TEN
Jack
I stomped out of the kitchen, mind seething.
I had lost my temper.
I did not usually lose my temper, as bad things tended to happen when I did. The last time fury had washed through me, I acted precipitously and ended up in my ghostly state.
But Chiara’s stubbornness was impossible. She was maddening and infuriating and reckless and . . . and . . .
Unbidden, part of a poem from the Roman poet, Catullus, sizzled through my brain:
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
Words Catullus wrote his mistress, Lesbia.
I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask.
I do not know, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.
That pretty much summed up the situation.
Chiara challenged and delighted and frustrated and made me so damn happy and so damn crazy all at the same time.
No wonder men had considered women to be witches in ages past. It felt like witchcraft, sometimes, how she kept me so unsettled.
I adored her stubbornness most of the time, but in this, she needed to seek some help.
I had spoken with Tennyson several times already this week, keeping him up-to-date on Chiara’s odd behavior. Her midnight stroll through the attic was the first time she had put herself in any real danger. But who knew what would happen next.
“She has had a minor problem with sleepwalking in the past,” Tennyson said about her episodes. “It will pass. We just need to keep an eye on her in the meantime.”
“And all the weird lightning references?” I asked.
Tennyson sighed. “We each have our demons, Jack.”
“Can you provide me with any insight? I’d like to help.”
“Uhm, I don’t want to trample on Chiara’s right to discuss this experience with you. It’s not entirely mine to share. But I can at least give you the bare facts, the information that is common knowledge.”
Tennyson had then laid it out for me.
I better understood now her reluctance to talk about it. But . . . how could she possibly think that I wouldn’t have found out? It wasn’t exactly a closely guarded secret.
Chiara’s refusal to discuss it with me rankled. It was only a matter of time before her sleepwalking hurt her. I was trying to help. Did she not want to talk to me because I was a ghost? Was that it? Was she ghostist?
Well . . . two could play at this avoidance game. I stomped down the hall, trying to decide which room I wanted to haunt.
She found me in the library. I sat in a club chair angled in front of the barren fireplace, hands clasped behind my head. The library was one of my favorite rooms in the villa. A bachelor sort of room with dark paneling, leather furniture and stacks of books behind glass-front shelves. It seemed like the kind of place I would retire to after a long day to enjoy a finger or two of good scotch.
If such things were possible.
“Alright, your bossy lordship. Let’s call a ceasefire. How’s about you talk?” She glared at me, foot tapping, jaw clenching and unclenching, nostrils flared. “You can touch things now? You can move them?”
I rotated my head toward her. “Ladies before gentlemen. Lightning,” I prompted.
More foot tapping. “I don’t talk about that.”
That was patently obvious.
I counted items on my fingers. “You’re sleepwalking. You’re putting yourself in danger. And now you’re littering this house with thunderbolts like you’re a Disney animator. I don’t see how talking about this will make things any worse.”
Silence hung between us.
I continued, “You’re standing there assuming I don’t know anything. But you have to know your brothers are not as reticent as you.”
Her face drained of color. “What are you saying?”
I played my trump card.
“I know.” I paused, letting the drama build. “I know why lightning haunts you.”
Chiara sank into an overstuffed reading chair beside me. All the life bled out of her. The fire, the spunk, the sass. My words had pulled the plug, leaving a Chiara-like shell behind.
Light washed her face from the window beside her. She turned her face toward it, staring out over the sunbaked summer countryside for a minute. Or two. Or twenty.
“Please, Chiara.” My voice hung with sincerity. “Please, talk to me. I promise I will hold it in confidence. I’ll be as silent as the grave.”
My attempt at ghost humor won me the tiniest of lip twitches. I counted it a victory.
She stirred, head swinging back to face me. “If you already know, why do you need me to say anything?” Bitterness laced her words.
“I know what Tennyson told me, but he kept to the basic facts. I want to hear it from you, personally. Not second hand. I feel I owe our friendship that much, at least.”
“Remind me to throttle Tennyson when I get a chance.”
“Not going to happen. Besides, I doubt your adorable, wee hands could do much damage.”
Silence hung.
We stared.
Tell me, my eyes said to her. Let it out. Burying painful things only forces them to fester. You will be better for shining some light into your soul.
She managed to hold my gaze for another moment before turning her head aside. As if she couldn’t face what she saw in my eyes. She swallowed. Looked left and then right. And then sucked in a deep breath.
Her voice the barest whisper. “My father committed suicide using lightning.”
And there it was. She surprised me, to be honest. Until it happened, I wasn’t sure she could actually say those words aloud. Her entire body hunched inward, protecting the pain inside.
I understood that pain. It was a kindred to my own. My heart ached for her.
“I am sorry,” I murmured, wanting more than anything to pull her into my arms. To offer her comfort. “I know what it is like to lose a father too soon.”
Granted, the same question I had remained—how did one commit suicide via lightning? But . . . baby steps.
“My own father died of a lung ailment. Pneumonia, most likely,” I continued. “What happened with yours?”
She folded her arms, but she did finally lift her gaze back to mine, her eyes an odd mix of pain and frustration. “I’m not going to take this conversation to such a dark place. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
“I can respect that. Know that I’m here if you ever change your mind.”
I waited.
She said nothing.
I tried a different tack. “Tell me about your dreams, Chiara. How do you think they relate to this?”
She sighed. A genuine sigh, not one of her signature, full-body, dramatic sighs. “I’m not sure, to be honest. They’re strange.”
“Does lightning feature in them?”
“Sometimes.”
“And other times?”
“It’s not significant.” She squirmed in her seat, refusing to meet my gaze. “Just . . . unrelated stuff.”
As far as revelations were concerned, that one lacked some punch.
“Stuff?” Something about her small hesitation made me curious.
“It’s not important.”
“Chiara.” A warning in my voice.
“Jaaaack.” She drawled out my name.
“Don’t make me push more things around.”
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. I felt absurdly proud of that small smile. That I could lighten her mood at a moment like this . . .
Her expression faded back into impassivity. “I would tell you if I thought it was significant.”
My eyes narrowed, studying her in the sunlit room. Something about her complexion . . . “Are you blushing?”
“Shut up.”
“You are blushing.” There was no other description for the pink cast flaring up her neck and cheeks. It was absolutely adorable.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
It hit me in a breathless flash. “It’s about me. Your dreams are about me.”
Her jaw hinged open, flapping soundlessly for a second. “No. No, they’re not. Why would you even think that?”
“You’re lying.” I could feel it in my nonexistent bones. She was dreaming about me.
“Not everything is about you, Jack.” She made a decidedly cute but very frustrated sound. “I think your over-grown, lordly head has a hard time remembering that.”
True, but I wasn’t wrong in this.
Emotion rushed through my chest. If my heart beat, it would have sped up. She was putting up a valiant fight, but Chiara liked me. You don’t dream blushing-dreams about someone you don’t like. Even if she hadn’t admitted liking me to herself, yet.
I smiled.
It might have been a rather male, smug sort of smile.
“Good grief.” She threw her hands up. “You’re going to be insufferable now.”
“Well . . . you did tell Candy White that I’m sexy, so this doesn’t come as a complete surprise.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I hate you.” Her words were harsh, but her tone lacked heat. She was more wistful than anything.
I chuckled. “I am not entirely sure that you do, Chiara mia.”
“You did not just call me that.”
“What? Chiara mia?”
It was a slight pun on cara mia—my dearest one.
She may have growled. A cute kitten sound.
“Moving on.” She went on the offensive. “How did you knock over my orange juice?” She made a beckoning motion with her hand. “And don’t you dare say, ‘by watching too many cat videos.’”
Damn. That had been my inspiration.
Fortunately for her, I wasn’t as reluctant to talk about this. “I’ve discovered that I can push myself into physicality if I concentrate.”
I proceeded to tell her about my newfound skill and its side effects.
Her brows drew down to a thundercloud once I was done. “How could you not have mentioned this? This is huge news, Jack!”
“So is the fact that you’re having sexy dreams about me. I would love to talk about that instead.”
Chiara made an adorable, growly noise. “You’re not distracting me.” She jabbed her finger my way, leaning forward. “The fact that you can make any part of you corporeal is critically important. That’s amazing! Show me.”
“Pardon?”
“Show me how it works. How do you make your finger physical?”
I studied her for a moment and then looked at her hand resting against the arm of her chair between us.
How often had I dreamed of touching her skin?
I lifted my own hand, bringing it over hers. She watched the movement, eyes riveted on my index finger.
I fixated on the differences between our hands. Mine was at least two of hers, large and strong with rangy knuckles and tanned skin, scars here and there from accidents over the years. I might have been an aristocrat, but I liked to get my hands dirty. I dug alongside my workers when on archaeological sites and had even been known to help with sheep shearing while still in England.
Her hand was Chiara in miniature: small, fine-boned, criss-crossed by dark blue veins. Her skin was smooth but tendons flexed under the surface, hinting at hidden strength.
Longing pounded through me. I wanted to hold her hand, caress it, sweep my thumb across the soft skin on her wrist—
Motivation.
Concentrating, I pushed my index finger fully into this world. Sensation shot up my arm, followed by searing pain. I refused to lose focus.
My finger hovered over her hand for the merest fraction of a second. And then I pressed my finger against the back of her hand.
Chiara gasped, flinching slightly but otherwise holding still.
Her skin was even softer than it looked. Pillowy. Silky smooth. Gloriously warm. My concentration nearly shattered from the shock of it.
So long. I had been so long without any physical human contact and to have the first be her . . .
We both stared at my finger, as if we had somehow created it together and it now held meaning outside of us.
Electricity zinged up my arm. Some small part of my brain screamed in amazement: You are touching her!
Agony pulsed through me, the pain licking flames of sensation. But somehow, the touch of her overcame it. Not even the fires of hell could hold me back. Unable to help myself, I dragged my finger down, down the back of her hand, running a fingertip over her knuckles and smoothing the skin between her fingers.
Chiara let out a shuddering breath. I could feel the gentle puffs of air from her lips on my solid skin.
I wanted more. To run my finger up her arm, draw it across her lips and sink my entire hand into her hair, tug her gently toward me—
Pain shattered my concentration, forcing me to let go of my finger. My fingertip went from entirely solid to the barest wisp of form in the blink of an eye.
Dizziness swirled and then righted itself.
Her shocked gaze met mine.
Had she felt it, too? Had my touch affected her as it had me?
The honesty in her brown eyes said that it had.
It was too much. Too strong a reminder of all that I had lost. Of everything that could never be.
That painful clenching grabbed the back of my throat—tears without being able to cry. I turned away and walked to the other side of the room, facing the wall, trying to find my emotional equilibrium.
Silence. Her rapid breathing filled the room.
“This . . . this gives us hope.” Her voice sounded from behind me.
Us.
She had said us. I knew she didn’t mean it in that way—us, she and I together—but my stupid, eager heart heard it that way.
There is hope for us.
That anguished longing swept me again.
More silence.
I didn’t trust myself to speak without breaking down entirely.
“Perhaps there is a solution for bringing the rest of your body into this world,” she continued.
I swallowed. Deep breath. Another moment for me to reel all my emotions back inside.
I turned back to face her. “I don’t know if it will ever progress that far, Chiara.” I cleared my throat, sternly telling myself to focus on the facts at hand. “The pain is incredibly intense, which makes it impossible to hold for long periods of time. Not to mention the fact that my corporeality bounces an equal distance into the shadow world afterwards.” I wiggled my almost invisible fingertip at her.
“But it does give us hope,” she repeated, unwittingly saying us again. “Hope is important. The world you inhabit isn’t one of stasis, no matter how it appears on the surface.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “You can alter your physical state. Scars can appear in reality and weird black stuff comes through them. It’s not all good news, but I find the possibility of change to be encouraging.”
Ah, clever. For at least the thousandth time, I pondered the irony of Chiara being so brilliant and insightful in some ways and still so immature and irrational in others.
But then, wasn’t everyone like that in their own way?
We spent the next hour rehashing our previous conversations about my status, scars in reality and Chucky-slime. My finger melted back into its normal transparent state and I managed to reclaim my emotional stability. The shadows in the room shifted. Chiara curled into her chair.
“Like we’ve said, the ancient Etruscans knew that the mirror was a gateway to the next world.” She was sitting cross-legged now, knees bouncing. “That much we know for sure. But now that you can make at least some part of you corporeal, that changes the whole dynamic. Let’s go over their myths regarding the shadow world again.”
I pursed my mouth, thinking through my studies at Eton and then Oxford. “I’m wondering if the better question might be: ‘What myths discuss someone escaping the shadow world and returning to the world of the living?’”
“Like Orpheus and Eurydice?”
“Precisely. Orpheus used his love of music to set Eurydice free from the underworld and Hades. Or he would have, if he hadn’t slipped up and looked to make sure she followed him, sending her back to the Underworld.”
Chiara tapped her lips. “Who else?”
I thought through more ancient myths. We discussed a couple more. Say what you will about Chiara, I adored how quick her mind was.
“There’s always the most classic myth of all—Hades and Persephone,” I said. “Hades kidnapped Persephone causing her mother, Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest, to go into mourning for her lost daughter, throwing the world into darkest winter. After searching for months, Demeter finally tracked Persephone to Hades’ underground realm. Demeter demanded her daughter’s release. Hades agreed, but as Persephone had eaten six pomegranate seeds while being held captive, Hades argued that part of her was now linked to the underworld—”
“And so Persephone had to stay half the year with Hades from that point onward,” Chiara finished for me. “Perhaps you just need to make yourself physical enough to eat something. Ground yourself in this world by ingesting something from it.”
The idea held a certain logic.
“Let me go grab some good chocolate.” Her eyes danced with excitement.
“Shouldn’t we be using pomegranate seeds?”
“I don’t think that the actual food is terribly important. But if you’re going to eat something for the first time in two hundred years, let’s make it amazing.”
Chiara raced from the room and returned a few seconds later with a box of decadent-looking chocolate truffles.
“How should we do this?” she asked.
“You mean, what is the lordly etiquette for ingesting chocolate while in a ghostly state? I think I may have missed that day of class.”
She grinned, silly and lopsided. “Lord School is turning out to be such a disappointment for me.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
I studied the glossy chocolate in her hand. In 1818, chocolate was routinely consumed as a beverage, but I had never tasted it in solid form as the process to create solidified chocolate wasn’t invented until 1875.
I had watched others eating hard chocolate for over a year now, wondering how the taste of chocolate differed as a solid. I struggled to imagine it. Most seemed to prefer it over hot chocolate, but would I do the same?
I stood up and moved off the expensive, hand-tufted Persian rug, placing myself near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Chiara came over to face me. As she was in bare feet, the top of her head didn’t even quite extend to my chin.
“Are you quite sure you can reach my mouth from down there?”
“Har, har. Pick on the short girl.”
“It is low hanging fruit.”
“Yeah, yeah, walked right into that one.” Her tone was bitter, but her smile said otherwise.
“Pun intended?”
“Stop stalling. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were nervous.”
I was nervous. What would happen? Besides, her mouth was temptingly close to mine. Why would I waste a corporeal mouth on eating chocolate when it could be put to much better use?
“Do you think you can make your mouth physical?” she continued, holding a small piece of chocolate close to my lips. In my defense, she did have to go up on her tiptoes a bit.
“Only one way to find out.” I fed all my concentration to my mouth, focusing on pushing just that part of my face into reality.
It felt sluggish. Like moving against impossibly thick taffy.
Chiara stared at my mouth, waiting in anticipation. She licked her own lips.
Suddenly, I wanted to be physical with agonizing torment. Touching her skin had awakened something desperate in me.
I wanted so badly to be real. To be capable of wooing this woman.
Love and hate.
I pushed harder. Pain splintered my head in a wave of anguished sensation. Fire and flames. My vision dimmed.
“You’re doing it, Jack!”
Something silky smooth and sweet popped into my mouth. Stunned, I bit down. The taste of chocolate exploded on my tongue.
Sweet and bitter with under notes of cherry and caramel. My eyes rolled back in my head.
The shock of taste . . . after years and years of nothing . . .
It was too much.
My concentration shattered.
My face reverberated back, the world spinning.
Dimly, I heard the plink of something hitting the stone floor beneath my feet. The chocolate, I supposed.
“Damn. That was so close!”
I stumbled backward, eyes still closed. Weakness washed over me.
“Jack? You okay?”
I managed a mumbled. “Of course.”
“You sure? You’re more ghostly than normal.”
“It’s probably just the rebound.” My voice sounded faint. I felt faint.
“Yeah. I can see what you mean by that. Your lips were fully present and now they have faded to be even more transparent than the rest of you. Again, are you okay?”
I nodded. “Just give me a few minutes.”
This rebound was worse than with my finger. Granted, I had never tried to push so much of me corporeal before.
Chiara said nothing for a while. I allowed my thoughts to float, giving my body time to recover. When I opened my eyes again, the shadows in the room had shifted.
I shook my head. “What time is it?”
“Mid-afternoon. You’ve been out of it for a while.”
Interesting. I had lost any sense of time passing.
“How are you feeling?”
I paused. “Is that worry in your voice?”
Her responding look could have peeled paint. “Of course it’s worry. You’ve been out of it for hours. I was terrified I had broken you somehow.”
“I thought you didn’t mind hurting me.”
Chiara crumpled. “Jack, you know I say things I don’t mean. My filters are the worst. Are you feeling okay?”
Mentally, I assessed my energy levels.
“I feel normal. No long-lasting damage.”
“Are you sure?” Chiara was nibbling her bottom lip. “Because I have another idea I want to try.”
She held up a sewing needle.
“You’re threatening me with a Chiara-sized dagger?”
Her eyes flared instantly to murderous. “Don’t make me regret apologizing and feeling bad about stabbing you with this.”
“Stabbing me?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Well, I suppose that is what one does with a dagger.”
“Ha-ha. Everyone’s a comedian. You’re hilarious.”
“Thank you. So why the needle?”
“The food was just resting in your mouth. Maybe whatever grounds you to this world needs to be actually in your body.”
I raised my eyebrow at the needle.
She mimed stabbing me with it.
“I’m not sure how I feel about this.”
“I personally feel stabby.” Her grin was a little too excited.
“Obviously.”
“I will allow you to choose where the needle goes, however.”
“So kind.”
“I thought so.”
I surveyed my body. A hint of weakness still lingered, but I had enough strength for this.
And if it worked . . .
Not much of my skin was visible outside my clothing. Just my hands and head.
Clearly I didn’t want to be stabbed in my head.
Grimacing, I held out my left hand, palm down.
“Hand it is.” Chiara’s grin morphed into maniacal.
“Should I be concerned over how much you seem to be enjoying this?”
“Probably. Now make that hand physical.”
Pulling in my concentration, I pushed my entire hand fully into the physical world.
The pain was blinding. Scorching heat and flame.
True to her word, Chiara stabbed my hand, the needle skewering me. A branding iron of red-hot agony.
I cried out, my concentration shattering. My hand rebounded.
The needle tumbled to the floor.
The memory of the pain lingered. Blackness washed over my eyes.
“Damn. I really thought that would work. So ancient myths don’t seem to be the answer,” Chiara’s voice came from nearby. My vision was still dark. “I wonder if fairy tales would make a difference?”
“Like what?” I mumbled, trying to force back the creeping fuzziness.
“I don’t know. Lock you away in a tower. Find a dragon to guard you.”
“Make me suffer through true love’s first kiss?”
Chiara laughed. A trilling noise that seemed to sound from down a long tunnel.
“Jack? Jack!” Her voice, so concerned. “What’s wrong? Talk to me!”
The world went black.