20. The Phantom of Graeme Lake
20
The Phantom of Graeme Lake
Calliope
C alliope grinds her foraged petals with a stone mortar and pestle. Rory sits at the table, eyes trained on the newspaper spread out in front of him as he sips a glass of blood. Every moment or so, she can feel Rory’s gaze on her back as she grinds the petal into as fine a powder as she can, but whenever she glances over her shoulder, he’s focused on the newspaper spread out in front of him.
She’s not quite sure what to make of his attention. Did she share too much about herself? Maybe it’s not her. Maybe he regrets sharing too much about himself? Talking about the Blood Wars. Maybe it’s because of what he did to the man that shot her? He’s probably waiting for her to bring it up again, to needle the argument until it’s ground down to its constituent parts, like the bee balm flower in her mortar right now.
The truth is that she doesn’t much care about his past, but she does, however, feel a twinge of grief for the man who shot her. But even then, grief doesn’t encompass the entirety of her feelings on the matter. It’s a complex feeling. An apple with too many sides, her grandma would call it. The phrase never did make sense to Calliope, but she supposes that’s the whole point of it.
The man had shot her, after all, and anger still courses through her at the thought. It was entirely unprovoked. She just turned around and there he was, holding a gun in his wobbly grip. Maybe he had mistaken her for someone else? Regardless, she could have died on the cold dirty floor with the too-bright fluorescent lights, if Rory hadn’t been there. So, perhaps that resentful, angry side of her feels Rory’s actions were justified.
And anyway, Rory seems to be feeling enough guilt for the both of them. As much as he seems capable of switching his emotions faster than he can change his socks, he sure does seem to hold onto them. She imagines his emotions as a great big pile of socks, growing bigger with each new emotion he discards. She wonders how long it’ll take for him to suffocate under the weight. How many more centuries does he have before his guilt breaks him? When it comes down to it, though, she can’t dismiss the fact that vampires are natural-born killers, with instincts that support this biological imperative. After all, she has felt it even within herself.
She pours the bee balm powder into a small dish and moves onto the dried gum arabic. She’s not sure where it came from or how old it is, but she’s not surprised to find it in a house previously owned by witches. It was a staple in her grandma’s kitchen too, used in medicinal syrups and tinctures.
She continues grinding, the slip of pestle against mortar oddly soothing. Her grandma used to tell her that she wasn’t discerning enough—that she too easily forgives others for their indiscretions. It was one of the reasons she was so willing to marry Maddox. Unlike her grandma, Calliope is willing to look past the rigid binary of morality. Life is fluid and so are people , she would tell her grandma. She brushed away her grandma’s concerns, overlooking the signs that her husband-to-be was power-hungry and manipulative. Even after the wedding, when the honeymoon faded away and he got down on his knees, eyes glistening with unshed tears and begged her for help. Just a little bit. To keep the business going. We won’t be able to pay the bills without it.
She grinds the gum arabic harder, teeth set on edge by the friction of her foolishness.
Kane flies in through the open window and she hears a soft flutter before he lands on her shoulder, talons pinching the strap of her dress. “Is it something tasty?” he asks .
She smirks. “Only if you like eating paint.”
“I do not,” he replies haughtily. He pushes away from her shoulder and lands on the table, nipping at the newspaper until Rory lowers it with an annoyed, “What?”
“Can you get me some chips when you go to work tonight?”
Calliope smiles to herself at Rory’s long-suffering sigh. “Sure,” she hears him say. There is an indignant caw, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rory ruffling the soft feathers on Kane’s head. “Regular or Onion flavored?”
“Both,” is the reply. There is another rustle of feathers as Kane leaves.
“Not even a thanks,” mumbles Rory, but when Calliope turns around, she sees the corner of his mouth twitch up, ever-so-slightly.
She smiles too, turning back to her task at hand. Perhaps she should be following her grandma’s philosophy now, but even with the mistake that was Maddox Grey behind her, she still trusts her feelings. Two weeks , Rory told her. In a few short days, she will be free to leave Graeme House. Yet, she doesn’t want to leave. That soft tender moonflower of affection that’s growing at the base of a tree: she could nurture it, encourage it, let it spread across the forest floor.
“You okay?”
She jumps, surprised to see Rory standing behind her, and then laughs breathily. “We should put a bell on you.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. “I said your name but you seemed miles away.”
She sits the mortar and pestle down, wiping at a stray curl tickling her cheek. “I’m just a little tired, I think.”
“It’s probably the sun. We spent a lot of time outside today.” He places a cool hand on her forehead, and she lets herself lean into the touch, to feel the coldness spread against her skin.
“That feels nice,” she whispers, eyes closed. She feels his hand slide down to the side of her face, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, ghosting along her jawline.
“You’re burning up.”
She opens her eyes slowly, looking up at him beneath thick eyelashes. “I’m always burning up.”
His face is so close, she could drown in his irises. His hand falls away and his frown deepens. “I can pick up some ice packs from the Go-Go, if you want. Might help.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Right. Okay. Thank you.”
* * *
Calliope stands on the porch, eyes darting between her notebook and the lake as she compares the two. She makes a small adjustment to the trees, adding just a little bit of shading until she has the perfect shape of the tree line in front of her.
Her paints will have to cure overnight, but her canvas is stretched and ready to be adorned. With the sketches she’s working on now, she’ll be ready to paint first thing in the morning.
The sun is just beginning to set, and Calliope is working fast to sketch the lake view before she loses the light to sundown and the gathering storm on the horizon. The air smells of ozone and dirt. The clouds have turned angry, tinged with purple, and she tries to capture the contrast in graphite.
The manacles clink as she works, making her movements awkward and jittery. When the edge of a cuff drags across her notebook, she swears under her breath at the rip in the paper and begins to turn to the next blank page. The pencil slips from her hand, tumbling over the edge of the step. Calliope is reaching for it, when a shrill cry suddenly breaks through the rain-heavy air. The notebook slides out of her hand and she covers her ears, teeth gritted against the pain echoing inside of her head. But it’s not just inside of her head, banging against her temples. It’s bouncing against the trees, it’s rippling through the lake. It’s ripping through her throat and out of her mouth.
She needs it to end.
She pulls herself into the Ether and the cry is cut off. She opens her eyes to the darkness, pressing a hand to her forehead, swallowing against the hoarseness at the back of her throat .
Beside her, Hun sits, head cocked to the side as she looks curiously at a faint green light pulsing in the distance. Calliope buries her hand in the thick fur on top of Hun’s head. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Hun huffs and points her muzzle to the light. Calliope cocks her head to the side, squinting in the distance. “What are you?” Her voice echoes against the darkness. She takes a step forward—
And then she is blinking against a sudden burst of light as Rory’s hand on her shoulder brings her back to the present.
“Calliope?” he says, his voice startling loud in the quiet of the evening. She has the impression that he’s been saying her name repeatedly since she slipped into the Ether.
Rory’s grip around her arm is firm, and looking down, she sees why: she is one step away from the water.
“There’s something wrong in the lake, I’m sure of it,” she explains, blinking away the rapidly melting frost from her eyelashes. She looks out at the circling shadow, the steely blue water rippling as it twists and turns. “It’s so sad, I can feel it. Like droplets of rain or the sun shining down on me in the middle of the day.”
Kane flutters down and lands on her shoulder. “Did you see what it is?”
“No, but…” Her words trail off into the dusty dark. She shakes her head.
“I have to leave for work soon,” says Rory. “Since we don’t know what it is, you need…can you try to stay inside while I’m gone? Please?”
She nods distractedly, squinting again at the lake. She wonders if that faint green mist hovering above the surface is real, or if she’s beginning to see things.
* * *
The storm breaks that night, air heavy and sizzling. A boom of thunder shakes the walls, startling Calliope from her sleep. The wind picks up, bending the trees around the house, as if they are leaning in for an embrace. A tree branch scratches at the window, like a cat asking to be let in. She stands to look out the window, but thinks it feels more like the trees are trying to swallow up the house and everything and everyone inside.
She tries to busy herself with a sketch of the interior of the living room, with its piano in the corner and landscape painting in a gilded frame on the wall above the worn brown couch that dips a bit in the middle. The pencil refuses to cooperate with her hand and she tosses it aside, frustrated.
She presses a key on the piano. She presses another one. Then closes the lid with a snap.
She makes her way to the kitchen, which is dark and forbidding, but soon warms up after she switches on the small lamp on the counter. It provides just enough light if she wants to continue her sketching. She doesn’t reach for her notebook and pencil though. She stares out at the darkness beyond the house, as the rain lashes against the window, and she squints to see the lake.
Yes, it’s still there—the faraway cry. She knows it’s a call for something or someone but isn’t sure she’s the right person to answer. It’s enticing though—the mystery and the sadness. As the rain gets louder, the cry follows suit, straining to be heard over the crack of lightning and the heavy rolling thunder.
Perhaps, if she just got a little closer—maybe just stood on the back porch—perhaps then she could hear it better. She could discern the meaning and help the poor thing. She reaches for the door, but there is a flutter of wings and Kane is on her shoulder, talons piercing her skin.
“I don’t think you should do that,” he says.
She shoos him away. “I’m just going to the porch. It’ll be fine.” She opens the door, pushing against the surprising force of the wind. Leaves and twigs are bandied about and scratch against her legs as she takes a step outside. Even with the overhanging of the porch, her skin is quickly coated in a fine mist of rain, like tiny needles against her shins.
The cry is indeed louder tonight and as she blinks against the rain, brushing her hair away from her face, she can see that glow in the center of the lake. It is soft against the harsh rain, yielding compared to the sharp bend of the trees and the pebbled surface of the lake .
She takes another step forward, trying to get a better view, trying to get closer to the sound. But she is too close to the stairs and her foot finds no resistance, the surprise of which sends her toppling forward.
She lands halfway down the stone steps. If she still had breath in her lungs, she’s sure it would have been knocked out with the impact. The rain is pelting against her face, clouding her vision. She lies still, letting the cool water soak through her dress and her hair. The wind is louder down here. She wipes at her face and blinks up at the house, the orange kitchen light like a beacon in the dark. She thinks she sees the shadow of Kane in the open doorway, but her attention is once again drawn to the lake, where a loud cry pierces through the sound of the storm. So close . She picks herself up and kneels, squinting against the rain and the dark.
Is that the creature in the lake? That small dark shape cresting slightly above the wave? She leans forward, hands gripping the slick stone. The creature is so close—the answers to what has been haunting their lake so very near. If only she could just get a little closer. Her hand slips from the step, and she finds herself plunging into the inky depths of Graeme Lake. The water is cold, almost as cold as Rory’s touch. Her body takes over and before she really comes to terms with the fact that she’s in the water, her arms and legs are working to keep her afloat.
Something brushes against her leg, and she kicks, instinct once again pushing her to move. But the manacles weigh her down, making it hard to swim, to keep her head above the water. She curses herself for not listening to Kane. For not listening to Rory. What will he do when he comes home and she’s not there? She suddenly feels an urgent need to get back to the house. The moonflower vine grows stronger. Hun growls. The creature skims along her bare feet, and she kicks her legs, arms flailing, scrabbling to get her back to the steps. The wind is strong, the current carrying her farther away from safety. The green light is brighter now, and she closes her eyes as she feels the warmth of the creature’s breath on the back of her neck.