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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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Tracey blinked at her. It was a moment before she spoke, and when she did, her words were so low it was hard for Cass to understand—she had to lean closer in order to do so. “Something terrible is happening,”
Tracey said. “I don't understand anything … I don't understand myself.”
Cass stared.
Very afraid—and refusing to let her mind go where it logically wished to.
But she had to ask. Too much was at stake. Lives seemed to be at stake. “What is happening?”
Tracey shook her head. “I don't know,” she cried.
In a way, Cass was relieved she hadn't answered, but then Tracey lifted both arms so Cass could see the horrific series of tiny red lines slashed across the undersides of them. “I didn't want,” she began, and she wept.
Cass reached out and gripped her hands. “What happened? You remember something—who did that to you?”
Tracey shook her head.
“You didn't want what?” Cass cried, crying again.
“I didn't want to do it,” Tracey cried. “It was like there were two of me. I hated myself and I had to do it, I hate myself so much, but I tried so hard to stop myself, but my left hand couldn't stop my right hand, and I watched myself do it, and there was so much blood and it hurt so much and I couldn't stop.”
 
 
Cass remained thoroughly shaken and ill to her very core as she paused on the threshold of the library. The scene she was greeted with was quaint, the two children playing Junior Monopoly on the floor, Antonio seated on the couch beside them, a stack of books next to his hip, one open in his hands. Cass stared blindly. The cozy scene hardly registered. Her sister had inflicted those terrible wounds on herself. It was, she knew, some kind of psychological disorder. But she did not know the name.
What was happening to Tracey?
She had never done anything like this before. Cass was certain. Could such a disorder surface so late in a person's life?
Cass closed her eyes. The
disorder
had surfaced there, at Casa de Suenos. Another strange and terrible occurrence that just could not be explained … or could it be explained?
Could Isabel's anger be so powerful that it could infect a person so greatly that she would behave irrationally, insanely, dangerously, the
way Tracey had? Even to the point of hurting others—of hurting oneself?
“Cassandra.” Antonio saw her and shut the book, standing, but at the same time Alyssa also espied her and leapt her feet, rushing over to her. “Aunt Cass! My mother's back!” she cried with obvious relief.
Cass smiled down at her, sliding her hand over her back. “Yes, she is, and right now she's taking a good long nap.” Cass was shaking. She just could not stop.
Alyssa regarded her very seriously, far too seriously for a seven-year-old. “But what happened? Where has she been?”
Now the truth was a way out. “She can't remember, Alyssa,” Cass said gently. “Sometimes people lose their memory for a short period of time. It's a kind of sickness, which goes away, and it's called amnesia.” Cass sat down so no one would notice her uncontrolled trembling.
“Amnesia,” Alyssa repeated quietly. “Can I see her?”
“Not now. But she asked about you before she said anything else, and she told me to tell you that she loves you,” Cass said.
Alyssa stared and instantly realized that Cass was telling the truth. She flushed with pleasure. “I was so scared. I thought I might never see her again,” she whispered. “Like what happened to Eduardo with his mother.”
Cass stared, Alyssa's words searing themselves onto her mind. Tracey had returned, so there was no obvious link between the two vanishings. Or was there? What if Isabel was behind
everything?
What if her energy was so powerful that it had affected everyone, Antonio's grandmother, who had stabbed her husband to death, Catherine, who had lured Eduardo in front of a car after becoming his lover, Margarita, who had disappeared, and now her own sister?
And what about herself and Antonio? What about Gregory?
Cass still didn't know what it was that he was hiding, but she felt fairly certain that it was not significant. He had not been involved in Tracey's disappearance—Cass could now safely assume that he had not been involved in any of the events that had happened in the past four days.
Cass tried to tell herself that she had no hard evidence, that it was all speculation, but she was not convinced. Because even now, she sensed that Isabel was near.
Too close.
Alyssa skipped back to Eduardo, and Cass found herself meeting Antonio's gaze. He walked over to her and she found herself standing;
he put his arm around her, and they stepped into the hall. “How is she?” he asked.
Cass pulled away. She fought hard, but her eyes grew moist as she told him what Tracey had said.
“She needs to be hospitalized,” he said tersely. “Immediately. Thank God Gregory went to the police.”
Cass looked at him. “I guess that's where all that blood came from,” she whispered roughly.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Cassandra, that amount of blood did not come from those cuts and scratches. I assure you of that.”
She pulled away from him again. “Oh, so now you are a doctor? Or some kind of forensic expert?” she asked so shrilly, both children stopped playing Monopoly in the midst of a roll of the dice in order to stare at her. She managed to lower her voice. “Just what the hell are you implying?”
He stared. “I haven't implied anything. What is it that you wish to say?”
“Nothing,” she ground out, whirling.
He caught her by her arm and whipped her back around. “Someone stabbed the electrician.”
“Don't.” Cass had never used such a tone before. It was filled with both warning and raw fury.
She would protect her sister at all costs.
He dropped his hand. “We should not be fighting. I do not want to fight with you. Cassandra. God, I am in—”
She knew he was going to tell her that he was in love with her; she knew it the way she knew the sun would set in just a few more hours and that Isabel would return.
She cut him off. “Are we fighting?” She was cool, even as her composure continued to spiral downward into a mass of hysteria and fear. “I hadn't noticed.”
“We are not to blame for what Tracey has done to herself,” he said, his gaze steady and earnest, attempting to hold hers.
Cass avoided eye contact.
Bullshit,
Cass thought. “I never said we were.”
He stared.
Cass turned away, aware that she was putting a huge, insurmountable wall between them. She folded her arms across her chest, wishing it were not so hard to breathe.
And also wishing that deep within her breast, her heart weren't hurting so much.
And he did not move; he did not walk away.
Cass finally said, “How long will it be before Gregory reaches Pedraza—assuming he has to walk the entire way?”
“I would say he is just about there,” Antonio replied very quietly.
Cass had to look at him, because the dignity in his tone was her own undoing. She didn't want to hurt him. But what they had done to Tracey was insufferable and he was hurt.
“I have stumbled across some information about our ghost,” he said, his gaze roaming over her features.
“I'm not sure I care right now,” she lied.
“What if Isabel has poisoned Tracey's mind, too?” he asked, and it was not a question.
Cass stared. His adept mind was already drawing the same conclusions that she had. “She hasn't.”
Antonio looked at her, and Cass thought she saw pity in his gaze.
“She hasn't poisoned Tracey in any way,” Cass cried.
Antonio turned away, and when he faced her, he said, “I found two letters, Cassandra. Just moments ago. The letters your aunt mentioned. One is from Isabel to her cousin, Robert de Warenne, the other from Robert to her. Apparently they were lovers, and they corresponded while Isabel was pregnant, and here, at Casa de Sueños, in Spain.”
Cass stared, her mind slowly absorbing and turning over the information.
“She was miserably unhappy,” Antonio said. “But there is something else.”
“What?” Cass asked.
He looked at her. “Why would the letter Isabel sent to her lover in England be here, in Castilla, among the de la Barca possessions?”
 
 
Gregory must have reached Pedraza several hours ago, so where were the police?
They had actually packed up half of his father's notes and books, and had had lunch, too. Keeping busy seemed to be their mutually agreed upon if unspoken goal. They had also searched briefly for Celia, to no avail. Now Cass kept glancing at her watch. It was 3:00 P.M. She had a distinctly bad feeling.
Antonio also glanced at his watch, then looked up, and their gazes met.
“I don't want to worry you, but where is he?” Cass asked.
“He should have been back by now,” Antonio said. Abruptly he sat down at his desk. “Something has happened.”
Cass almost touched his shoulder before she thought better of it. Instead, she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “These things take time.”
“No. Something has happened. Why did I let him go? Why didn't I go myself? It was my responsibility.”
Cass sighed harshly. “I'm going to go upstairs to check on Tracey,” she said. She'd done so every hour—Tracey remained deeply asleep.
Antonio nodded, not glancing at her.
Cass fled the library. She couldn't handle much more now. She was overloaded and acutely aware of it.
But what if Isabel was not yet through with them?
Her tension escalated and it was unbearable.
As she stepped into Tracey's room, she saw that Tracey was still asleep, but her expression wasn't relaxed. It was filled with distress. She was tossing restlessly, making plaintive sounds, clearly in the midst of a terrible dream.
Cass sat down beside her, stroked her hair. “It's all right, Trace. It's just a dream.”
Tracey gradually quieted, but Cass decided to sit with her a bit longer, and as she did so, she found herself glancing around the room, wondering what it was that was bothering her.
And then she knew. The clothes Tracey had worn the day of her disappearance were in a pile on the floor. They were not the clothes Cass had stripped off of her in the shower.
Cass stood. That meant that Tracey had returned, unbeknownst to anyone, in order to change. Didn't it? But why? And how was that possible?
Cass found herself reaching for the clothes. Maybe she was making a mistake. But the short white shorts, the tiny pink top, Tracey had worn those clothes to the crypt, had been in them when they had fought in the great hall, and when she had run out of the house.
Cass tossed the shorts down, perplexed, and as she did so, something rolled out of a pocket. She thought it was a coin, turned back to her sister, now soundly asleep, then did a double take. A thin, delicate gold chain lay on the floor, the smallest gold cross with a tiny diamond in its center attached to it.
Cass stared, incapable of movement, stunned.
She retrieved it, recognizing it, sickening deep in her gut. The chain
was Celia's. She wore it every day; she never took it off. Cass was certain it was hers.
Cass couldn't understand why Tracey had the chain; in fact, it was very hard to think right now, much less clearly, she was so upset. Cass gripped her head. “Stop,” she whispered to herself. “Think and be rational!”
There had to be an explanation for that chain. Just as there was an explanation for the blood on Tracey's clothes—just as there was an explanation for the murder of the electrician.
Cass began to tremble. Despair overcame her. Suddenly it felt as if there was no way out. She loved Antonio, but she could not have him, not now, not after this. She had wanted to protect Catherine; instead, Catherine was dead. How could she protect Tracey? How?
And then the fragrance of violets filled the room. Quickly. Becoming overpowering in its intensity. Cass was aware that she was shaking; her knees had become useless, and she sagged against the bed. Isabel was there. And Cass had not a doubt that she would materialize at any moment.
Cass did not move, waiting, helpless, terrified.
The odor was so strong that she could not breathe. Cass began to cough and choke, tears started to slide down her cheeks. Tracey even coughed as she slept. Suddenly Cass felt as if she might strangle for lack of air, just as her aunt had been asphyxiated, and she could not stand it, she needed air, and she rushed from the room. But the hallway was also filled with the sickeningly sweet stench.

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