*SPOILER ALERT*! This story takes place AFTER Kissing Midnight, so please read Kissing Midnight first, or you'll spoil the ending for yourself! (KM buy links are in the side bar of this blog.) Thank you!
JESSE
Getting out of Saintly’s bed never feels like a good idea,
but leaving her on Valentine’s Day? That feels downright unnatural.
So I stall.
I snuggle in under the flowered comforter and watch her sleep. She looks so
beautiful with her long, dark hair tangled against her pillow, her face
peaceful. No nightmares at all last night. She says she sleeps better, now that
she sleeps with me, but I know the nightmares still come. It has only been
seven weeks since New Year’s Eve, after all – seven weeks since we destroyed
Devereaux Renard and sent the midnight girls into the light – and they have
been a good seven weeks, the best seven weeks of my life so far, but I know it
will take longer than that to really put the pain of the past behind us and (as
Dr. Sterling would say) “get closure”.
And that’s
what today is all about: closure. I kiss Saintly softly on the cheek. She
smiles in her sleep but doesn’t stir, which is good because, if she knew what I
was doing, she would definitely try to talk me out of it – or worse, insist on
going with me. Usually there’s nothing I like better than spending time with
Saint – Delia gives us crap all the time about being joined at the hip – but
this time I don’t want her along. This time I need to go it alone.
I manage to
sneak out of bed without waking her (not easy when you’re sharing a skinny
little dorm room bed!) and pull on my clothes. The jeans still feel too stiff –
one of the disadvantages of only having been a living human being for the last
seven weeks is all my clothes are too new – but the boots make my feel like I
could kick some ass, which is a good way to feel today, and the Fitzgarren
sweatshirt from the campus gift shop goes a long way towards making me blend
in. I start to grab my winter coat, too, but think better of it and pull on my
old denim jacket instead, the one I wore for twenty years as a ghost. Then I
push aside the sheet Saintly tacked up between our side of the room and
Delia’s, and I tiptoe out.
I’m shocked
to see Delia is already awake, sitting up in bed with her knees pulled up to
her chest, her fuzzy bunny slippers sticking out from under her nightgown.
“Hey,” I whisper, “Since when do you get up before the sun? On a Saturday, no
less!”
Her blue
eyes are full of worry. “I don’t know about this, Jess. What if something’s
whack?”
I sit down
on the bed beside her. “You’re a good friend, Deals.” It’s true. Some people
might freak if their best friend came out bisexual and fell in love with a
ghost, but Delia has really rolled with it. And she has been super
understanding about me sharing their little dorm room until the three of us can
find an apartment together this summer. So I hate to stress her out, but this
is something I have to do. “I think it will put Saintly’s mind at ease.”
“And yours,
right?” She twists one frayed blond pigtail around her fingers, studying me.
“This is important to you, isn’t it?”
I look
away. “Sure.” I don’t want to admit how much.
She nods seriously.
“Okay then. You have to do what you have to do.” She forces a smile. “It is
V-day, after all. Good day to take risks for love.”
“Too true.”
I glance back at the sheet behind me. I can just make out Saintly’s silhouette
on the bed. She won’t stay asleep much longer. “So, did you get it?”
“I said I
would, didn’t I?” She reaches under her bed and pulls out a hacksaw. It’s an
old one, and simple – just a curve of blue metal on one side and a long row of
rusty teeth on the other. It has THEATER DEPARTMENT written on it in sharpie.
“Perfect.”
She hands
it over. “You can feel the weather now, remember? You’ll freeze in that
jacket.”
I flip up
the collar like we used to in the 80’s. “It’s for good luck.”
“And the
cray-cray hair? Is that for luck?”
I reach up
and feel my short blond hair. It’s sticking up in ten directions. I always
forget I have to comb it, now that people can see me.
I grab a
striped beanie from the hook by the door and stuff it on my head. “Problem
solved.”
Delia rolls
her eyes. “Just promise you’ll be careful, okay?”
I give her
what I hope is a confident smile. “No worries. Just take care of Saint while
I’m gone.”
She smiles.
“When will you two be over the honeymoon stage?”
“Well…” I
pretend to think. “Considering it took me twenty years to find her, I’d
say…never?”
Delia
sighs. “Well at least someone is lucky in love.”
I hold up
the hacksaw like it’s Cupid’s bow and pretend to shoot Delia on my way to the
door. “Happy V-day, Deals.”
“Open the
door this time,” she whispers.
“Hey! I
only walked into it once! This being physical takes getting used to, you know?”
She gives a
sly glance in Saintly’s direction. “And yet, you seem to enjoy it.”
I flash her
a grin as I slip out the door, shutting it carefully behind me. Then I turn –
and nearly walk right into some guy. He has dark, curly hair and black rimmed
glasses, and his button-down shirt is buttoned all the way up.
“Oh, hey,”
I say, “Henry, right? From the theatre department?” I feel awkward. I’m still
not used to people being able to see me.
The guy
seems equally uncomfortable. “Yeah. Jesse, right? Delia’s room mate?”
“Yeah,” I
mumble, “Something like that.” I remember the hacksaw and shift it behind my
back.
He moves
something behind his back, too, but I still catch a glimpse: flowers.
I smile.
One of Delia’s many admirers. “Have a Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He blushes.
“Well, I hope to.”
I head off
down the hall. It’s quiet. Most people are still asleep – which is a good
thing, because there’s an RA on this floor who has already started giving me
suspicious looks, and seeing me walking around with a random hacksaw might not
help. Since I’m not actually a Fitzgarren student, I’m not exactly supposed to
live in the dorms – ironic, I know, since I’ve been here on this campus since
before that RA was born, but whatever. Sometimes being visible sucks.
But no one
sees me on my way out and Dr. Sterling’s car is right where he said he’d leave
it, the keys tucked under the floor mat. Good old Dr. Sterling. He understood
right away that this was a good idea, for Saintly’s mental health. Which, you
know, it is.
It’s also
the only Valentine’s present I can think of. I mean, I’ve thought of a lot of
them, but all the usual stuff just doesn’t seem like enough. What am I supposed
to say? “Happy Valentine’s Day to the girl who brought me back to life! Here, have
a box of chocolates”?
Nope. Just
not gonna cut it.
But at the
same time, all the big stuff seems too – well, too Dev. You might not think a
supernatural serial killer would be a tough act to follow, but, in the romance
department, Dev actually is. My girlfriend is coming off a relationship with a
dude who liked dinner at fancy restaurants and picnics under the stars – and
killing people. Which makes the big romantic gestures seem a little weird.
So, I’m
left with this.
And, if I
don’t pull it off, I’m left with nothing.
On that
cheery note, I start to drive.
At first
it’s kind of fun. Dr. Sterling’s sensible sedan isn’t exactly a sports car, and
I can’t risk driving fast enough to get pulled over (considering the fact that
my driver’s license is a tad bit out of date) but driving itself is still a
thrill. I can turn the wheel! Better yet, I can turn the radio dial! No more
waiting for someone else to change the crappy station. I put it on the “golden
oldies” and crank up the Melissa Etheridge. Heck, I even turn the windshield
wipers on, just because I can.
But the farther
into Maine I
get, the more worried I start to feel. The country outside my window is now
mostly woods. This would be a crappy place to break down. It’s not like my
friends could come and rescue me, considering the fact that they don’t even
have a car. And what if I can’t find the place? I only have Saintly’s
descriptions to go on, after all, and she didn’t exactly know she was giving me
directions. What if I never get there?
And what if
I do? Delia was right to worry. After all, Saintly said Antoinette was a
shape-shifting demon. What good would I be against something like that?
And right
now I have demons of my own to fight – the type that live inside my mind.
Retracing Saintly’s steps like this, I can’t help imagining her driving these
same roads with Dev. Did they sing along with the radio? Did he tell her a
certain song reminded him of her? Did she reach up and kiss him at this
stoplight? Did they stop at this scenic overlook to snap a picture of
themselves with the view?
And when
they got where they were going, what did they do then? Saintly has spared me
the details, but I’m sure they slept together. Just the thought of it makes me
grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
I’m being
ridiculous, of course. Sure, Saintly thought she loved him, but that was before
she unmasked him for what he really was. Besides, Dev is dead and gone, right?
Still, I can’t help feeling jealous, not only of the stuff that went on between
them, but of the fact that Dev could just whisk her away for a romantic
overnight like that, when I can barely take her out to Starbucks. I mean, I’m
alive now, but that’s about all I got. No money, no job, no car, no place…The
last time I relied on a girlfriend when I had nothing, the girl broke it off.
And we all
know how that ended.
Don’t think about it.
I suddenly wish I had never left Saintly this
morning. I want to be near her, to see the reassurance in her smile. This whole
thing was a fool’s errand, anyhow, and being out in the sticks is making me
sweat. The road has dwindled to just two lanes and the trees are pressing in on
either side, like they want to narrow it even more. After twenty years confined
to the college campus, the outside world feels threatening. It would be just
like me to miraculously survive my own death, only to run out of gas and get
queer-bushed in some little town.
Does stuff
like that still happen?
Maybe it
doesn’t any more.
But maybe
it does.
I start to
scan the road ahead for somewhere to turn around.
What I see
instead is an old lady in a bright red knit hat, walking a dachshund in a
matching red sweater.
Well, I think, she looks safe enough.
Cautiously,
I pull over and roll down the window. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m looking for a
restaurant called Por Toujours.” I feel ridiculous saying it. This doesn’t
exactly seem like the place for five-star French cuisine.
“Por
Toujours?” The woman’s thick Maine
accent warps the words. “Canadian folk?”
“It’s
French food, ma’am, and a bed and breakfast.”
The woman
laughs good naturedly. “There’s a place in town sells French toast, if that’s
what you’re after, but no B&Bs around here.” Her accent turns “here” to
“he-ah.”
I’m tempted
to just drop it, but I’ve come so far. “It’s a big white Victorian house by a
river. People put locks on the bridge –”
“Oh! The
bridge!” Her watery blue eyes light with recognition. “Goodness yes. I should
have figured, what with it being St. Valentine’s Day and all. But there’s no
place to eat around there.”
Well, maybe
the woman is confused, but I don’t want to keep her any longer. Her little dog
has started to shiver in his cute red coat. I ask her for directions and she
launches into them, pointing the way with a red mittened hand. At least the
place she’s describing sounds close, so I’ll know if it’s right soon enough.
“Thank you
for your help.”
She gives
me a toothless smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day! And good luck to you, young man!”
I don’t
bother to correct her. I just wave as I pull out.
The roads
are convoluted, but the old woman’s directions are true. Just ten minutes later
I find myself turning down a long driveway that’s just like Saintly described,
but the house at the end…
Well, it’s
a big white Victorian, alright, but it has clearly been abandoned for years.
The tower lilts drunkenly. The floorboards of the veranda are so warped they
ripple. The white paint is scabbing off in patches, revealing worn gray wood
underneath. The whole place makes me think of an elaborate wedding cake left to
mold. This can’t be the place Saintly meant, and yet…
Stranger
things have happened.
To me.
Recently.
I get out
of the car. There’s an odd feeling about the place, a feeling that makes the
hairs on the back of my head stand at attention. Yes, it’s partly the wind (and
Delia was right, I should have worn a real coat) but this cold goes deeper than
the February chill. It may seem weird for me to say I’m afraid of ghosts, but
let’s just say I’ve seen some ghosts worth being afraid of, and it suddenly
seems like a bad idea to have come here without Saintly. If I run into anything
dead, I can’t exactly send it into the light. A sensible voice at the back of
my mind says get back in the car.
And
yet…Somewhere nearby I can hear the steady rush of running water. In the breast
pocket of my jean jacket, just over my heart, Saintly’s Valentine’s present
feels heavy, like a promise. I’ve already come this far. Am I really going to
turn back now?
I grab the
hacksaw from the car. Holding it like a hunter’s bow, I trot past the house.
Through the cracked windows, I catch glimpses of the rooms inside. A skeletal
chandelier hangs above a dusty table. A grand piano hulks in the corner, its
back buckled, its keys splayed like broken teeth. A cold fireplace yawns like a
dungeon door.
I force
myself to ignore it all and focus on the woods. Behind the house I spot a gap
in the trees that leads to a narrow path. The wind hisses through the boney
branches, getting stronger every minute.
But the
sound of the water is growing stronger, too, and now it’s mingled with another
sound: the tinkle of metal on metal, like wind chimes. I round a corner in the
path and it comes into view: a narrow bridge, arched like the back of a cat
over a dark, rushing river. As I get closer, I can see the railings of the
bridge are made of ornate wrought iron, but they sparkle with silver and gold
and bronze. Locks of every shape and size tremble in the wind, chattering like
teeth.
Well, this
must be the place. But how am I supposed to find the right lock?
There’s
nothing to do but start looking. I flip over locks at random, searching for DR
+ MS. There are a bunch of DRs and I wonder how many of them are Deveraux
Renard. All of them, probably, and every girl whose initials are linked with
his is already dead.
Every girl
but one. My fingers light on the little bronze lock carved with Saintly’s
initials. The wind makes the locks around me shudder and I shudder with them.
I’m not prepared for the revulsion that rises in me when I see that lock. Oh,
it’s going to feel good to cut this down.
Good, but
not easy. In fact, cutting a tiny lock with a big hacksaw is almost impossible.
I have to brace it just right against the railing, and even then the lock keeps
slipping. I try to hold it still, but it’s a wonder I don’t chop my thumb off
in the process. Not that I’d feel it, my fingers are so numb. My gloves were
too clumsy, so I took them off, and now the cold metal burns my skin, making my
hands shake. At first, I wanted to cut down every lock with Dev’s initials. Now
I think it will be a miracle if I get just this one.
But finally
I manage to wear partway through the bronze. Wedging the lock against the
railing, I twist it –
And it
snaps.
The lock
comes free in my hand.
Holy crap!
I did it! I do a little dork-dance on the bridge, pumping my hacksaw in the
air. I did it! I actually did it!
“What are
you doing?”
I spin
around.
There’s a
woman standing on the path. She’s tall and slim and I can tell she should be
beautiful, but she looks like she’s been sick. Her skin is pale, her blond hair
lank. There are shadows under her sharp green eyes. Even so, I know exactly who
she is.
Antoinette
studies me. “I said what are you doing on my bridge?”
I’m torn
between holding the hacksaw like a weapon and hiding it behind my back.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
She stalks a step closer. “It looks to me like you’re defacing my property.”
She spots the little gap where the lock used to be and her eyes widen. She
flies at me with superhuman speed. “What have you done with Deveraux’s lock? Do
you know where he is? Tell me!”
Gripping
the lapels of my jacket, she slams my back into the railing so hard the locks
around me clatter and I almost go over backwards, into the rushing river. I
manage to stay upright, but just barely. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One
of the ghost girls he was so afraid of?” Her French accent is cultured but her
look is feral. Dangerous.
I force
myself to look her in the eye. “Do I feel like a ghost to you?”
“No…” She studies
me. Keeping a tight hold on my collar with one hand, she frisks my jacket with
the other, searching for something to ID me. Instead, her hand lands on the
lump in my jacket pocket. Tugging the pocket open, she pulls out Saintly’s
present and holds it up to the light.
The little
heart-shaped lock glints in the sun. I can clearly see the initials I scratched
into the metal: MS+JH.
“Mariana
Santos?” She stares at it in confusion. “That was his last girl, n’est pas? But who is this JH?”
“Jesse Hayden,”
I say, “That would be me. Mariana’s girlfriend.”
Her eyes
widen. “But if Mariana Santos is alive –”
“Deveraux
Renard is dead.”
She takes a
step back like I’ve slapped her, dropping the lock at her feet. “It can’t be
true.”
“Oh, but it
is.” I know I should keep my mouth shut, for my protection and Saintly’s, and I
know I should run now, while I have the chance, but my anger is making me bold.
This woman – no, this demon – was his
accomplice. Who knows how many girls she helped trick into loving him?
And
watching her, I can tell she loved him too, if demons can love. She looks
stricken at the news of his death. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for
her.
Almost, but
not quite. I keep my voice quiet and
calm. “I saw him die. His body turned to ash and we sent the midnight girls
into the light. It’s over, Antoinette.”
“No!” The
word is half human, half animal screech. She changes, her body shifting through
forms too quickly for me to see them, woman to cat to snake to raven, nails
becoming claws, fangs becoming beak, so quickly it all blurs. For a second she
stands in front of me, a huge black wolf, and then she lunges for my throat.
I bring the
hacksaw up without a second to spare. Her jaws close on the blade and she
yelps, pulling back enough to let me turn and scramble up the railing, my feet
slipping on the locks. Just as I reach the top, her jaws snap again, snatching
the back of my jacket in her teeth. I teeter. Below me, the black river races,
chunks of ice dancing in the current. The demon’s teeth are the only thing
keeping me from falling. She starts to pull me back.
But I’m not
going back. Twisting my body, I wrench free. There’s a loud ripping noise as my
jacket tears, and I jump.
The river
comes up and slaps me, knocking the breath right out of me. I hit the icy
surface and go under, the dark water closing over my head. The cold is like
needles. The current grabs me, but I fight it, pushing up until my head breaks
the surface again I gasp in a lungful of air. For a split second I’m elated.
I’m breathing!
Then the
wolf hits me. She must have been waiting for me to surface, so she could see
where I was. Now she’s on top of me, her wet weight forcing me under. The
freezing water fills my lungs, my ears, my eyes. I fight wildly, gripping
fistfuls of dense, wet fur, trying to throw her off, but she is all scrabbling
paws, forcing me down.
I’m going
to drown.
And I’m
going to take her with me.
In a second
I go from trying to shove her off me to trying to hold her down. Wrapping my
arms and legs around her furry body, I let myself go limp, dragging us both
towards the rocky bottom.
The demon
begins to thrash. Her claws rake my chest, beat against my legs, but I hold on
tight. Either she’ll surface and drag me up with her, or we’ll both die.
But the
demon has a third option: She shifts. The dog shrinks in my arms, hair sucking
back into its body as she turns into a cat, then a snake. I try to hold on, but
my grip is weak. My lungs burn with the need to breathe. She shifts again and
for a second I’m wrapped around Antoinette in her woman form. Then, with one
strong hand she pries herself out of my grip, shoves me away, and beats towards
the surface.
I follow.
We break through at the same time, Antoinette exploding out of the water in her
raven form, her wet black feathers gleaming. Cawing angrily, she takes off into
the woods, her wings sending down a rain of icy droplets. In an instant, she
disappears.
But I have
another enemy to fight. The current drags at me on all sides and my arms are
too tired to resist it. Desperately I cast around for something to grab on to,
to keep myself from being swept down stream.
My fingers
close around the nearest thing and I instantly wish they hadn’t. It’s my
hacksaw. The rusty metal teeth bite into my palm, but I force myself to hang
on. The hacksaw is looped around an outcropping of rock, and if I can just keep
hold of it, I might be able to pull myself up and climb to shore.
But I
can’t. The current is too strong and my body feels like dead weight. My palm is
bleeding, long strands of blood unspooling in the current around me, but I can
barely feel it, my hand is so numb with the cold.
My brain is
numb, too, my thoughts sloshing like the water in my ears. As the current
forces me under again, all I can think about is Saintly. I wanted to do
something to prove I love her, and now I’ll never see her again. I’m sorry, Saint, I think. I’m a dumbass. The last thing you needed
was to lose someone else.
But maybe
she doesn’t have to lose me completely. Maybe I can will myself to stay here as
a ghost again, just a little longer, just long enough to tell her I love her. I
hold the image of Saintly in my mind, so strongly I can almost see her shadowy
form rippling above me, almost hear her voice call my name. I try to tether my
spirit to her world, to hook it like a saw around a rock, but I can already
feel my spirit rising, being drawn up towards the light as if a strong hand is
pulling me…
Wait. A
strong hand is pulling me. Two strong
hands, actually. They have hold of my jean jacket and are hauling me up out of
the water and dragging me onto the shore and into the cold February sunlight.
I would
laugh if I could, but I’m too busy coughing up ice. When I’ve spit out half the
river, I manage to open my eyes and find myself looking into Saintly’s
terrified face. “Jesse! Oh my God,
please tell me you’re okay!”
“I’m okay,”
I croak. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Now that she can see I’m
alive, Saintly is livid. “What are you
doing here? Jesse, I could have lost you! Why in God’s name would you come
here?”
“V-v-valentine’s
Day?” I struggle up into sitting position, but I’m shaking uncontrollably. I’m
soaked to the bone and my clothes are starting to stiffen in the frigid air.
The wind cuts through my jacket like a knife.
“Valentine’s
Day?” Saintly stares at me, completely at a loss. “You came here for
Valentine’s Day?”
I nod, but
I’m shaking too hard to explain.
She pulls
off her puffy blue jacket and puts it around my shoulders. “We have to get you
to the car.”
“What
c-c-car? You don’t have a car.” I manage a shaky grin. “Please don’t tell me
you stole one.”
Saintly
glares at me. “Borrowed. With
permission.” She nods behind me and I turn to see Delia rushing over the bridge
towards us, her face tight with worry. Behind her is a Henry, the guy I saw in
the hall this morning. His eyes are huge and he looks like he’s in shock.
“I’m sorry,
Jesse,” Delia pants as they reach us, “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but
I had to tell her. She woke up and freaked out completely when you weren’t
there.”
“How many
times do I have to tell you people?” Saintly yells, “I don’t like surprises!”
“But you
love me, right?” I give her what I hope is my most loveable look.
Her face
softens. “I love you so much, I don’t want you to die.”
“But I
didn’t die!”
“Yet.” She
says. “But you will, if we don’t get you somewhere warm.”
She’s
right. Not only that, but we’ll all die if Antoinette comes back. If she sees
Saintly, there’s no telling what she’ll do. “Let’s go.”
Clutching
Saintly’s jacket around me, I let Deals and Henry help me to my feet. Then they
run ahead to start the car as Saintly helps me struggle up the rocky bank. We’re
on the far side of the river now, so we have to cross the bridge to get back to
the path. On our way over, I see Saintly’s eyes scan the railing.
She’s
looking for the lock.
“It isn’t
there,” I say. “I cut it down.”
“You what?”
Her eyes widen. “That’s why you came out here? To cut the lock?”
“I was
going to put this in its place.” With shaking fingers, I reach down and pick up
the little heart-shaped lock, still lying where the demon dropped it. I hand it
to Saintly.
She turns
it over in her hand, staring at our initials scratched into the metal. She
looks like she might cry, but I can’t tell if they’re good tears or bad.
“I was
going to put it up and take a picture for you on my…” I groan. “My phone. Which
I’m guessing is dead now.”
“It’s
okay,” she says quietly, “We’ll get you a new one.”
“We could
still put the lock up,” I say hopefully. “We could do it together.”
“No.”
She says it
so quickly, so firmly, it cuts me – worse than the cold wind slicing through my
wet jeans, worse than the rusty blade that bit my hand. “No? Just no?”
“Jesse.”
She takes both of my freezing hands in hers, turning me to face her. “I thought
you understood.”
My heart is
sinking. I’m having so much trouble breathing, it’s like I’m back under the
water again. “Understood what?”
“That we
don’t need that stuff – big gestures and symbols and things to tie us together
– we don’t need that. What we have is deeper than that.”
“But…” I
struggle to understand. “I thought you thought those things were romantic.”
She smiles
at me gently. “Romantic is great. It has its place. But what I want now is
real.”
Real. It’s like my heart is coming up
for air. I get what she is saying: Our lives are already locked together, in
all the ways that count.
“Okay then.” I raise my arm, ready to fling
the little lock into the river.
“No.” She
grabs my arm to stop me. “I still want it.”
“In that
case,” I say, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” I hand over the lock. Saintly takes it,
smiling shyly, and attaches it to her bracelet, so the heart-shaped lock hangs
next to the little black heart tattoo on her wrist.
“Thank
you.” She reaches up and kisses me softly on the lips. For a long second I hold
her there, then she pulls away. “Dios mio,
your lips are freezing!”
“Are they?”
I don’t feel cold at all. In fact, I feel warm all over.
“Yes!”
Saintly grabs my hand and hurries me up the path to the cars.
When we get
there, Delia and Henry are waiting. Delia looks nervous. “You guys,” she
whispers, “Henry saw the demon shift. He wants an explanation.”
“Damn
straight he does.” Henry narrows his eyes at all of us. “I’m not driving
anybody back to campus until you guys tell me what’s going on.”
Saintly
sighs. “In the car, then. But I’ve got to warn you, it’s a long story.”
I smile as
I climb into the warm back seat beside her. It is a long story. But it’s also a
love story.
And it
isn’t over yet.