Chapter Thirty The Nova
Chapter Thirty
The Nova
My chatelaine clamored against the hallway table, and I didn’t care to take off my boots. I ran up the stairs, skipping steps and nearly tripping. There were no thoughts, just a single idea on the tip of my mind.
I threw my hands at the library door handles, flinging them open as my sights were set on the workbench. Piles of papers, open books, tools I swore had gone missing—yet none of it was what I was looking for.
A shadow slipped from behind a withered, potted fern. Tonic.
“Come.” I knelt down, waving it forward. “I need help with something.”
The shadow crept to me in a serpentine path, as if stalling.
“I’m not summoning anything, I just need a small opening,” I explained, clasping my hands in front of me. “Please. I think I can talk to him.”
The form curdled, perking up at the prospect. Its withdrawn nature made me nervous that it continued to refuse.
“Do you know where the grimoire is?”
The form flattened, as if thinking. Then it sped off along the floor toward books in piles. It rummaged around, then one came flying out toward my head.
I caught it, not without some wrist strain upon impact.
“Gentler, next time,” I grumbled. “Thank you.”
There was no time to waste. I swiped my father’s journal to add to the gathering pile of items, then my satchel to help carry it all. By the time I reached the first floor again, I was out of breath.
I grabbed some things of Dorian’s. A broken watch, the cat bowl. I needed something alluring, something involving other senses. His cigar holder. There were only three remaining, thinly rolled and still smelling like toasted chocolate and premium tobacco. I needed one more for good measure.
I pulled the heirloom necklace from around my neck. The gem dazzled, the light shining in a starlike pattern from the cut.
This would do.
Out behind the home, the garden was now completely barren despite the peak season.
The vines were dry, a beige that blended with the red brick.
Flowers that were once vibrant now a struggling mess among spindly weeds.
The grass had become patchy, yellowing toward the middle.
I moved the old café table and iron folding chairs to the side, sweeping the grass of any dead leaves.
I placed the items on the ground in front of me.
Something overcame me, a rush of adrenaline. It was so strong I fell to my knees before all the trinkets I’d gathered. Even Tonic came to my side, providing a calming weight in my lap.
“Are you sure about this?” Altair’s face was tense, his brow furrowed enough that it distorted the tattoo on his forehead.
“I’m sure,” I answered.
Tonic slipped from my lap and presented a void before me in the dead grass. My own tired reflection peered back at me.
Before I continued, I consulted the book. It didn’t open to me as it had before. I had to do that myself.
The pages drew up a blank.
With a deep inhale, I lingered on the words I wanted to say.
Do I ask it out loud?
“Do you want instruction?” he offered.
“Let me try by myself.” I shooed his hands away as he reached for the book.
I opened my notebook with the names, flipping until I reached the first.
“John Lahue,” I said, placing the notebook down beside the grimoire.
We waited for a moment, then two. Nothing seemed to be different or changing.
“It seems Mr. Lahue has crossed.” Altair broke the silence.
“Crossed?”
“Beyond. You can only talk to the ones who are in the Otherside, the place you’ve been able to visit by water. Remember the library?”
“What happens if they go beyond?”
He hesitated before answering. “They’re just gone. Part of the dust of the universe. The energy is recycled like all other matter.”
“I see.” I flipped the page for the next name. My palms were becoming clammy, as was my neck. “Rachel Witham.”
The wind gusted by my ear, a small startle. But other than that, the grimoire was blank and nothing was happening.
“Two people passed.” Altair clasped his hands gleefully, as if trying to put a positive spin on the inconclusive ritual.
I turned the next page hastily. “Allison Thomas,” I said—then a crackling sound, like burning wood.
“Is someone there?” A voice reached my ear, so small and delicate.
The grimoire sizzled, black lines searing into the page.
I leaned close, watching as they traveled into curves and filled in blots.
It was a portrait. A young woman, dark hair and eyes, small, pointy features, and a youthful appearance. My finger swept over the image, brushing against the cheek.
“It shows you who you are speaking to. To prevent any dishonest entities,” Altair explained, leaning forward to see the portrait. “Speak to her.”
“Hello?” The soft voice again, like a whimper.
“H-hello,” I stammered. “Hello, Allison.”
“It is so strange here,” she cried, “let me out or let me be!”
“Allison, you must listen.” I paused, looking to Altair for help.
He gestured for me to go on.
“You need to . . .”
Altair made a hand gesture, like to pass.
“Pass through . . .”
He quickly made a shape with his hands like opening a door.
“A door? A door. Pass through a . . . door.”
“A door?”
I raised my hands at Altair in frustration.
He just waved at me to keep going.
If I remembered the halfway sort of realm correctly, it would be similar to wherever she’d been when she went to the Otherside. A home, a garden, a street. So to pass beyond the Otherside, I would assume you would do so like another door.
“Where are you now?” I leaned close to the blackness.
“It is my home—well, it looks like it, but it isn’t all at once,” she said, her voice wavering.
“You need to find a door,” I explained.
“They won’t open! I tried!” she sobbed, the strain in her voice so worn, so tired. “The front, back, even the windows!”
Altair leaned close. “Allison?”
“Who is that?” she yelled. “Where are you all coming from! I want to go home!”
“Allison, is there a door you didn’t open yet?” He waited for a reply. There was dead air. “Or perhaps a door you’re too afraid to open?”
“There is one,” she said, her voice still shaking. “Please don’t make me.”
“Allison, you have to.” His voice was level, even soothing, despite its dangerous nature. “After all, there is someone waiting for you, dear. Don’t let her wait too long.”
There was no more noise, but possibly rummaging. It was like being on the telephone, but with the dead. I sat back to watch, to listen.
“Did you find your door?” he asked, following his question, but it was clear he knew more about the situation than I.
“I’m at her door,” she said quietly.
“Well, you can’t walk through without opening it.”
“She’s there?” Her voice was so broken, so soft. “Promise me?”
“I promise.”
“Is she angry with me?” She sobbed, “God, I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Allison”—his tone was scolding but playful—“you know she passed in peace.”
“But I have waited too long . . .”
“A child’s patience for their mother is endless,” he said. “Be with her.”
Never had I witnessed such a long silence. It may have been short, but I was at the edge. I wanted to know. I so desperately wanted to see if she would go.
A squeak, like a door hinge. The tapping of soft feet on hardwood.
“How will we know she’s passed?” I whispered.
He waved his hand and held a finger to his lips. Then his finger lowered to point to the grimoire.
Her soft, easy eyes began to fade, the black ink lifting to a blue, then a tan. Not long before the image had washed itself from the page. A blank.
There was no one on the other side of the inky opening.
“I thought you said when they pass beyond, they’re gone.” I looked to him. “Why did you lie to her?”
“When energy rejoins the universe, it just changes form. Her child may not be there in sentience, but she is joining her again, in a way,” he explained. “I didn’t lie, but I suppose it’s hard to express that to someone in distress.”
I wiped the sweat from my brow, my hands fumbling over my final attempt.
It was suddenly hard to catch my breath.
In and out, faster every time, I couldn’t stop.
Then it all broke down at once.
For the first time, it was settling that this might not be something I could fix. There was a gap between my ambitions and my abilities.
Was I prepared for what would happen if this didn’t work, and Dorian was gone for good?
Was I prepared to open the void and hear silence?
Was I prepared to accept that the accident was, in the end, my fault?
No, the ritual had to work. It would work. I’d done the impossible; there was no reason I couldn’t do this.
I wiped my face with my sleeve, placing the book beside me.
With shaking hands, I clenched them in my lap.
“Dorian Fairfax,” I demanded.
My eyes were a bit swollen from crying, as was my nose.
Focus.
I closed my eyes, summoning every intention I knew. I invoked memories of him. The way he would tick his sleeve when he was nervous, or his scent of worn cologne after a long day at work, or even the sound of a sleepy sigh when he dozed off.
My eyes opened . . . to nothing changed.
If my shoulders could slump any more, I’d be the shape of a crawfish after boiling.
I shifted to sit on my side. There were no manuals for this, not one that would cooperate, that is. The grimoire was still blank.
More silence . . . and suddenly I didn’t feel motivated to do this anymore. Not at all.
I pulled my legs to my chest, my chin on my knees as I hugged them. I contemplated while mentally tracing over the patterns of my arm. They always reminded me of looking at the stars in the middle of nowhere.
I craned down to bury my face in my knees, my head beginning to throb from all the pressure.
“What do I do now?” I muttered.
“He could still be there.” Altair placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing, “but you may not find him in time unless you go through yourself—”
“Lucia!”
I raised my head.
The void was still; there was no one here.
“Dorian?” I whispered. Then louder, “Dorian?” On my hands and knees, I inspected the void. “Was that him?”
Silence again.
Did I imagine it?