She repeats the tune, emphasizing the end of each verse. Her voice rising as she sings, “Rise—skies—too—depths—light—thing—
truth—being—it—grow—depth—soul—soul—soul—” repeating the last part again and again, her eyes moving over me, analyzing, observing, even though they appear to be sightless, as her gnarled, bumpy old hands lift before her—cupping, rising—her fingers slowly unfolding as a spray of ash spews forth from her palms.
Damen’s grip tightens, flashing her a harsh meaningful glare as he warns, “Stay back.” Maneuvering in front of me, when he adds,
“Stop right there. Don’t come any closer.” His voice level, sure, containing an underlying threat that’s impossible to miss.
But if she heard, she pays him no notice. Her feet keep moving, shuffling forward, while her eyes keep staring and her lips continue to utter the tune. Stopping just shy of us, poised right at the very edge of the perimeter—the place where the grass ends and the mud begins—her voice suddenly changing, lowering, when she says, “We’ve been waiting for you.” She bows low before me, bending with a surprising amount of agility and grace for someone so aged, so … antiquated.
“So you’ve said,” I reply, much to Damen’s dismay.
Don’t engage her! he mental y warns. Just follow my lead. I’ll get us out of here.
Words I’m sure she overheard when her gaze switches to him. The sun-bleached blue of her clumpy old irises practical y rol ing in their sockets when she says, “Damen.”
The sound of it causing him to stiffen, as he mental y and physical y prepares for just about anything—anything except what comes next.
“Damen. Augustus. Notte. Esposito. You’re the reason.” Her wispy hair lifts and twirls in a manifested breeze that swirls al around.
“And Adelina, the cure.” She presses her palms together as her gaze pleads with mine.
I glance between them, unable to decide which is more disturbing: the fact that she knows his name—his full name, including one I’ve never heard before, along with one pronounced in a way I’ve never heard before, or the way Damen’s face blanched and his body stil ed the moment she blamed him.
Not to mention, who the heck is Adelina?
But the replies that swirl through his mind die long before they can reach his lips, halted by the lilt of her voice, saying, “Eight. Eight.
Thirteen. Oh. Eight. It’s the key. The key that you need.”
I glance between the two of them, noting the way his eyes narrow, his jaw grinds, muttering a string of undecipherable words under his breath as he grips my hand tighter and attempts to heave us both out of the mud, away from her.
But despite his warning
me not to look back, I do anyway. Glancing over my shoulder and staring right into those rheumy old eyes, her skin so fragile, so translucent, it appears to be lit from within, her lips softly yielding as she sings, “Eight—eight—thirteen—oh—eight.
That’s the beginning. The beginning of the end. Only you can unlock it. Only you—you—you— Adelina…”
The words lingering, haunting, taunting—chasing us al the way out of Summerland.
Al the way back to the earth plane.
two
“We can’t just ignore it.” I turn, peering right at him, knowing I’m right just as sure as I know he won’t see it that way.
“Sure we can. In fact, I already am.” His words coming much gruffer than he intended, prompting the apology that soon blooms in his hand—a single red tulip with a curving green stem.
He offers it to me and I’m quick to receive it, bringing it to my nose, al owing its soft petals to brush against my lips as I inhale the barely perceptible scent he placed there for me. Watching as he paces the wide space between the bed and the window, his bare feet traversing the stone floors, to the plush rug, to the stone floors, and back. Aware of the conflict that plays in his head, knowing I need to make my case quickly before he has a chance to build one of his own.
“You can’t just turn your back on something because it’s weird, or foreign, or, in this case, grossly unpleasant. Damen, seriously, trust me when I say that I’m just as creeped out by her as you are. And yet, I refuse to believe that her finding us over and over again is some meaningless, random event. There’s no such thing as coincidence and you know it. She’s been trying to tel me something for weeks.
What with the song, and the pointing, and the…” My body twitches in an involuntary shudder I’d prefer he not see, prompting me to sink onto the bed and rub my hands over my arms, chasing the goose bumps away. “Anyway, it’s clear that she’s trying to tel us something, give us a clue of some kind. And, wel , I think we should at least try to determine what that might be—don’t you?” I pause, giving him a chance to respond, but al I get is the stubborn slant of his shoulders, the firm tilt of his head, and a long, lingering silence as he stares out the window with his back turned to me. The sight of it practical y begging me to add, “I mean, what could it hurt to try to figure it out? If she turns out to be as old and crazy and senile as you think, then, fine. Whatever. No harm done. It’s like, why bother worrying about a few days of wasted time when we’re staring down an eternity? Then again, if it turns out she’s not crazy, wel —”
Not getting a chance to finish before he turns, his face wearing an expression so dark and stormy I can’t help but flinch. “What could it hurt?” His mouth goes grim as his eyes fix on mine. “After al that we’ve been through—did you real y mean to ask that?”
I kick my toe against the rug, feeling far more serious than he realizes, far more serious than I’m prepared to let on. Instinctively knowing deep down inside that the scene we just witnessed bore way more meaning than he’d care to admit. The universe is not at al random. There’s a definite reason for everything. And I’ve no doubt in my heart, in my soul, that that seemingly crazy, blind old lady is offering a clue to something I real y need to know.
Though I have no idea how to convince Damen of that.