Wicked as They Come (Blud #1)

Wicked as They Come (Blud #1) Page 2

As I pulled the covers over my grandmother’s shrunken arms and bloated stomach, I gave her my brightest smile. I made sure she had her remote controls, her crossword book and pen, her cordless phone, and her “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” button.

“Good night, Nana. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you,” I said.

“Quit saying that like it’s the last time you’re going to say it,” she said peevishly. “Somebody besides me has to pretend I’ll live forever.”

“You’ll live forever,” I said. “Until I’m as old as you are, and then you’ll finally teach me how to make your famous chocolate pie.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If you’re good.”

I’d be back at her house at eight in the morning to help her out of bed and into her remote-control wheelchair. She could do almost everything else for herself and didn’t want to give up her independence and move into a home. I was happy to help. After I had left Jeff, she was the first one I called, standing at a pay phone, crying in the freezing cold. I’d left my cell phone behind, not wanting to give him a way to find me.

“Just come home, Tish,” she had said. “Us Everett women can get through anything. Just come home.”

And I had. I’d lived with her for a few weeks before she offered to give me money for the deposit on my apartment. I was touched that she understood how much I needed space of my own, space to find myself. I was broke, and she’d called it an early inheritance. Since then, we’d anchored each other and developed a friendly, loving relationship with only one rule: we never talked about her illness or my past.

Driving home, I browsed through my CD case. Sure, I had an iPod full of music, but it was all stuff Jeff had picked out, things we had listened to together. I wanted my old favorites, songs that made me feel powerful and pretty and wild and young. The sort of music Jeff had called immature and part of the “old Tish.” I rolled down my windows to the balmy spring night and sang at the top of my lungs, loving the wind in my hair and the thump of the locket against my heart in time with the drums. He wouldn’t have liked that, either. Would have asked me, with that plaintive voice, if I didn’t prefer the diamonds he had given me.

Nope. That’s why I’d dumped them down the garbage disposal on my way out and flicked the switch.

Back at my little apartment, I felt lighthearted for the first time in a long time. As if taking the locket had soothed me, become another choice that further defined who I was. I liked loud music. I took care of my grandmother. I had a good book and a rescued cat named Mr.Surly. I was having cheese toast and tomato soup for dinner. And I had stolen an antique locket from my dead patient’s attic.

As I undressed and put on my pajamas, my eyes didn’t leave the locket’s reflection in the dresser mirror. I didn’t want to take it off. There was something exciting about it, about having something I wasn’t supposed to have.

It was time to open it. I felt around the edge opposite the hinge but couldn’t find a clasp. Then I tried to work it open with my fingers, but it didn’t budge. I went to the bathroom and tried to use a nail file to pry it open like an oyster, but it was very unwilling to produce its pearl. Mr. Surly watched me from the counter, tail twitching. He seemed amused.

With a weary sigh, I waggled my fingers at it and said, “Locket, reveal thy secrets!”

Of course, that didn’t work. That sort of thing never does.

I ran my fingers over it. There had to be a way. Then I pressed the jewel on the front, and the locket popped open.

I gasped as red liquid burst from inside, splattering my hand with scarlet drops.

Whatever it was, it burned, and I dropped the locket onto the counter, where it spun for a second, scattering a constellation of red on the bathroom counter.

I ran my hand under the cold water. The stains stopped burning but didn’t wash away. I lathered up with antibacterial soap, but they didn’t budge, so I got out the nail brush. Looking up at the mirror, I saw myself standing there in a ragged tank top and baggy pajama pants, scrubbing my hand until it was raw and pink. The stains seemed somehow brighter, so I gave up.

I couldn’t help but wonder, what sort of ancient prankster filled a locket with staining red acid and then hid it in a book? It was its own antitheft device.

The locket lay innocently on the bathroom counter amid more pesky red spots. No point in scrubbing those right now.

Then I looked closer and noticed that the red drops had made tiny pockmarks in the granite. Little red holes, eaten into solid rock. I ran my finger over them, puzzled. It didn’t make sense—I should have been full of holes, too. But I wasn’t.

I didn’t think too hard about it. I was more curious about the locket itself, which was finally open. The red stuff had drained out, so I picked it up and held it under the light.

Inside, trapped under glass, was a delicate portrait in watercolor. The man was fascinating, and I was transfixed by his piercing eyes, which challenged me from under delicate but sharp brows. His long dark hair looked as if it had been yanked from a tidy queue just moments before and left rebelliously loose to annoy the painter. His mouth was small and somewhat cruel, quirked up into a knowing smirk. His cheekbones could have cut paper. He wore a high white collar that was carelessly open, an indigo cravat hanging untied.

I loved Jane Austen, so this rogue in a cravat was right up my alley, like an extra-naughty Mr. Darcy. He was the complete opposite of stocky, clean-cut, all-American Jeff—another point in the mystery man’s favor.

I could almost see a thought bubble rising above his head. I dare you.

“Dare me to what?” I said.

He didn’t have an answer for that.

I tore my eyes from the image and considered the other side of the locket, looking for the portrait of his lady. Instead, there were words engraved there, and I could almost make them out.

“Viernes toa meo,” I whispered, tracing the letters. I knew a smattering of French and Spanish, just enough to order a sandwich and find the bathroom, and the words seemed oddly familiar but made no sense. Portuguese, maybe? Or Esperanto?

“Who are you?” I said out loud. “And who carried you over her heart?”

He didn’t have an answer to that, either. I would probably never know, unless I went back to the estate sale and dug around in the attic for clues. Maybe there was a larger portrait that I had missed lurking somewhere in the house, or something written in the book. Between the old lady and the locket, I hadn’t even cracked the spine or looked at the cover. But it would be easy enough to spot—a deep, oxblood red that stood out from the other, dusty brown tomes, which is why I’d noticed it in the first place. I made up my mind to go back to the estate sale the next day, then snapped the locket shut and slipped it back over my head and under my tank top. I felt a little silly.

Now that the locket’s mystery was solved, real life seeped back into my thoughts. After my time with Nana, I was more bothered than ever. If she was in more pain and not telling me, was she telling her doctor? Was the cancer getting worse, or were the chemo drugs the problem? Worst of all, where would she be if I hadn’t come back from Alabama right when I had? Sometimes I thought I was the only thing willing her to live.

I’ve always fallen asleep instantly, and my dreams were a fertile place for solving problems. I hoped to find the answers I needed that night.

3

I was cold and reached for my blanket. There was nothing there.

My tank top and pants weren’t there, either.

Neither was my bed.

Now, that was curious.

I opened my eyes as I pressed myself up from the chilly stone. I was completely naked. Except for the locket, which hung against my heart. But it was no longer crusted with age and grime. It was shining and perfect, the brilliant gold glinting in the deep blue stillness of early morning.

I was frantic for a moment, my arms crossed over my chest, my eyes searching the strangely quiet woods around me. The stone slab was in a foggy clearing surrounded by a ghostly ring of birch trees. A few birds began to sing, breaking the silence. But their songs were somehow wrong.

Then I laughed to myself.

I was dreaming, of course.

Just another one of my crazy lucid dreams.

I’d had realistic, colorful, full-sensory dreams my entire life, and I was quite accustomed to this moment. In my dreams, I left behind the self-doubt and worry that had dogged me for the past few years. I was stripped down to the essential Tish—the me I wanted to be. I reveled in the lack of consequences. In my dreams, I was free. And yes, frequently naked.

No big deal. I could do anything I wanted to.

Time to explore the world.

After hopping off the stone, I dusted off my dream-butt. I spun slowly in a circle, looking for a path to follow, some sign of where the dream would lead.

I was startled when I saw him there, leaning against a birch tree. Seconds before, I was sure I was alone, and then he appeared as if by magic.

It was the man from the locket. He had the same insolent, daredevil, knowing smile, the same unruly hair. One tall black boot was kicked up against the tree behind him, and his arms were crossed over his chest, stretching the shoulders of his black tailcoat.

“You’re here,” he said simply.

“Do I know you?” I asked, which came out more haughtily than I had intended.

“You will,” he answered, kicking off the tree and walking toward me. “After all, you’re wearing my locket. And I’ve been waiting for you.”

His accent was clipped and British, just as I would have expected.

“I imagined you with more clothes,” he said.

“And I imagined that you ended at the collarbone,” I said.

He threw back his head and laughed, a laugh so full of fierce joy that it was unsettling. No one laughed like that in the real world. They were too self-conscious of what people would say. I hadn’t laughed that way in a long, long time.

“Come along, then, love, and let’s get you covered,” he said, and he began to unbutton his coat.