CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

There were eleven graves in the small cemetery.

The first six names meant nothing to me. I noted them, in case they turned up in our investigations. Then I hit number seven.

Given the date, it was actually the last stone set in the cemetery: 1970. The date of birth was 1901. And the name? Isolde Carew.

The Carew house. My great-great-grandmother’s house. Her first name had been Glenys. Welsh, like her granddaughter, Daere. I didn’t need to look up Isolde to be pretty sure it came from Wales, too.

“Liv?”

“I think . . .” I brushed my hands over the stone. “This one might have been a relative of—”

The gravestone dropped into the earth, and I tumbled headfirst, falling through darkness. I hit something hard and sharp that cut into my knees. Hands scooped me up.

“Ouch,” a man’s voice said. “That must have hurt.”

“Are you all right, baby?” A woman’s voice now.

I looked to see them towering above me. A dark-haired man and a woman with lighter hair, somewhere between brown and blond, her bright red lips pursed with concern as she squeezed my bare leg.

I know that face. I’ve seen it. Or some version of it. Older, much older . . .

“Better put her down, John. She’s getting too big to carry.”

The man lowered me to the ground and patted my head, telling me to watch my step. As I turned, the first thing I saw were stairs. Concrete stairs leading up to a massive door.

I know that door.

The mental hospital. I looked down the street and saw hulking sedans from the sixties. The buildings were in ill repair, some of the doors boarded over. The grounds were halfheartedly kept, with weeds already poking through the pavement. Mother Nature starting a tentative takeover, seeing if anyone cared to oppose her.

“It doesn’t look very nice, does it, baby?” the woman said. “It used to have flowers and pretty lawns. I hate the thought of Aunt Isolde living here.”

Isolde. The gravestone.

“It won’t be much longer,” the man said.

A deep sigh from the woman. “I know.”

They led me up the stairs. I looked down at myself. Long dark hair lay straight over a miniskirted dress. Tiny, gleaming shoes. From what I could see, I wasn’t more than four.

The man reached for my hand and pushed open the door. When he did, my legs locked. I seemed to waver there, in control of the body and the mind. Then it was like falling into that grave. I stumbled and pitched forward, and this time, when I recovered, I was still there, still standing, but my thoughts had been pushed to a small corner of my brain, and hers had taken over, and all I could feel was absolute terror.

“Come on, baby,” the woman said. “I know you don’t like it here, but your aunt Isolde will be so happy to see you.”

“She doesn’t know me,” the girl whispered. “She doesn’t know anyone.”

A firm hand gripped my shoulder. “Of course she does. Now, none of that.” The man bent and whispered in my ear. “This is important to Mommy, Pams. Do it for her. Please.”

Pams.

I could no longer move the girl of my own volition, but I could see the woman out of the corner of my eye. See her face, soft and pretty and worried.

I know that face.

Grandma.

A stream of memories shot back, of a kind, quiet woman in a long skirt. Grandma Jean. She’d called the man John. That was my grandfather’s name, though he’d died before I was born. John Bowen. Daere Jean Carew. Which made me . . .

Pams.

Pamela.

My mother.

They led me into the hospital, and it felt as if I was me again, that gut reaction when I caught those antiseptic medical smells. But the smell was faint and the feeling was more terror than hatred, and I knew it wasn’t my reaction, it was hers, Pamela’s. Her shoes felt made of lead and her legs ached, but she forced them to move.

Do it for Mommy. Do it for Mommy.

But I hate it. Hate, hate, hate it!

My grandfather checked in at the front desk. Pamela stood at his side, clutching his hand. She couldn’t see over the counter, but I could imagine it, having seen the ruins. After a few words to the nurse, he led Pamela down equally familiar corridors, so dingy and worn they didn’t seem far removed from the ones I remembered in the abandoned version.

We climbed the stairs and walked into a huge ward. I remembered this, too. Even the beds were as I recalled them, two rows of metal cots. Only a few were in use, the rest exactly as I’d seen them, bare and rusting.

“It’s so terrible,” my grandmother whispered. “I can’t believe they’ve let it go like this.”

“Funding cutbacks,” my grandfather said. “I hear it’ll close soon. They haven’t taken new patients in over a year.”

He led Pamela to the last occupied bed. A young nurse stood beside it, holding a wrinkled hand. When the nurse turned and smiled, her face seemed to ripple. Beneath her eyes, light poured, bright light. Her skin glowed with it. Her doughy features sharpened, pocked skin smoothing, teeth straightening, and inside Pamela, I stared, thinking how beautiful she was, but the thought formed only in that corner of my mind that was still my own, and the overwhelming thought instead was hate.

Get away from Aunt Isolde. Don’t smile at me. Don’t pretend you care. It’s your fault. All your fault. I hate you. Hate you all so much.

Pamela gripped her father’s hand tighter, as if to keep from launching herself at the woman, and the hate roiling through her was unlike anything I’d felt before. Black fire, consuming everything it touched.

“How’s she doing today?” my grandfather asked.

At the side of the high bed, Pamela couldn’t see more than that wizened hand, and I mentally swallowed, remembering a hand just like it, on another hospital bed, when I’d gone to visit Pamela after her attack. My first vision.

“She’s comfortable,” the young nurse said. “That’s all we can hope for at this point.”

“Is it . . . ?” my grandmother asked.

“She’ll be free soon,” the nurse murmured. “Her passing will be comfortable. I’m sure of it.” The nurse squeezed the old woman’s hand. “She’s had such a hard life. It’ll be better soon.”

As I listened to her voice, I heard only genuine compassion. I saw it in her eyes, too. But Pamela didn’t. The hatred scorched through her.

Your fault. It’s your fault. You did this to her.

The nurse was fae—I was certain of that. Whether Pamela knew it or not, she could see though the mask and knew it as a mask, and it filled her not with fear but with a loathing I wouldn’t have thought possible for a girl her age. One that chilled me to my core.

“Come see your aunt,” my grandfather said.

His hands went around Pamela, and she squirmed, her hate liquefying into fear, making her protest and her father whisper, “Please, Pamela. For Mommy.”

He lifted her up, and I saw the figure in the bed, and I recoiled, a scream exploding in the corner of Pamela’s mind that was still mine, a scream that mirrored her own, the one screeching through her head as we both saw the figure.

It was the old woman from the hospital. So thin she seemed a skeleton wearing skin and a nightgown. Her eyes were covered with a thick bandage, but I knew what I’d see if that bandage was removed. Empty sockets.

Hair fanned out over the bed. Gray hair streaked with dark, and when I saw it, I saw another woman here, in the hospital. A woman rising from the murky water of a deep tub. A woman straitjacketed in a chair. A woman with bloodied bandages over her eyes and a mouth with no tongue . . .

The nurse squeezed Isolde’s bird-thin arm and the old woman’s chin jerked, as if she was waking.

“Daere is here to see you,” the nurse said. “With John and little Pamela.”

Isolde’s mouth opened, and she made a sound. A garbled sound, like speech but not, and from where Pamela hung, in her father’s arms, I could see into her mouth, the stump of her tongue—

Pamela shrieked, her scream joining the one echoing through my head. She fought, and I seemed to fight with her, clawing and scratching, then hitting the floor and scrambling up and running as fast as Pamela’s small legs would take us, that scream still resounding in her head, all but drowning out the cries of her parents behind her.

Pamela turned down one corridor after another, zigging and zagging as the footfalls behind her grew distant, her parents missing her turns. Finally, she threw open a closet and flew in, slamming the door behind her and huddling in the dark, knees drawn up, gasping for breath as she shook uncontrollably.

Footsteps passed but kept going. Then the door creaked open and the nurse stood there, her body shimmering with light, features morphing. Pamela shrunk into the shadows, but the nurse only smiled and bent to the girl’s level.

“Scary, isn’t it?” she said in her soft voice. “Your poor auntie. She’s had a hard life, Pamela, but it will be over soon. She’ll be at peace, and, I hope, happy.”

“Liar.” Pamela spat the word, small body quaking with rage.

The woman backed up. “What—?”

“I know what you are. I see it. Behind your face. The glow.”

A pause, and the nurse gave a slow, sad smile. “Ah. So you see me, do you?”

Pamela nodded, and in a blink the nurse disappeared. In her place was something my brain couldn’t quite latch on to, the form ethereal, more glow than substance. I could make out a face, beautiful with sharp features and golden hair.

“Is that better, then?” the fae nurse said. “No disguises?”

She smiled, but the rage still whipped through Pamela.

“It’s your fault,” Pamela whispered. “What happened to her. She was tainted.”

“Tainted?” The nurse tilted her head. “That’s a big word for a little girl. Who told you that?”

“No one. I know. I just know.”

“I see.” The nurse crouched lower. “Then I won’t deny it, bychan. The fault was ours. In her blood. I wouldn’t call it a taint, but sometimes, when you’re different, your mind can’t quite manage it. Have you ever tried to hold a raw egg?”

Pamela squeezed herself tight, as if trying to block the words.

“It’s like that,” the nurse continued. “You can see us. You have memories. You know things you shouldn’t. And as little as you are, your mind is strong. It can hold those ideas tight, like a hard-boiled egg. But for some, like your poor auntie, it’s like trying to hold a raw egg. It slips and slides and oozes, and they try harder and harder to hold on, until they just can’t. Do you understand, bychan?”

“I understand that it’s your fault.”

The nurse sighed. “It was not me, specifically, and we did try to help—”

“Liar!”

Pamela flew at the nurse. She hit her and I kept going, tumbling out, falling into darkness again, and then . . .

I bolted upright, the vision gone.