Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
“The Twilight effect” can be a dangerous phenomenon for teenage girls. Edward Cullen is mysterious, devastatingly beautiful, charming, and intelligent, and on top of that he could be called a “bad boy” in that he is dangerously close to sucking Bella’s blood at all times. Is falling in love with this story healthy for teens? As a fan of the books myself, I give a resounding YES!—with one important caveat. The story is fiction, girls! Edward does not exist in real life. Unrealistic, excessively romantic expectations in relationships will only lead to disappointment. And trouble. Read your books. See your movies. Dream. But keep your heads out of the clouds. If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.
She was on her knees.
She’d refused to choose either one of his absurd themes, but that didn’t seem to matter. He’d chosen for her, without the courtesy of divulging the assignment (judging by the arrangement, she was leaning toward misery). Set up in a chair, a throne of sorts, he was now directing her to crawl.
“Keep your head up,” he said. “Your eyes are to be on me at all times.”
She began to move. The leg irons made terrible scraping noises against the hardwood floor. Her head throbbed and her nose had begun to drip, a steady trickle running over the duct tape and off her chin. All the while the Swiss Army knife whispered to her. “Hush,” she murmured, “be patient.”
Stalling, she slowed her pace, fearful of what awaited her once she reached his feet.
“Look at me!”
Her head jerked up. She tried to look without seeing. She was almost there. And then she was.
“Kneel.”
She obeyed, raising herself eye-level with his chest.
“Give me your hands.”
She placed them in his lap. He rotated them palms up and stared. Suddenly he seized her left hand, crushing it savagely against his lips as he inhaled the scent of her skin. His eyes fluttered, then closed.
In the next instant she was fumbling beneath her outstretched arm, fingers plunging deep but coming up empty. The knife slipped farther down and she cried out in anguish. His eyes flew open. Flustered, she attempted to replace her right hand smoothly on his thigh, but he was onto her.
Seconds ticked by. At last, he cast both hands away in disgust. “Turn around.”
She remained still, feigning confusion. His face darkened. Seizing her by the shoulders, he spun her, smashing her face-first into the floor. A scream caught in the back of her throat. And then he was on his feet, towering over her, grabbing a handful of hair, which he used to jerk her upright. “I think you heard me.” His hands began to pat her down roughly, determinedly.
“What have we here?” she heard him say as he forced the little friend from its hiding place. “Aren’t you a clever one, stealing my boyhood treasure to use against me?” He crouched down next to her and tapped the knife on the floor, inches from her face. “I had been leaning toward an alternate scenario, but now that you’ve introduced this, I think we should include this little fellow in our plans. He brings back such fond memories…”
All fight had left her. In the background the scream of heavy metal played on, effectively adding another dimension to her misery.
There was a brush of cool air as he rose and stepped over her. His voice thundered from a new location. “Get up!”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her body refused to move.
“Simon says get up!” he repeated. Footsteps echoed, followed by the heel of his boot, cuffing her savagely over the ear.
Slowly she forced herself to obey. She was dizzy, near faint from the pain, unable to stagger to her feet without first trembling on all fours. Once up she deflated immediately, stumbling against his chest like the boxer on his last round.
He twirled a quarter turn with her and flattened her against the wall. “Don’t move,” he said, shimmying her against the dark panels as if she might stick there like a piece of Velcro. And then he disappeared.
She hung in a stupor, gazing vacantly out the window. The snow had finally stopped. A full moon lit up the clearing around the cabin, causing the whitewashed landscape to glisten against the emerald backdrop of majestic pines. So bright was the landscape that it appeared to glow, taking on a surreal cast. She wondered if the final blow to her head had triggered a string of hallucinations.
All at once the weight of her body was far too much for her legs to handle, and they began to buckle. Gradually she melted toward the floor and the fairytale scene on the other side of her nightmare faded. But not before the strangest image appeared in the window: a face—not just any face, a face she’d traced many times with the tips of fingers, every angle and crevice stowed away in her mind and heart—pressing itself up against the glass between two cupped hands, soft Irish eyes in a fierce squint.
Declan backed away from the window and frowned. What was that? Although the room was dimly lit, he’d made out a bed, a dresser. And something else. A silhouette in white, human, directly opposite the window. Slight, sagging. Visible one moment, gone the next.
The creak and decisive thud of a door dragged him back to the present. He looked up to see Nathan approaching, then freezing in his tracks as he too heard the sound. The two raced for the trees, crouching down in the brush and peering out toward the front of the cabin.
At long last they spied him as he rounded the corner. Despite the cold, he was dressed in short sleeves, jeans, no jacket. He moved quickly, his eyes darting in all directions. Suddenly he stopped, running his fingers through his hair, appearing to be deep in thought. His pale skin stood out against the five o’clock shadow that crept across his square jaw.
Nathan nudged Declan with his elbow. “Where’s the crutch, man?”
Declan squinted. Yes, where was the crutch? This guy obviously had no handicap. On the contrary, he looked pumped up, juiced, wired…totally freaked out, like he had just polished off a few lines of cocaine.
They watched him stumble forward into motion once again. He moved right past them and around the rear of the cabin.
Declan turned to comment, but in less than a few seconds Frenchie was back again, trotting and looping his head back and forth, talking animatedly as if in the midst of a disagreement with an invisible friend. Swinging loosely in his hand was a long-handled axe. The bizarre spectacle was fleeting, for within seconds he had disappeared from view and the creak of the door could be heard once more, accompanied by the quick blast of exceptionally loud music.
The boys rose as one, staring at the cabin in silence.
Declan was the first to speak. “Why’s he bringing the axe inside?”
Nathan contemplated the riddle. “The dude’s not right,” he said at last.
That about summed it up, Declan thought, and a queasy feeling washed over him. He turned to face Nathan. “She’s in there.”
Nathan’s head snapped back. “You saw her?”
The image revisited Declan and her silhouette glowed in a ghostly light. What if she was already dead? His mind latched on to the possibility and ran with it. It was too late; after everything he and Nathan had gone through, they’d arrived at the precise moment her soul departed her body. A shiver rippled through him. He gathered his collar tightly about his neck, following this up with a quick sign of the cross.
“Let’s move,” he said, his voice hoarse but determined. “Time to go inside.”
With the unexpected surfacing of the Swiss Army knife, his plans had changed. A new craving gripped him, body and soul. A craving to cut. Slice. Dice. Chop. To break the skin and watch as life itself poured out. It was a curious thing, life. So cunning and adaptable, and yet so fragile. He didn’t want to rush things, however. He would begin with a mere trickle. A dribble here, a sputter there. Then gradually increase the flow. He began to salivate.
Entering the cabin, he made a pit stop at the old chest, grabbing the last bottle of beer and his pack of cigarettes. What was a show without refresh
ments?
In the bedroom he found her slumped on the floor, virtually lifeless already. And he felt a surge of disappointment. Where was that spunk she’d demonstrated earlier? He’d have to enliven her somehow. A few methods came to mind.
Crossing to the dresser, he set aside the axe and patted his pockets absently. Now where was his lighter? At once he recalled placing the two items together, the lighter and the Swiss Army knife. Had he carried them outside? No, he thought…
Suddenly, warily, he eyed the girl, head bowed, hands tucked conveniently behind her back—a bit too conveniently, he mused—and he took a step toward her. In a surprisingly quick and nimble move, she leapt to her feet and charged, managing to catch him completely off guard. There followed an unfortunate lag between mind and body, and the quick spin move he’d envisioned using to dodge the attack fell short. Too late, it became apparent the steady downing of beers had significantly dulled his reflexes. The feathery, lithe body sprung upon him with ease, and he yelped in agony as a searing hot pain erupted on his left side. The sensation served to expel all remaining traces of sluggishness, and in a fit of rage his hands clamped around her slender waist, lifting her up like a toy and hurling her through the air.
He paused to inspect the damage, grimacing with both pain and outrage. The wound was small but deep, and he debated whether or not to take the time to clean it.
An odd sound interrupted his thoughts. Returning his attention to the girl, his jaw dropped in disbelief as he found her square in the middle of the bed, in the process of setting it on fire. The threadbare sheet caught swiftly. Gathering the makeshift torch in her arms, she attempted to fling the thing in his direction, then scrambled to the head of the bed, where she set to work on the pillows.
So. It seemed she would not disappoint him after all.
It took minimal effort to extinguish her frantic little fire-starting party. The blaze he smothered easily with the aid of the heavy bedspread. And due to an abundance of flame-retardant chemicals, the pillows refused to ignite but rather smoldered instead, emitting small puffs of toxic fumes.
Chaos quelled, he approached the bed, where the girl sat shaking and sullen in the far corner.
“Nicely done,” he congratulated her. “I’m impressed. But I’m afraid you’ve broken the rules…Rose.” He circled the end of the bed, slinking along, a seasoned predator. “You moved without my permission. I never said Simon Says.” He came to rest beside her, and before she could prepare, pulled her roughly to her feet. In silence he brought the blade up to her throat, resting the tip on the soft flesh under her chin. Cradling her neck with his free hand, he drew her to him, their lips so close they nearly touched. “And, as everybody knows,” he whispered, “you break the rules…you pay the price.”
The boys were greeted by screams and wails as they made their silent entrance into the cabin.
It sucks you in and spits you out
The power of the flesh is what it’s about
Passion a poison fells the weak like a sword
Heed my warning
Love is mourning
Douse the lights, cut the cord…
“Hey!” Nathan shouted in Declan’s ear. “Awesome music! I gotta get me a copy of this CD.” But behind the bravado there was uncertainty in his eyes. They had entered enemy turf. An unfamiliar and unwelcoming place. Not to mention they were about to come face to face with a deranged man wielding an axe.
Keeping to the wall, nerves taut, they moved slowly. Straight ahead, the living room appeared deserted, the remains of a fire dying in the fireplace. Two large speakers sat on either side and were the source of the deafening noise that filled every inch of the place. Beyond this they could see the kitchen, dark and empty.
To the left a short hallway branched off in an L shape toward the back. Declan guessed Vivien was in one of the rooms back there. He glanced at Nathan and pointed, indicating they should move in that direction. Nathan nodded, but after a step or two stopped abruptly and grabbed Declan’s arm. “Hold up. The guy’s got an axe, remember?” he said. “I’m not going in there empty-handed.”
Declan nodded slowly. Good thinking. Not that he wanted this to turn into a Rambo-style massacre or anything. But to go in there with no means of defending themselves would be sheer stupidity. Retracing their steps, they each made off in the direction of the kitchen, evidently inspired by the same idea: what kitchen didn’t have knives?
They found two, dull and slightly rusted, but agreed these would do the trick if need be. Properly armed, they resumed their silent trek toward the rear of the cabin.
Halfway along, Nathan stopped, looking uncertain. “What the hell is that smell?” he said, covering his nose with his arm.
Declan frowned. A caustic haze hovered overhead, trapped in the narrow confines of the hallway. The smell was disconcerting and served only to intensify Declan’s unease as he continued to prowl forward.
All at once he froze, sensing company. Signaling for Nathan to hold his position, he advanced the final few paces until he could peer around the edge of the doorframe.
Chilling as his suspicions had been, he was unprepared for the scene that unfolded before him. The room was poorly lit, but right away he could see they were both in there. Christophe stood with his back to the door. A small figure stood facing him, her body pinned against the side of the bed.
Declan gravitated forward and a hiss of breath escaped as he took in the shackled ankles, the taped mouth. From the short distance he could see the tremor in her face, skin glistening with tears. The monster held her firmly in place.
The urge to leap onto his back and snap his neck with a quick twist consumed him. Yet, instinct warned him to move cautiously. One more soundless step brought him farther inside, offering a different vantage point. And that’s when he saw it: the glint of metal. The knife, primed to slit her throat.
The blade was knocking, waiting for permission to enter. As much as she’d tried to prepare herself for the pain, she’d finally lost all remnants of control. It was coming, horrible and excruciating pain, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her body shook with a violent force. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With her mouth taped shut she was finding it difficult to breathe, and she held out hope that at any minute she might lose consciousness and thus escape this madness.
Out of the corner of her eye she sensed movement. Her gaze flickered. Just inside the doorway she saw an impossible sight. She blinked several times, but the image remained. This time she knew it was real. As impossible as it was, he was here. Declan had found her. Their eyes met. He put a finger to his lips. She didn’t dare move.
The next instant produced an explosion of noise and confusion. She screwed her eyes shut, too afraid to watch. The claw that clutched her neck fell away and, free to move, she somersaulted backward onto the bed, irons and all, curling into a tight ball. Shouts echoed around her and a second, oddly familiar voice joined the pandemonium. Amidst the scuttle, the sound of a heavy object crashing to the floor arrested her pounding heart midbeat and she shrank back even farther, flattening her body against the wall at the head of the bed.
Grunts, strains, and the sickening thud of bodies colliding—the sounds came at her from all directions. A curse rose above the rumble and someone yelled, “Watch out!”
Through trembling fingers she stole a peek, caught between the urge to hide and the urge to see. Below the bed, Declan and Christophe writhed on the floor, the toppled dresser beside them while Nathan—Nathan?—worked to get in a few swift kicks when the opportunity presented itself. A deep red smear appeared beneath the pair as they rolled this way and that.
But it was nearly impossible to see where the blood was coming from. Their positions reversed themselves in a matter of seconds. Now it was Christophe on top, pinning Declan to the floor, grinding his knee into Declan’s chest. A moment later Christophe lunged to the side, groping frantically for something just out of reach. At last he ca
me away victorious, a crazed look in his eyes. In his hand was an axe.
She tried to scream, but the sound died miserably on her lips. She tore the tape from her mouth and a shrill blast of hysteria escaped. When next she looked, the three figures had managed to separate. They now stood panting and glaring at each other.
“Drop the axe, you twisted fuck,” Declan said between gasps. “It’s over. We called the cops.”
“They’ll be here any minute now,” Nathan added.
Christophe coughed and spat onto the floor. He bent forward, hands on knees, chest heaving. “Is that right?” When he’d caught his breath, he stood glowering. “I’ll take my chances.”
Nathan glanced quickly at Declan and broke into a sputter of nervous laughter. “What’s this?” he said. “Fucking Frenchie’s not even French!”
Declan accepted the news without comment. “Two against one,” Declan said a moment later, aiming for the voice of reason. “You really want to take that chance?” He waited. “The odds aren’t in your favor.”
The forewarning brought a thin smile to Christophe’s lips. “So it would seem. But the truth is, you’ve come here under false pretenses.”
Declan’s eyes shifted, looking past Christophe to Vivien.
Christophe nodded smugly. “That’s right. Your girlfriend’s nothing but a liar.” He paused, testing the waters as his gaze scanned his audience.
The allegation hung in the air and was followed by dead silence. “She’s a gifted actress, wouldn’t you agree? The picture of innocence.” Christophe smiled. “And yet…not.”
Declan stood speechless, the muscles in his jaw working furiously.
“Is it finally penetrating that thick skull of yours?” Christophe snickered, watching the emotional struggle with obvious pleasure. “You can’t honestly tell me you never had a clue. You could even say it was clear the moment you first saw us together.” He shook his head empathetically. “I understand your hesitation, however. Cowardice afflicts the best of us from time to time. A proud, good-looking guy like you would hardly want to advertise the fact that he’s been played.”
“If anyone’s been—”
“And I have to say, I feel badly,” Christophe said, raising a quick hand to silence any objections. “No, no, I really do, for the truth can be a cruel beast when it catches you napping. But tell me how it is that I know everything about her? How the pain of her parents’ divorce has left her scarred and distrustful. How, ever since the death of her brother, she’s been consumed by guilt. How giving up her music—which, by the way, she’s found once again, thanks to me—left a hole deep in her soul which nothing could fill. All these things she shared with me, but kept from you.” He raised his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Lies are like weeds: unearth one and up pops another.” Ever so slowly, his gaze slid from Declan to the crumpled figure on the bed. “This is who you’re prepared to die for?”
Declan’s face was sealed in an unreadable expression. His gaze darted once more in Vivien’s direction but never quite made it, as if the price of meeting her eye was too great.
Naturally she’d heard everything. And the treachery penetrated her skin, slicing far deeper than any Swiss Army knife ever could. She wanted to cry out that this wasn’t true. It wasn’t! But then again, it wasn’t wholly untrue, either. She felt dizzy, weak, incapable of playing her part in this madness for one second longer. But there was nowhere to hide.
The silence seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Then at last she heard Declan speak. “This is bullshit. We’re not going anywhere.”
Christophe laughed outright, throwing his head back. “I love it!” he barked. “The steady rock, yes! Her knight in shining armor, waiting in the wings to wipe the floor after she’s gone and made a good mess. Look at her!” The boys followed his command despite themselves. “Wretched little thing! All along she never had the common decency to give you her trust. If she had, well…” He shrugged, letting the thought speak for itself.
But he was on roll now, unstoppable. “Come on, man, that doesn’t bother you?” He advanced a shadow of a step toward Declan. “Everything you had, built on a lie?” His eyes blazed, head bobbling unsteadily atop his neck. “And here she told me,” he went on, ducking toward him with an air of confidentiality, “that lies are the one thing you can’t stomach.”
Vivien’s head snapped up, an expression of horror on her face. Christophe’s hand flew to his mouth as if he’d just made an unforgivable slip. Yet his acting skills left much to be desired, for the depths of his eyes showed nothing but glee.
“Please forgive me, Rose,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow. “Someone had to tell him.”
Her obvious distress had the unintended effect of causing Declan to drop his guard, the lapse lasting only a fraction of a second, yet long enough for the killer to make his move. Charging forward, Christophe swung the axe in a wide arc. Declan twisted sideways, dodging the blow, but a hair too late as the axe grazed his left thigh. With a grunt of surprise, he stumbled back against the wall.
Unleashing a string of curses, Nathan went on the attack, wielding the kitchen knife like a madman, attempting to slice any piece of Christophe he could reach. In contrast, Christophe remained eerily composed. Quick and calculated, his knee flew up directly into Nathan’s groin. As Nathan crumpled forward Christophe grabbed the back of his head, smashing his face into the handle of the axe. Blood splattered. Nathan sank to his knees, his only weapon spinning wildly across the floor.
In the next instant, Declan had spun to grapple Christophe from behind. Christophe tried in vain to claw at Declan’s eyes, but Declan was squeezing with all his might, choking him. Christophe sputtered, thrusting his weight backward, trapping Declan against the wall. Declan squeezed harder. He seized Christophe’s arm, smashing his hand repeatedly against the wall, aiming to break his hold on the axe. Christophe snarled, gasping for air, the whites of his eyes bulging.
Vivien stood cowering, her eyes glued to the blade in terror.
Breaking free of Declan’s grasp, Christophe turned, winding up for a deadly blow. But his retreat had taken him one step too far. His footing lost, he stumbled backward over the corner of the toppled dresser to land flat on his back, a mere foot away from where Vivien stood.
Their eyes met. Christophe began a frantic scramble in an effort to reverse his vulnerable position. But she was ready this time. Underneath the terror the fighter had remained, scooping up the tiny pocketknife, unnoticed, as the battle raged on. Now she had him where she wanted. With a cry of anguish, she raised her arm and sank the knife deep into his throat.
At once the room plunged into silence.
How long she stayed immobile, stricken by the horror of her actions, she couldn’t be sure, but soon she became aware that the sobs she was hearing were her own.
She’d done it. She’d killed him.
She looked up to find Declan beside her. He laid a cautious hand on her arm. “Are you…all right?” he said, his voice shaky.
She nodded, edging away, distancing herself from the body.
Nathan appeared, forearm pressed to nose. Blood soaked his sleeve. He gave Declan a nudge. “Wait. You’d better check him.”
Declan hesitated, then bent forward and turned an ear. He straightened with a frown and laid the limp arm out before him, placing his fingers on the inner wrist. “I feel a pulse, I think,” he said after a minute. “He’s still alive.”
The three eyed each other in silence.
Vivien finally spoke, “Let’s just go.” She looked wildly from the body to the boys and back to the body again. “The police will be here any minute now, right? You said so. Let them handle him.”
Declan and Nathan shared a look, but said nothing.
Vivien stared back at them, her expression panicked. “I heard you. I heard you say it.”
“Vivien,” Declan said, trying to impart a sense of calm. “We said that to rattle the guy. We tried to call again once we got her
e but…” He stopped, shaking his head.
“No one’s coming.” Her face began to twitch, then to slowly lose shape so that her mouth had trouble forming words. “No one’s coming. No one is going to help me?” Her voice rose higher and higher. She stumbled back another step. “You don’t understand. I have to…I have to get out of here.” She began to move toward the door, but the flood of tears impeded her vision and she tripped on the chain at her feet, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Sobs racked her body. “Take these off!” she screamed, slamming the irons against the wood. “Somebody help me!”
Declan scanned the room in agitation, hoping beyond all reason he might find the miniature key dangling from a set of neatly labeled hooks: truck, cabin, shed, leg irons. In exasperation he crossed the room in three giant strides and scooped her up, much like a parent quelling a temper tantrum. Hoisting her over his shoulder, he called out: “Let’s go. We’re leaving. Now.” His voice sounded firm but frayed on the edges, as if the smallest of snags could send him over the brink.
“Dude, what?” Nathan said, glaring at the motionless figure on the bed and standing his ground.
Declan turned, angry. “He’s not our problem anymore. She’s been through enough, don’t you think?” He began to move. “With any luck we should get reception once we reach the car.”
As they exited the cabin, he readjusted her trembling body, cradling her in his arms. “Grab a shovel,” he called out behind him. “We’re gonna have to dig our way out.”
Her eyes remained closed as they trudged up the long, snow-covered drive, the wind finding its way through Declan’s arms, through the flimsy white slip, to her skin, chilling her to the bone. Her teeth began to chatter. The pain in the back of her head pulsed in time with the bumping rhythm of their climb. Despite all of this, she felt calmer now that she was out of that dreadful cabin.
She heard Declan curse and opened her eyes to see his face set in tight grimace. He looked down at her, trying to pass it off with a smile that crumpled before achieving much success. “I should have brought a blanket. You’re freezing. Fuck!” The echo snapped back at them in the frigid air. “This is a disaster.” He tilted his head back, gazing at the branches above, as if beseeching them for help.
“It’s OK. I’m not that cold.”
The absurdity of her statement only served to quicken his pace.
By the time they reached the Saab, Nathan was already hard at work trying to put a dent in the wall of snow that encased the tires. “I tried again,” he said. “No go. We’ll have to call from the main road.”
Declan nodded dismally, expecting no less. “Go,” he told him. “I’ll take care of the car.” He set her down on her feet and opened the door. “Get in. You need to lie down.”
She took a step and wobbled. The evergreens surrounding her quivered in succession.
Declan grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Careful,” he urged, easing her onto the backseat.
She curled up on her side and attempted a weak smile. Quickly Declan slipped out of his jacket and laid it over her body. He remained hunched in the open door, staring at her, his face creased with worry. A full minute passed before he worked up the courage to speak. “He didn’t—” Abruptly he stopped.
She tried to come to his aid, but before she could, he finished.
“Touch you?”
An uncontrollable urge to laugh seized her. The question was absurd. Oh, he’d touched her all right. Maybe not in the way Declan was thinking, but he’d gotten to her. She was stained. Violated. Shattered into a million pieces. Everything that mattered broken beyond repair. She stared at his beautiful face, committing it to memory. He would never look at her this way again, full of concern and tenderness. The damage had been done.
“It’s nothing. He hit me,” she replied, a feeble gesture to the back of her head.
He moved onto the seat next to her, closing the door behind him to shut out the cold. “Let me see.” Snaking his arm beneath her, he raised her up and cautiously parted her hair, studying the wound. “I don’t know. I wish there was better light.” Gently he helped her back down. “Do you feel…different?”
Another ridiculous question. She couldn’t stop shaking. Her brain rattled around in her head. “I don’t know.”
He reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingers, as if testing the reality of the situation himself. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
She nodded, clinging to the conviction in his voice.
He faced the door, preparing to go. “I need to get the car out,” he told her. “I need to get you to a hospital.”
She acknowledged this with a mumble through chattering teeth and waited. But he made no further effort to leave.
At last he turned to her once more, his face full of anguish. “I’m just—I was losing my mind, looking for you,” he said, his voice buckling under the weight of the whole ordeal. His lips parted again, something urgent stalled at the tip of his tongue. “You are worth fighting for. You know that, don’t you?”
His words seized her, yanking her from the fog, thawing the slush-like blood in her veins. What was he saying? He did love her? After all? Her body moved to him. “Declan…I—”
“Don’t!” His gaze broke free, sliding to the floor. “I mean, I’m sorry…I don’t think I can do this right now.”
She fell back as if slapped, squeezing her eyes shut and curling into a tight ball. From high to low in an instant. There was a ringing in her ears. Her heart thumped away. Pointlessly.
It wasn’t going to happen. It was too late.
“Just go,” she said. “It’s OK.”
He acknowledged her statement with a single nod. Still he stayed and the silence ticked on.
“Who is Rose?” His voice was faint but precise. She flinched, then risked a glance at him. He looked drawn, his mouth set in a queasy grimace.
And what could she say? The request went beyond the simple inquiry. It was in fact the defining question of their relationship. Implied within was suggestion of treachery, of malice. She’d permitted Rose to thrive, while the thing that truly mattered withered. She could do nothing but confess her guilt. She sat up weakly, her eyes downcast. “I know.”
The lamest response ever. But what else could she offer? In retrospect, her behavior was a complete mystery. Something she never would have dreamed herself capable of.
And no explanation, no matter how heartfelt, could erase what she’d done to them. To say she’d made a mistake was nothing short of insulting. Not only had she made a mistake, she’d magnified it tenfold and nearly killed them all.
She swayed slightly and her mind drifted, laying out the sad facts at his feet. Christophe, she would begin, I thought he was somebody else. He said all the right things. Saw pieces of me that no one else did—like how empty I was without my music. He seemed so interested. In me! How crazy is that? She’d tell him how all her life, she’d never had that (enough of it, apparently). She’d needed it, the way he made her feel…
But what about me? Declan would ask. What about us? His face would fall. Hadn’t he given her that too?
Yes! she’d jump in. Of course you did. You did! The worst part is—Ugh!—I wanted it. I wanted it so bad I took it from you. And him. Shame engulfed her. She was coming off like someone familiar. Someone she knew—oh!
At once she saw with clarity that she was no better than Alan Allen himself, and the thought made her gag. She covered her mouth and coughed several times, desperate to be rid of the taste. The effort she’d made to distance herself, to be everything her parents were not—all this was for nothing, for in the process, she’d lost sight of who she really was. In the end, all she had left were the traits she despised: lying and plotting like her father; clinging to the past and refusing to change like her mother. The truth was agonizing.
I tried to break free, she’d tell him, plead with him.
But had she tried hard enough?
The scene played on. I’m tr
ying, he would tell her, his look pained, I’m trying to wrap my head around this. It’s just, I’m feeling more than a little overwhelmed at the moment.
A nervous bark would spring from her lips: Ha! Totally understandable, she would rush, as she scrambled for control. Maybe if she just kept talking, she could delay the inevitable. Stop him from disappearing out that door.
“Vivien?” The sound of her own name gave her a start.
She forced herself to look at him and was immediately confused. No trace of revulsion claimed his gaze. No look of utter and complete disgust. Why wasn’t he shouting at her? Hurling insults? Had he not heard anything she’d said? She was desperate for him to hate her, to just go on and get it over with. She’d been hurting him for far too long.
But something wasn’t right. Suddenly she was unsure if she’d spoken any of her thoughts out loud. What was it he’d asked, at the very beginning?
Who is Rose?
“I know,” she answered (again?) She tried to say it louder, to own his disappointment, so to speak, but her voice came out flat, already defeated. “And I know that you’re…you’re upset.”
“Upset,” he repeated, his face folding into a deep frown. “I don’t. Think. You understand.”
She sucked in a breath, alarmed by the slow, calculated force behind his words. He sat deadly still and she had the sense of eerie calm that precedes a natural disaster. “Declan, I—”
“No, no…we can call it that, if you like. Upset.” This time he said the word mockingly, his upper lip curling into a sneer. Something was bubbling to the surface. Something that was causing him to break into a cold sweat. The snow outside the car windows lent his skin a ghastly sheen; he was unearthly, a spook in a wax museum. Closing his eyes, he attempted a calming breath, but when finally he spoke, his voice wavered. “You don’t understand. It’s taking everything I have not to run back down there and finish him off. I have this terrible hatred inside of me. I want to take his fucking axe and…and—” Her look of shock registered on his face and he checked himself. “I’d do it.” His eyes had gone dark. “I nearly did.”
Silence descended upon them. As she watched, his strength seemed to fizzle, his body crumpling like a dead leaf, the pieces falling away through her fingers. She wanted to take him in her arms, assume all his pain—pain that she alone had caused—but was afraid to touch him, afraid he would push her away.
“I can’t stand it,” he went on miserably. “That that freak ever had the chance to get to you. If you’d only told me…I could have…” He broke off, suddenly reinvigorated by pure revulsion. “I screwed up! Don’t you see? I’m telling you I could feel it the whole time—the way he looked at you. The way he…put his hands all over you. Like you belonged to him.” He shook the vision away. “And I did nothing. I sat on my ass like a coward, ignoring my instincts. Just like he said. I could have stopped this. I could have stopped everything.”
Her mouth hung open as her mind tried to play catch-up. He was the one feeling guilty? Him?
“That’s what I can’t handle.” His words were ice. He froze her with his pain. Turning his face away, he went on, “It’s killing me every time I look at you. How close did you actually come to losing your life? Seconds!” he answered for her, his voice tight, stretched beyond it capabilities.
“No—Declan,” she protested. He’d assumed all of the guilt and hoisted it onto his back. But guilt was too heavy a burden; it would crush him just as it had her. Both were in desperate need of forgiveness.
Despite her protests, he seemed not to hear her. They were chasing each other in a mad figure eight. Round and round they went, yet no matter what was said, nothing was resolved. Not only were they failing miserably to understand each other, their words somehow backfired, causing each further pain. Her bad luck had turned infectious, her personal black cloud migrating from her to him, sucking oxygen from his spark until it sputtered and died.
But that wasn’t how love was supposed to work. And she loved him. She truly did. She would never feel this way about anyone else. Never ever.
Unlike Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan and Isolde, no insurmountable obstacles stood in their way. No feuding families. No magic potions. No Christophe, not anymore. And although it had nearly happened, they didn’t need to die to be together.
All her life she’d longed for this, had lain sleepless, her heart growling like an empty stomach. In the end the only thing holding her back was herself, her fears and insecurities. The time had come to open up and set them free.
She raised her head and their eyes locked. Declan appeared feverish, slightly crazed. And she wondered if she looked the same: unhinged, unwell, burning up inside. The heat had arrived in the form of desire. And it came upon her suddenly, without warning. A faint drumming in her head, gaining strength until the sound drowned out all else. Her desire was a rogue wave, an earthquake, a force to be reckoned with. Here. Now. Of all times and places, she wanted him…needed him…
Words were no longer necessary. He pulled her to him and they set upon each other in fierce desperation. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, her face, her throat, slipping through tangles of hair to clutch the back of her neck, the heat of his palms burning her skin. Their mouths fumbled, seeking contact that was anything but gentle. He stole her breath and filled her with his own. His grip tightened. A shudder ran through her. Sensing her arousal, he abandoned her neck to paw away the jacket that covered her. His fingers roamed, gliding over white satin to follow the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, building a hypnotic rhythm as he murmured her name and rocked her against him.
At long last, with extreme effort, he pulled away. “This is crazy!” he panted, his voice in obvious distress. His gaze fell to the slip, which lay in a puddle below the seat, the stays broken. “We’ve lost our minds....”
She knew him so well. Knew precisely what he was thinking: the clock was ticking; what exactly were they doing? Things of great importance beckoned. Things that required action, this very instant! He was the responsible one, his eyes pleaded. He had let her down once; he would not do it again.
He eased her off of his lap and back onto the seat, then covered her once again, zipping his jacket all the way up to her chin.
“I have to go now,” he said, grasping her hands in his own.
She nodded silently, a lump gathering in the back of her throat. After a moment she spoke. “Declan…I’m sorry.” Tears spilled over and down her cheeks. He brushed them away for her, then bowed his head to meet hers. “I’m so, so sorry,” she choked. “It was never your fault. How could you ever let me down? Please stop thinking that. You have to know my faith in you was there the whole time.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
When she opened her eyes he was staring at her. The sound of their breath filled the silence, pulling in and moving out in unison.
At last he smiled and said, “It’s OK. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t come with any instructions.”
She laughed weakly.
He continued to study her with care. “You know, I gotta say you look like crap,” he said, causing her to frown in surprise. “Hey, you told me to let you know when you did, remember? And right now, you definitely look like crap.”
She ducked her head under his chin, resting against his chest and took the insult with pleasure. Who needed good looks? Her glow came from within.
Twenty-Seven