The Killing Jar (10 page)

“I forgot how big it is,” Mom said, sounding breathless.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, we were surrounded. The people who'd been following the 4Runner converged on us, more heading in our direction from across the yard. With their proximity, the shuddering in my ears increased, and my fever ramped up several degrees. Sweat trickled down my back, and I went stiff. I could feel their energy, their life, like I was standing next to a bonfire. It was as palpable as steam in the air.

“It's all right,” Mom said, sensing my tension. “They won't hurt us.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” I muttered, my jaw aching from clenching my teeth.

My mom looked at me, her expression calmer than I expected. “You can't hurt them, Kenna. They're like you. Or you're like them, I suppose. You are Kalyptra.”

My lips parted and a breath escaped. My eyes darted to the assembled people and then back to my mom. I licked my lips nervously. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said. “But stay in control a little longer. You can still hurt
me
.”

I blinked at her, confused, but my mom turned away, offering no explanation. Questions reeled through my head. My mom had lived here, and her mother was Kalyptra. So how was my mom not like me?

I surveyed the assembled. The Kalyptra represented a gamut of ethnicities—Asian, Latino, Indian, African-American—and ranged in age from early twenties to middle age, although they all possessed an ageless quality. The longer I looked at them, the more difficult it was to estimate their ages. But I didn't see a single child among them. Their clothing was somewhere between rustic and bohemian. Loose linen tunics with jeans. Peasant skirts and camisoles. Long dresses with bell sleeves. Cargo pants, brown boots, chambray and plaid flannel shirts. The women, for the most part, sported hair that draped to their waists, the men's to their shoulders. I remembered the droves of colorfully dressed, faux hippies who'd gathered en masse at Folk Yeah! Fest. At the time, I'd thought them stylish and reasonably authentic, but compared to the Kalyptra they seemed more like children playing dress-up.

What struck me most about the Kalyptra, though, was the glow of vitality they exuded, which I could not only see, but feel. They were otherworldly in their bright-eyed loveliness, like flowers picked at their zenith of perfection. Their skin was flawless and natural, their hair glossy, and their bodies lean and athletic in a way that even people who spent their lives at the gym could rarely achieve. Whatever naturalistic lifestyle they were living out here, it was working for them.

“Anya, is that you?” A man with thick golden hair, a pointy beard, and the physique of Thor shouldered his way to the front. I shrank from him and hid behind my mom. He looked like he could have picked both of us up by the backs of our necks, one in each hand, and tossed us like kittens.

“Stig,” Mom said, smiling uncertainly and nodding. “You haven't changed a bit.”

“It
is
you,” the big man, Stig (pronounced “Steeg”), said in a tone of wonder, looking my mom up and down while the other Kalyptra gasped and whispered behind their hands. “I hardly recognize you.
Velkommen hjem
,” Stig said in what sounded like a Scandinavian dialect, Norwegian or Danish. I had no idea what his words translated to, but I hoped not,
Get the hell out before we throw you out.

Then he threw his arms around my mom in a hug and lifted her off her feet. “I knew you'd come back one of these days.”

There was a singsong quality to his voice that made him sound like a cheerful bird. He released my mom and put his hands on his hips, still grinning. I released the breath I was holding, relieved that he wasn't about to toss us off Eclipse property. But when his eyes turned to me, the smile dissolved.

“You bring a stranger into our midst,” Stig said, his musical voice going flat. “Why?”

“This is my daughter, Kenna,” Mom said, her chin tilting up defiantly. “She may be a stranger, but she's still Kalyptra.” Mom lowered her voice so only Stig could hear. “I need to see Rebekah. It's urgent.”

She nodded to indicate me, and added, her voice barely audible, “She's culled the forbidden anima. She's going through catharsis.”

“Catharsis?” I blinked at my mom, wanting to ask what she was talking about, but before I could open my mouth Stig clapped so loudly the sound stung my ears. “All right, everyone. Back to work. Plenty to do before sundown.”

There were a few grumbles, but the crowd dispersed, heading back to the gardens and fields, most of them craning their necks to peer at my mom and me over their shoulders.

Stig ushered us toward the house. “Rebekah's inside. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.”

Mom snorted derisively. “No need to lie to me, Stig. I'm a big girl now. I can handle my mother.”

Judging from the slight tremor in Mom's voice, I wasn't so sure she believed what she said.

 

R
EBEKAH

Stig led us through corridors that twisted and turned and split. The immense building could have been designed by a rabbit; it seemed more warren than house. The walls, floor, and ceiling were exposed wood, oily and aged. Ethereal paintings of moths with black circles on white wings crowded the walls in the hallways. The same species of moth that was inked on my mom's back.

“What kind of moth is that?” I asked.

Hearing my question, Stig glanced over his shoulder and gave my mom a look that I didn't know how to interpret as anything other than a warning.

“It's … an Eclipse moth,” my mom said, and then quickly added, “But it isn't real. That is, it doesn't exist. It's like a fairy tale creature.”

“Then what's with the obsession?”

Mom shrugged. “Eclipse moths are the Kalyptra's totem. Sort of a mascot or a family crest.”

I guessed there was more to this story, but Mom didn't seem keen on talking about it in front of Stig, so I let it drop.

We turned a corner and Stig nearly collided with a girl heading fast in the opposite direction.

“Pardon me—” she started to say, and then she saw my mom and froze with her mouth open. She had skin the color of brown sugar, and long, silky black hair woven into an intricate braid that hung to her elbows. Her fierce eyes were small and dark, like black pearls.

“It's you,” the woman said, breathless and flustered, blinking rapidly. “I thought … I mean … you're not supposed to be here.”

“I know.” Mom lowered her eyes, as though in shame. “Joanna, this is my daughter, Kenna.”

Joanna's eyes cut to me and widened. For a long moment, all she did was stare at me. “She has gray hair,” she said finally.

“It's not her natural color,” Mom said, a sardonic crackle to her tone. She'd been coolly furious when she saw what I'd done to my blond hair.

“Why would anyone dye their hair
gray
?” Joanna asked in clear abhorrence.

Mom shrugged, as if to say,
Teenagers. Who knows why they do anything?

Joanna continued to study me, and her brow furrowed. “What's wrong with her?” she asked, but the apprehension in her voice told me she was not referring to my hair.

I shuddered and clutched myself. The respite I'd enjoyed was over, and my fever chills and aching body were ramping up again. I realized my teeth were chattering. My lungs felt hardened and shrunken, and my insides felt like they were caving in, like my rib cage would buckle and my organs and bones would fold into themselves like a collapsing universe. At the same time, parts of me seemed to be unraveling, trying to reach out for whatever—whoever—was near me, hair-thin veins trying to connect to something vital, something that could end my suffering. It hadn't been this bad after Jason Dunn. If it had, I didn't think I would have survived.

“Catharsis?” Joanna guessed before Mom could answer.

“I'm taking her to Rebekah,” my mom said in confirmation. “She needs help, and I can't give it to her.” Again, Mom lowered her eyes. “Not the way I am now.”

Joanna's black pearl eyes darted to Stig, and then back to my mom. She seemed to be trying to decide something.

“You should leave,” she blurted with sudden, forceful hostility. “Rebekah doesn't care about you or your mongrel daughter. Just get in your car and go.”

My mom looked like she'd been slapped. Even Stig appeared surprised by the vehemence in Joanna's dismissal.

“Joanna,” he said, shocked. “It's not your place to speak for Rebekah.”

My mom shook her head. “I don't expect anyone to welcome me with open arms, least of all my mother.” She fixed her eyes on Joanna, and something unspoken passed between them. “I thought you might be different, Joanna. I guess that was too much to hope for.”

Joanna's jaw clenched and her hands fisted at her sides, but what I saw in her eyes when she looked at my mom wasn't anger or loathing. There was affection in them, deep and unmistakable. And she seemed to be pleading … pleading with her eyes for my mom to take me and leave.

But I couldn't be sure, and a moment later she turned on her heel and hurried away.

My mom stared after Joanna with tears brimming in her eyes. I'd seen my mom sad. She was almost always sad. But I'd never seen her heartbroken, and that was how she struck me now.

I turned to my mom. “How do you know her? Or him for that matter?” I nodded at Stig. “How long has it been since you left Eclipse?”

“A long time,” she answered vaguely.

“But you must have been back to visit?” Neither Joanna nor Stig looked older than twenty-five.

Stig and my mom shared another of those secretive glances. “No,” she said. “Never.”

I wanted to know more about this time discrepancy, but I had my own issues with time right now—mainly that I was running out of it. That reaching, unraveling feeling was getting stronger, and it seemed to be stretching toward my mom.

I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of a trembling hand, teeth still chattering as violently as if I'd just climbed out of a frozen river in January. “Fine. Whatever we're doing here, let's get back to it. I don't know how much longer I can hold on.”

“Of course,” my mom said, snapping back to reality and squaring her shoulders, as though she were about to go into battle.

Stig led us to a steep staircase and we began to climb. When we reached the third floor, we came to a closed wooden door, a pattern of branches and moons and fluttering moths carved on the surface.

Stig knocked softly. “Rebekah?”

“Come in.” The response was immediate, as though she'd been waiting patiently for our arrival.

Stig pushed the door open, revealing cozy quarters that seemed to be part bedroom, part study, with a vaulted ceiling and exposed beams hung with colorful tapestries and lanterns. The walls were jammed with framed art, antique stringed instruments, and bookshelves. Fur rugs were scattered across the floor, the biggest lying in front of a fireplace with a stone hearth, surrounded by large, fluffy sitting pillows. Two large skylights let in shafts of lemony morning sun.

The first person my eyes locked on to when I entered was Cyrus, standing in front of a rustic birch wood desk, talking to the woman sitting behind it.

When I saw her, everyone else in the room faded.

I had to blink when she turned her face toward me, like I'd looked directly at the sun. Her smooth skin was the color of dark honey, and a cape of caramel-blond hair cascaded past her waist to the tops of her thighs. Her arms were slender, waifish, and multitudes of silver rings circled her fingers. Her face was almost too beautiful to make sense. Wide-set, pale eyes. Shell-pink lips. An aristocratic nose and chin, and high, round, peachy cheekbones.

She was nothing you'd think of when you think of a grandmother, but I knew on sight that this woman was mine.

She rose and glided toward me, smiling, but didn't spare so much as a glance for my mom. Her bare feet whispered across the wood floor and the gauzy fabric of her long, lavender dress fluttered around her ankles.

“You must be my granddaughter,” she said. “I'm so glad to finally meet you.”

I wanted to tell her to stay back, not to touch me. Even though my mom said I couldn't hurt these people, the Kalyptra, I didn't want to take any chances. But Rebekah smiled at me so gently, and there was a welcoming glow to her, like she'd been waiting for me all these years; like maybe, just by looking at me, having never met me, she
loved
me. This air of acceptance overwhelmed me and I couldn't speak.

She cupped my cheeks in hands as soft as baby skin. “I'm Rebekah,” she said.

Then my ears filled with a shuddering roar, and my skin pulsed, one pounding heartbeat reverberating through me, before I felt myself unravel, strands of me reaching for her, for my mom, for anyone at all. Reaching to pierce their skin and drink the life inside them.

With an animal cry, I tore away from Rebekah, from all of them, and backed against the wall. “I can't…” I said, breathing fast, though no oxygen seemed to reach my lungs. “I can't hold on any longer.”

I looked down at my body and saw slivers of white filament extend from me, threads of pale light waving and twisting, seeking purchase.

With my back against the wall, I slid to the floor, arms wrapped tight around me as though I could hold myself together. But my body was rebelling, and no matter how hard I willed the veins of light to withdraw back into me, they refused.

Instead, they grew, reaching for my mom.

I shut my eyes tight and covered my head with my hands, unable, unwilling to watch what was about to happen. “Get away from me! All of you!” I shouted at them, and I hoped they listened, even though, knowing what I'd done to the land around my home, I didn't know if it would do them any good.