Darkest Fear (7 page)

My gods, it was hot. The air was thick and damp. Lush, oversized plants were everywhere, as if nature were determined to reclaim what had once been swamp. It was so similar to home.

What was I doing here? I was stalking a stranger who I thought might be my mother's long-lost sister. There was no reason to think she would want to see me. Or that she still lived here. Or that she was even still alive.

All of a sudden I felt awash in despair, and I sat down abruptly beneath an enormous magnolia tree. I thought of the long, long drive back home, and how home reminded me only of anguish, nightmarish pain, and now fear and vulnerability. Once again I started to cry. I was so tired. I was hot and uncertain and lost. I didn't know what to do with myself.

Physical and emotional exhaustion overcame me, and I must have fallen asleep, siting there on the bony roots of the tree. Waking from scary, disjointed dreams that left me heavy-limbed and upset, I found myself on the ground, in the darkness, in a strange yard. For a second it was like being in the woods, in the Everglades, and my muscles instantly tensed.

What time was it? I started to get up, and then I heard it: a very low growl that turned my blood to ice in my veins. It was soft, like a motorboat engine seconds before it explodes with power. Just like that day with Mami and Papi.

I froze, my breath snagging in my throat. Lit with instant adrenaline, I stayed very still and scanned the yard. Was this it? Had last night's attacker followed me? Was it my turn to die?

The growling continued, and with horror I realized it was above me. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead and my back where my shirt was already sticking to me. I couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow. Slowly I looked up into the magnolia branches, and there it was: a jaguar. Its golden coat, broken by black rosettes, stood out against the dark brown bark. Its eyes were yellow, cold, and fixed on me in a predator's hungry gaze. Did it have a smashed paw? A deep slice in its palm?

My hands curled in the dirt as I edged up to a sitting position. I didn't know how to change into my jaguar form on purpose—I had refused to learn. I couldn't put two thoughts together. I'd come all this way just to die, and without understanding why. Like my parents.

I tried to say, “What do you want?” but my words were soundless puffs of air.

The jaguar gave a louder growl, showing long, knifelike fangs. I was lightheaded, about to faint. Unable to move, hopeless at defending myself—for me, fainting would be a blessing. My eyes were drawn to the powerful tail that lashed back and forth, thunking against the tree trunk.

And then . . . it gave a fierce, sickening roar, and leaped at me.

MY EYES SHUT AS I
waited to feel viselike jaws closing around my skull. Seconds passed. Finally I slit one eye to see the jaguar crouched in front of me, snarling, its tail whipping left and right. It was going to toy with me, play with me before I died. All four of its paws seemed fine, not broken or cut, I noticed a bit hysterically. Was it a jaguar jaguar or a haguari? Was there a way to tell? I knew so little about it. Surely it was a haguari.

I felt lost in its yellow eyes and couldn't pull my gaze away, even as my brain registered the quiet opening of a door and then a shadowy figure moving toward us. I tried to shriek “Run!” but it came out as a near-silent squeak. The figure came closer. Surely the jaguar would pounce on me the instant I looked away, but I held my breath and slid my glance past it to see a young, dark-haired woman walking closer. I stared at her, hoping she knew this animal, hoping I wasn't luring her to her death.

The jaguar thumped its tail against her legs as she strode past it. “Stop it,” she said firmly, shooting it a disapproving look. It snarled
at her, opening its jaws and displaying deadly fangs that glowed in the darkness. She pulled back her foot and kicked its flank, her colorful striped espadrille barely making a sound against the heavy muscle. “Stop it! Go inside!”

Yellow eyes narrowed. She sighed and shook her head, then looked at me, her face kind. “Are you lost?”

I slowly pointed one finger at the huge cat.

“Don't mind him,” she said, crouching down to my level. “He's being a butt.”

The jaguar's mouth opened, and a slow, deep rumble came from its chest. If the young woman hadn't been there, so unconcerned, I would have peed myself.

I swallowed, trying to lubricate a throat gone dry with fear. Finally I managed, “I'm looking for Donella Garrison. Or Donella Féliznundo.” Which had been my mother's name before she got married.

The young woman blinked at me, and oddly, the jaguar did too. They exchanged a look like people do, and then the jaguar turned abruptly and loped through the shadows back to the house. I saw its large form slink up some concrete stairs and through an open doorway.

I let out a deep breath, not aware I'd been holding it. The amber light of a streetlamp cast patched shadows on the woman's face, which was now regarding me more coldly.

“What do you want with her?” Her voice was unfriendly.

Swallowing again, I sat up a little straighter. I was really hungry, really thirsty, and really tired. If she left me, I would probably just lie
down again and sleep under this tree for a week. “I think's she my aunt. My mother's sister.”

Someone else came out of the house: a guy, wearing beat-up jeans low on his hips and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned. His hair was dark red, long, and messy. He came and stood silently next to the girl, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I'm Vivi Neves,” I told them. “My mother was Aracita Féliznundo before she got married, and she had, I think, two sisters: Juliana and Donella. I'm looking for Donella. I think her married name was Garrison. Do you know her? Does she live here? Did she used to live here, maybe?”

“Your mother is Aracita? Donella's sister?” the guy asked, looking at me intently.

“Yes,” I said. “Do you know her? Donella?”

“Huh. Maybe you should come inside,” said the young woman, standing up.

I didn't even feel like I could stand, but I managed to get to my feet without toppling over.

“Donella was my mother,” the guy said slowly, looking at me. “I'm Matéo Garrison. But my mother's sisters are dead.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. Donella was his mother?
Was
his mother. Was she dead also? “Juliana is alive. My mother was alive . . . till May.”

This guy would be my . . . cousin. A cousin I never knew I had, never spent summers with, never saw in family albums. What had happened between my mother and her sister?

The guy frowned. “Aly's right—you should probably come in.”

I didn't know what else to do. I hadn't planned for anything after this. Steadying myself, I followed Matéo and Aly through the overgrown grass to four cement steps leading to the side door, which had once been painted white. A large piece of glass barely held in place with chipped putty made up the top half of the door, and the bottom half had decorative molding.

I heard voices as I climbed the steps; the door led into an enormous kitchen that seemed to be full of people. Smells of cooking food made my nose twitch, and I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten. Some cold cereal at the Holiday Inn this morning?

The room quieted as people registered that I was there. A quick glance showed that everyone seemed around the same age—early twenties. No one was old enough to be my aunt or uncle.

Matéo said, “Come on this way,” and walked through the kitchen to a hallway beyond. The girl, Aly, and I followed him. I was wiped out, strung out, and still freaked about the jaguar . . . who must have been my haguaro cousin. Walking through a crowd of strangers, all of whom were looking at me, didn't calm me down.

The three of us went down a dark, wide hallway toward the front of the house. Right before we got to the beautiful gothic front doors, Matéo took a left into a lovely formal parlor with old-fashioned furniture.

“You want to sit down?” he said, gesturing to a deep blue velvet couch with an ornate wooden back. I sat down on it, hardly able to
believe that I was here, that I had found an aunt I had never known about. “What was your name again?”

“Vivi Neves. Viviana.”

“You said your mother is my mother's sister?”

“Yeah.”

Matéo turned and went to a wall covered with all sorts of framed photographs. He took one down and brought it to me.

It was a copy of the photo I'd seen in the bag in my dad's safe.

“Who are these people?” he asked, setting the frame on the table and sitting down.

“This is my tia Juliana, my mother, Aracita, and then Donella. This was taken in Brazil.”

Matéo nodded as if I'd passed a test. And he'd just passed my test too—if he had this photo, he truly must be part of my family.

“I never knew Donella existed,” I said again. “Is she . . .”

“My parents died a year and a half ago,” said Matéo.

“Oh, no,” I said, feeling myself deflate even further. I'd never known that Donella existed, but finding out that I'd come all this way for nothing was almost unbearably disappointing. “I'm really sorry.” Matéo and I simply looked at each other. I began to see a family resemblance in the line of his jaw, the slant of his dark eyes. Despite his tan, unfreckled skin, his hair was a very dark red, and I guessed that was the Garrison part.

“Why are you looking for my mother?” Matéo asked.

Here we were—the crux of the matter. My throat tightened. “I wanted to tell your mom . . . that her sister is . . . dead.” My voice
trailed off. “My parents died . . . a month ago, at the end of May. Juliana knows. I wanted to tell Donella myself.” A month ago. In some ways it felt like just last week, and in some ways it felt like two years. A lifetime.

“I'm so sorry,” Aly said, and put her hand on mine briefly. I gave her a thin smile and saw that she was younger than I'd first thought—maybe twenty or twenty-one. Matéo looked about the same age.

It was all so surreal—the truth that my parents were actually dead, that I had driven all this way by myself, that I was now sitting talking to a cousin I'd never known I'd had. I thought of my other cousins, Juliana's son and daughter, who were eight and ten years younger than me. They lived in Brazil, but I still knew them better, had seen them more, than this cousin just a few states away from Florida.

“I'm sorry too,” Matéo said. “I thought—the way my mom talked, I thought your mom had died a long time ago. But it was recent?”

“Uh-huh.” My voice was tiny. “So you were . . . that jaguar outside.”

Matéo looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Yeah, of course. I found a stranger sleeping in my yard.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded me. “Did you say both your parents died? Was it an accident? A car wreck?”

“No,” I said. “They were . . . attacked. Someone killed them.” My eyes felt hot and started stinging.

Matéo frowned. “Oh, no.”

I nodded, a minuscule movement. “My dad's heart.” I let out a deep breath. “His heart was cut out. Someone took it. They tried to take my mom's. But I came back and saw her, and she was alive. For a minute. She looked at me—she looked at me and said, ‘Donella? I've missed you.' Then she died. So I wanted to know who Donella was.”

“Oh, how awful,” Aly said softly. “You do look like her, you know. Donella. How did you find out who she was?”

My face was wet with tears, which I barely noticed. “I found this same picture in my dad's safe. Later, in my mom's desk, I found an empty envelope—a letter your mom had sent to my mom. It had this return address on it.”

“How did you get here? Where do you live?” Matéo asked.

“I drove. My mom's . . . my car is out front. We live—I live—in Sugar Beach, Florida. A little town by the Everglades, on the west coast.”

“Hm,” said Matéo. He and Aly exchanged a look. Leaning forward, he traced around the picture frame with one finger. He seemed to be thinking about something, and I didn't interrupt him. All I wanted to do was lie down somewhere and cry.

Aly put her hand on Matéo's shoulder and rubbed it gently. “It's weird that your parents were killed, and your dad's heart was taken,” she said to me, watching Matéo. His face didn't change. I wondered if Aly was a haguara—if not, she was incredibly accepting of our affliction. “Donella and Patrick—Téo's dad—were killed too.
At first it looked like a car wreck, but there was an explosion and a fire, so the police investigated it. Téo's parents were inside.”

“Oh, no,” I said again. “I'm so sorry.” Was our family cursed?

“They did autopsies,” Matéo broke in. “Because it was a suspicious death. Their hearts were missing. We figured it must have been some psycho. If there was any evidence, it was burned up.”

“Wait—their hearts were missing?” I asked. I took a deep breath. “You know what? Two nights ago, someone tried to break into my house, my parents' house. I hit his hand with a baseball bat, and the cops chased him but didn't catch him. But I couldn't help wondering if it was the same person who killed my parents. I mean, I don't know why they were killed. I don't know why someone would be coming after me. I guess I thought it was something about us, my family. But now, with your parents—I don't see how their deaths, their missing hearts, could be a coincidence. It's too weird. But what's going on? Is our family in particular being targeted?” My shoulders drooped. I'd come here hoping for answers—not more questions. My brain was barely stringing sentences together—I didn't want to think about it anymore. Tomorrow. I could think about it tomorrow.

“I don't know,” Matéo said. “But it's definitely suspicious.”