but the fleeting thought of it being lost is almost painful to me in a way.

He guides us through a small alleyway.
“
It is. Some developers tried to snatch it up a few decades ago but the water table is too high. It would have made building on it a nightmare
.
”

The short hallway between two buildings lets us out into a parking area that sits centered in the main shopping district. Many cars fill the spaces, but I notice Wil
l’
s from where we had left it earlier.

He presses the button on his black key fob control and the doors unlock. He helps me up into the cab, taking the damp canvas from me and securing it in the back seat. In the silence of the truck, before h
e’
s made his way to his side of the truck, I begin to wonder about the field. Could it look like the artis
t’
s rendition? Was that how it looked 300 years ago? Would it look different today?

“
Ready
?”
he asks.
“I’
ve stalled long enough, wanting to give you time to see this place some more before everything changes. I do
n’
t think yo
u’
ll quite look at all this the same afte
r….
”

He starts the engine, rolling us in reverse from the parked spot.

His words ring true. I definitely wo
n’
t be looking at this place the same. I
t’
s impossible, whatever the outcome. Either it will be the onetime home that betrayed me and ended what should have been only the beginning of a long and happy life with the man I loved, or it will be the cruelest place in my memories where I had finally met the person who I feel in my gut I was meant to meet. Only to have him stuck in a place in his life in which he cannot move forward, a wife he ca
n’
t move on from.

“
Wait
,
” my objection surprises us both.
“
The field. Show me the field first
.
”

His surprised eyes wonder at my request.

“
I want to see it as if I were looking at it for the first time. With an untainted preconception of what it is
.
” The truck has stopped.
“
Please
,”
I plead with him.

Am I the one stalling now? Is this my way of putting off the inevitable?

“
Please
,
” I ask again.

~*~

“
I
t’
s this far out of town
?
” I ask.