Forbidden (48 page)

“I give up my last soul!” I drop the cross and it clatters against the bricks. A loud
whoosh
ing sound roars in my ears, and the man’s eyes widen in anger.

“No! She’s mine!” His claws dig into my wrist. The brick wall at my back slowly
rises and grates like stone against stone, and then an arm wraps around my waist and tugs me backward. The madman won’t let go, and I am doubled over, stretched in half. A gurgling sound escapes me and translates to
Holy shit!

Dante yells in Italian and the madman instantly releases me. I am swept back through the opening as the wall slams down with a deafening boom.

All is quiet but for my ragged panting. I am shaking uncontrollably, and Dante cradles me tightly against his chest. I close my eyes and let go a hard, stressful sob. It’s comforting and familiar here, although I’m sure I’ve never cried in this particular set of arms before. At the moment, it is what I need.

After a while, I regain my composure and sniffle. My composure is immediately replaced with fury, and I worm out of Dante’s arms.

“What the hell
was
that?”

Dante smiles reticently and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You are safe, Sophia.” His voice is surprisingly gentle and reassuring. Too calm for my taste.

“Dante! That was insane! Who was that man? How did he know—” I catch myself, not daring to mention Michael or the special pet name for the soft curve of my collarbone. I jump to something equally serious. “He was going to cut me!”

Tension creeps around Dante’s eyes and they flick toward the wall. “Yes, well, that was Jack and he was not supposed to be here. I will have to speak to Vaughn about that one.”

“
Speak
to him? Speak to— This place is a freaking nightmare!”

“Well, it
is
a haunted house, Sophia.”

“But it’s just a game, right? Tell me that man wouldn’t have cut me if I hadn’t given up the last soul.”

He is dubious. “Uh, no … he probably would have. I thought I made myself clear at the start.”

We lapse into silence, and I gape because there is nothing else to do when Crazy is talking. Dante is sporting a clandestine grin that peaks my interest. “What? I’m all out of souls, Dante. Game over.”

He is noticeably dejected, like I’m remiss in doing my part in the game. He nods so I’ll look around.

We are in a woman’s bedroom with romantic lighting and pale pink wallpaper with flowers and vines. An elegant four-poster bed draped in white lace takes up the majority of the room, along with a small dresser, a fragile, oil lamp and a dressing table that holds several figurines and a small ornamental box.

I turn in a circle, mystified by the charming room. Dante is watching me with
mounting anticipation. “So why are you hiding out in a girl’s bedroom while we’re being chased by snakes and madmen?”

Dante is crestfallen. I disappoint him to no end.

“I am not hiding out. I was waiting for you.” He takes my hand and holds it gently in both of his. “Always waiting for you.”

“Oh, so you refuse to speak to me for weeks and now say you’ve been
waiting
for me?”

“I needed time to think, and so I realized I went about this all wrong. You see, it’s one thing for me to understand that we belong together but I never properly convinced you, and that is my fault. I am so sorry.” He smiles reverently as though he’s done me a terrible disservice. “I know you are confused, Sophia. It is all new to you and I have had more time to know certain things. I have allowed you to become distracted with trivialities. But we will remedy that, won’t we?” He has an ancient tone that belies his age, and I recognize, with disturbing clarity, that it is familiar. So much about Dante seems familiar, and this verity turns my solids into squishy, uncertain things. I need something concrete beneath me so I state the facts as I know them.

“Dante, I’m not distracted. We don’t belong together. I think you are reading too much into our friendship.”

“
Friendship
?” He looks startled, like I invented a new word. He starts to argue but changes his mind and composes himself. “As I was saying, you have forgotten details and I should have thought to bring them out sooner.” He guides me to the dressing table and arranges me in a cushy chair. I sit very still but ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. We stare at each other in the antique mirror. His hands are resting on my shoulders and he is smiling like a bridegroom on his wedding night.

“Go ahead. Open it.” His eyes fall on the small ornamental box with an engraved lyre on the lid. I tentatively reach for it. It’s light, hard, and fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. A precious antiquity, the wood is worn in some places and shiny from use in others. The lid opens easily and sets off a soft strumming, a slow, haunting melody that seeps deep inside me. I stare and slowly become mesmerized, as though each note uncovers a layer of my subconscious. The tune evolves, opening me further until I am drawn out of myself and coaxed into another time and space.…
I am young, and well before that, and well before most ages, I am running in a vast, open countryside, surrounded by a glorious
fiori di campo
; an endless spread of red poppies and yellow and white broom flowers nipping at my heels. My legs are working tirelessly to carry me through them. There is a low rock wall far to one side and a bubbling brook beyond that. Behind me is a giant villa on a hill turning patina in the fading evening light. Ahead is an old stone structure, nearly hidden among crawling vines. Beside it churns a giant waterwheel. I am happy to be going there but racing in secret, anxious for what awaits
.

I snap the lid shut, breaking off the musical conduit. I am afraid to let my subconscious reach the stone structure, afraid to know too much. So I gather all the common sense I’ve acquired and hold it in a vice grip. I know better. This must be some trick Dante is playing; some new mind game I’m unfamiliar with.
But the vision was too clear, too recognizable
. I look at him stubbornly in the mirror. “I don’t want this, if you’re trying to give it to me.”

Dante fights disappointment and smiles. “There is a place I used to go when I was younger, a mill down the road from my village. Every day I would walk or run or ride through the fields to get there. Tell me why I went there.” He waits breathlessly for me to paint the picture he has created. I refuse so he squeezes my shoulders, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I went there to meet my secret lover.” Again he waits, and I clutch the box until the edges cut into my fingers. “You are still asleep, Sophia. You need to wake up now.” He leans down to my ear, watching me in the mirror. “I need you to wake up,
cara
. Please?”

“
Look
at me, Dante!” I am deliberately harsh, a survival instinct I suppose, and I lash out shamelessly. “I am wide-awake. I see you, and you see me.
This
is all there is. But you once asked me what I wanted most, remember? Well, I got it.”
Him, I should have said him
.

“
Michael?
You think you are here for
him
?” He sounds incredulous. “Michael is a mere distraction keeping you from where you belong. There is no peace with him. You are still searching, still wanting that less tangible thing that is the
reason
for you. Have you found it with him?”

I don’t answer because my brain hurts like someone is prying it open inch by inch. The unfeigned outpouring of Dante’s emotions doesn’t negate how much I hate it when he repeats my private thoughts aloud.

“When I asked who you breathe for, Sophia, it was a rhetorical question, because I already know. And so do you. You just forgot.”

I push away from the table and face him. “Don’t tell me what I want or what I forgot or what I am here for. You hardly know me, Dante!”

A storm rages in his eyes, and he grabs me and shakes me. “I want to scream when you say such stupid things!
Idiota!
Do you know how long I have waited for you! Wake up,
cara
! Why can you not see me?”

“I’m in love with Michael!” I blurt out, and the shaking stops. Dante’s hair has fallen across his eyes and his cheeks are red as though he’s been slapped. His fingers dig
into my skin until it hurts. And then he releases me and turns away. I hug my arms, trembling. Dante stands very still, his back taut with knotted muscles. I went too far. I didn’t mean to hurt him. The silence stretches long and painful, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut.

I hate the sound a broken heart makes
.

Tears sting my eyes and I swipe at them. Compassion wants me to hold Dante, to take back the pain I just gave, but I don’t dare touch him.

“Say something,” I whisper. “Please?”

He collects himself and returns to me, unexpectedly calm with a genial smile. When he speaks, it’s in the quiet, measured tone of a parent reminding a child of her place in life. “You belong to me. You always have. You always will.” He touches my face with all the love and tenderness I have ever seen. “
Oh, mia amore, dove siete?
I’m here,
cara
. Why do you not see me?”

“Dante, I don’t—”

“You must try
harder
! It must come from you!” He is coaxing me toward something I can’t understand. Or don’t want to understand. I can feel myself fighting something, holding back a floodgate.

“I have waited so very long.” His voice is soft, his eyes glassy and bright. They begin to glow with an extraordinary light in the dim room. He sighs heavily and the flavor of his warm cinnamon breath dances across my face, rolls over my tongue; anesthetizing sensations breeze around my head and trickle down my chest like a lost tendril of smoke. Tension is melting. I feel a weight descending upon my shoulders and holding me in place. I’m lethargic, all moving parts refusing to obey. My peripheral vision narrows to include only pale green eyes, and I recognize their intent.

Stop him! Push him away!

“Dante, please,” I whimper languorously while Mom’s voice screams in my head. Dante holds my face like an offering and gently presses his lips against mine. Spicy heat singes my lips, and my eyes spring open in shock. His mouth cuts into a deep kiss, and I feel a burst of fire inside mine. It swirls around, heating my mouth and tongue, and then is abruptly smothered out.

“Noooo!” Dante jerks away in an explosion of anger. He is livid, screaming incoherent Italian. Fists grind against his temples as if beating down unwanted knowledge. He curses and paces and then whips around, hurling the oil lamp against the wall. It explodes into flames and flying glass. The entire wall and door erupt in fire.

I scream and stagger against the dressing table. Flames lick across the wall and the confined room is instantly scorching hot. Our only exit is engulfed and Dante is lost
in his Italian tirade. Oblivious to it all.

“Dante! Please!” I yell over and over until it penetrates his madness. He turns sharply and sees me recoiled in horror.

His black shirt is open at the neck and reveals a smooth chest heaving and glistening with sweat, the erratic breathing of a maniac. Yellow flames crawl up the wall behind him and devour the wallpaper; the pretty pink flowers and vines shrivel into ash. Smoke stings my eyes and fills my lungs.

“We have to get out of here!” I yell, and then break up coughing.

“What have you done?” His voice is a razor cutting into my head. He is insane; he thinks
I
did this? I cover my mouth and shake my head. The flames are creeping higher, the spidery tentacles of a beast devouring the room flower by flower. I imagine us burning to death in this beautiful pink room.

Dante looms over me, demanding an answer. I look around for another door that I know I won’t find. “The room is on fire!” I bark out, and then cough. Tears stream down my face; we are going to die here.

“Do you know how much I have gone through?” he bellows. “And you do
this
to me? To
us
!”

“Dante, please! We have to get out of here!”

“Michael Patronus has kissed you!” he accuses and then clutches my shoulders. “Do not deny it! You have a Sigil of Protection in you!” He shakes me, rocking my head back. “What did he tell you?” he demands. “Answer me!”

The room is gray with smoke and my head is buzzing with the inevitable.
I am going to die here
. I plead hysterically, “Please, Dante! We have to get out of here!”

“What did Michael tell you about himself?” he demands, and an epiphany slaps me sober. I stare in disbelief.

Does he know about Michael?

A chunk of ceiling collapses behind him and I duck. “Get us out of here!” I scream.

Dante pushes me against the far wall. “Tell me now! Did Michael explain what he is?” His eyes bore into mine, and my hardened expression confirms his fear. “It is
forbidden
!” he growls through clenched teeth.

I am nearly choking on smoke but I realize Dante is unaffected by it.

“What did he say about
me
?” Dante’s eyes are sharp and penetrating, searching for signs of treachery in my expression.

“Nothing,” I gasp.

“Of course not,” he sneers. “Michael Patronus would never admit that we are so
similar.”

“What does that mean? Are you a guardian, too?”

“I said we are similar.
Very
similar.” I shake my head in disagreement, and Dante gives me a challenging look. Then he turns to the fire, which has now consumed two walls and most of the ceiling. He waves a hand and the flames turn in on themselves, shrinking and withdrawing until they die completely and are nothing but smoldering ashes on the floor. The smoke is sucked out around the doorframe as if by a vacuum. What remains is black and crispy but the room is perfectly clear.

I stagger forward and fill my lungs with clean air. I take in the implication of having witnessed a miracle.

“How … did you do that? I don’t understand.
You
are the same as Michael?”