Broken Illusions: A Midnight Dragonfly Novel (17 page)

Chase, I thought again, but the thought dissolved as quickly as it formed.

“Relax,” Julian said, and really, my body couldn’t have done anything but.

“It’s completely natural,” he went on in that same singsong cadence Victoria used with the Ouija board. “Think of it as going home.”

The room started to fade. “Going …
home
?”

“Home,” he murmured. “Where we all began. It is this world we come into with birth, the physical world. And it is this world we eventually leave, with death—” he said as I tried to quiet the hum interfering with words. “And every night before then, behind closed eyes.

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” he asked. “What is real—and what’s imagined? The place where we come from, where we return? Or is it the here, the now?”

My eyes fluttered.

“Which is permanent?” he went on, softer. “And which is only a field trip?

“Now count for me,” he murmured. “Backward from ten.”

The rhythm of my body slowed. “Ten.” The word was mostly a breath. “Nine. Eight.” With each number I hesitated, waiting for something to happen. “Seven. Six…” And with each successive step backward, disappointment rubbed a little harder.

“Five.”
I opened my eyes to ask him why it wasn’t working—but found a street before me, and the faded pastel buildings.

I spun around, found I could move easily now. There was no more heaviness. No more restraint.

“Tell me what you see.”

Julian’s voice. It was Julian’s voice I heard, even though I no longer saw him—or felt his hand on mine.

“It’s not raining.” That was the first thing I noticed. “The sky is blue, with big white clouds.” Floating … drifting. “And the sun, it’s so bright…”

“Good, very good. Tell me what else you see.”

Weeds sprang up from cracks. “It’s empty.” Except for the broken urns lying on their sides. “Like a ghost town.”

“The same as before? With buildings on both sides? Doors closed?”

“Yes.”

“Then go find her, Trinity. Find Grace.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Yes, you do.”

Swallowing, I looked away from the sky—and gasped.

Julian’s voice sharpened. “What is it?”

“The dragonfly.”
Its pale green wings fluttered against the washed-out color of the street.

“Trinity.”

I stilled.
“Grace?”

“Do you see her?” Julian asked.

I shook off his question.
“Grace? Are you here?”

“You shouldn’t have come back.”

My heart slammed hard. “Where are you? Tell me where you are!”

“He knows,” she said. “You have to be careful—he knows everything.”

“Who?”

“He’s watching. He’s always watching.”

“Who?” I asked again. “Just tell me—”

“Hurry,” she said. “You have to get out of here—”

Spinning, I see two big, tattered flags flapping violently in the wind. Turning back, the dragonfly is gone. “Grace!”

The breeze swirls harder, churning up an onslaught of dust—and the sky turns gray.

“No, wait!” I shout. “Come back!”

“Trinity.” Julian’s voice was solid, an anchor. “What’s happening?”

“She wants me to leave,” I told him, talking to him in one dimension while I searched another. “She says he knows I’m here.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell me what you see.”

“The buildings,” I said. “Old and made of wood.” From another era, Victorian maybe. Gingerbread. With porches and shutters. “They look … sad.” Tired.

“Look inside.”

Instinct takes over. I pass structure after structure. One looks like an old general store, another like a saloon, then a bank.

“Talk to me,” Julian instructed.

“No!” Grace shouts.

I stop, don’t understand the sudden thickness in my throat.

“Trinity.”

I don’t know what makes me turn. But the second I see the strange tear, a rip almost, right through the fabric of space itself, I start to move.

“Trinity—what’s happening?”

The tear isn’t sharp or jagged like paper, but soft and smooth—perfect. Beyond, the most amazing light glows.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Julian instructed.

Drawn, I lifted a hand to touch a seam that was not there. “I see an opening,” I told him. “I’m stepping through—”

“No! Don’t—”

On some dimension the urgency in his voice registers, but I don’t care, can’t care, can’t focus on anything but the beautiful pink glow.

“Trinity—”

Behind me something whooshes. I try to spin around, but my body moves differently, not jerking, but sluggish, trancelike.

The buildings are gone. All of them, just … gone.

In their place stands a beautiful old white house, except it isn’t old anymore, like it should be. It’s huge and new and … perfect.

“Trinity—answer me!”

Something warm feathers against me. Lifting my face to it, I close my eyes—and see my mother. She’s smiling, standing arm in arm with another woman, much older.

The firstborn daughter, of the firstborn daughter, of the firstborn daughter.

My aunt’s words sweep in from the past, the future, reminding me I’m all that remains. My mother and her mother, her mother before her, are gone. I am the only one left. The legacy they bestowed upon me, the gift they shared, either lives with me, or it dies.

“Trinity, you have to listen to me. I need you to turn around—and come back.”

I open my eyes, and smile. “No.”

“Trinity—”

“I have to go inside.” Already I’m crossing the soft green grass, toward the columns supporting a wraparound porch.

At the door I take the knob, twist, and step inside.

SIXTEEN

A soft light glows from across the room. A lamp, I realize.

A dragonfly.

Vaguely curious as to where my shoes are, I cross the warm wood of the floor. At the tall dresser I reach for the delicate glass, and stagger from the shock. It jolts through me like an electrical current, buckling my knees and sending me to the floor. “No—”

I absorb the blow with my body, while, cradled in my hands, the blown glass survives.

“Trinity! Tell me what’s happening. Where are you?”

I look up, toward where, beyond the window, darkness gapes.

“A room,” I say, taking it all in, the narrow bed against the wall, the bookcase and the rocking chair. “A child’s.”

“Is Grace there?”

“No.”

“What do you see?”

“Stuffed animals,” I say, pushing to my feet. I turn, don’t understand the slow swirl of longing. “Books and blocks and a blanket, a little phone with a cord.”

“Are there any other doors?”

“No,” I say, twisting. “Just the one I came through—” My breath catches.

“What is it?”

“It’s closed.” I left it open.

Pushing the hair from my eyes, I try to inhale, but cough instead. “It’s hot.” And from one heartbeat to the next, the air thickens, turns acrid …

“Trinity?”

My eyes sting. My throat burns. Swallowing, I gag instead.

“Trinity—”

I reach for the urgent voice, know I have to reach for it. Reach for him. But through the numbing quiet comes a hiss, and the rest of his words crumble.

“Come back!” Coughing, I spin in a circle. “I can’t … breathe…”

The hiss morphs into a crackle, and darkness billows from beneath the door in thick heavy waves. My body no longer wants to move.

Sobs mix with screams. Dazed, I drop to my knees and grab the blanket, drag it to my face. They’ll come. They have to. They’re here, in the other room. They’ll hear. They’ll know. They’ll come.

She promised she would always keep me safe.

“Trinity!”

The shout fractures the haze, and with a surge of terror, I make myself crawl toward it.

“Trinity! The window! Go to the window!”

“Daddy,” I whimper. Or maybe I only pray. Or cry. I don’t know, I can’t be sure. I only know that I have to get away from the hissing. The floor beneath my hands and knees is hot, like the glowing coal I picked up from a campfire while my daddy shouted for me to stop. I can’t drop it, though, like I dropped the coal. And I can’t run crying for my mommy. I can only crawl across the floor. In my mind, I can see her, though. In my heart, I beg. “Mama-mama!”

She promised.

“Trinity! Open the window!”

Behind me something crashes, and light explodes. Except it’s not the light, because the dragonfly’s gone and the color is too bright, too suffocating, and as I twist back, orange flames lick closer.

“Trinnie—now!”

My body sags. I try to breathe, but my throat closes. With my last breath I reach for the edge of the window, and push.

Darkness consumes me. The air is cool and fresh, and I drink of it as deeply as I can. Blinking, it takes several tries to bring the field into focus, the waving grass dotted by daisies, the soft blue sky and gentle drift of fluffy clouds, and that’s when I realize night has gone, leaving rays of yellow to slip from a veneer of white.

“Trinity! You need to answer me—now!”

Startled, I reach for the voice, know I need to grab onto it, hold it. “Where are you?”

“Where are
you
?”
he asks, but I don’t understand, don’t understand how I can hear and not see.

“In a field,” I say anyway.

“Are you alone?”

The chains from moments before fall away, and with the breeze I twirl—and see the boy. “No.”

“Who’s there?”

He runs closer, shaggy dark hair falling against his eyes. His clothes are old, faded cutoffs and a white T-shirt, and in his hands he’s holding a garden hose.

“Better run!” he says, and then I am, I’m twisting from him and running, laughing as I feel him getting closer.

“Trinity. It’s time to come back.”

I trip, stumbling. But still I run, through the tall grass and flowers, because still, he follows.

“A promise is a promise,” he calls, and then I’m at the door, the one that had not been there before. And I’m opening it and rushing inside, and the day again falls away.

Silence whispers. I stand there so very, very still, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

“Trinity? Talk to me.”

“I’m here,” I whisper, and then someone else is, too, watching me from across the room. I can’t see him, but I know.

I always know.

“You,” I breathe. Not detail, the darkness won’t give me that. But I don’t need light or my eyes to see. He’s there like he always is, tall, unmoving.

“Turn around—now. It’s time to come back.”

But I don’t know why I would turn around, not when he’s in front of me. And then he’s moving and so am I, and I can feel him even before his arms close around me.

“I’m here,” he murmurs as his hands fist in my hair. “I’m always here.”

I know that. Even when he’s gone, he’s there, in my mind. My dreams. “I’ve missed you,” I try to say, but the words are more breath than voice.

He doesn’t need them. Because he knows. “I always find you,” he says, and even though I can’t see, I can feel the softness of his lips against my face. “Always.”

“Always,” I echo, and then I’m lifting my mouth to his, dying a little with the first kiss, the first shared breath. It’s slow and soft, achingly tender.

I can’t get close enough. Touch him. It’s all I want to do. Touch and feel, hold on, never let go.

“You don’t need to be afraid anymore,” he promises as I sink into him, loving the remembered feel. It’s been so long.

“I’m not.” I draw back to drink him in. His eyes. I need to see his eyes, the silver gleam that’s always there, the one that burns through me even when he’s—

Gone.

My fingers dig into him. “Don’t go.” I’m not sure why I want to cry. “Please don’t go again.”

“I’ll find you.” His voice is lower than before, hoarse. “I always find you.”

My eyes fill. And my breath stops.

“Trinity! Jesus Christ—”

“
No!” I cry out for him, reach for him. But my hands slip through air. “Come back!” But something strong is dragging me away. “No!”

“Trinity!”

I lunge for him, fighting the arms imprisoning me.

“Breathe, damn it!”

But I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t let me. My heart didn’t want to. Because he was gone, and I—

“You son of a bitch!” someone screamed as I clawed at whatever I could find. “What the hell have you done to her?”

The moment crystallized around me. For a frozen second I hung there, suspended in that mindless place where the world spun around me, but dots didn’t connect and lines wouldn’t form. Nothing touched. Nothing hurt.

“Easy now.” The voice was familiar. “Just take it slow and easy.”

Around me the static slowed, the jumble of black and white gradually fusing into shape and form. “No,” I whispered as the warmth faded. “No, no … not here.” But the cold, sterile room kept right on forming.

“Don’t rush,” came the robotic voice, the one I was supposed to obey, even as I wanted to turn and run back. “Just breathe nice and slow.”

With one strong, final blink, I found him crouched beside me, his eyes narrow, the lines of his forehead furrowed. “Julian.”

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, as the pressure of two fingers against the pulse point at my throat slowly registered. “Give yourself a second to adjust.”