Chapter Eighty-Two Two Truths and A Love
“What the hell is that?” Mozart demands as she stops mid song.
When it comes again, I kind of wish she’d just keep playing because I’m pretty sure I know exactly what’s making that noise.
“Squidzilla,” Izzy says so that I don’t have to. “That thing sounded just like that when it was trying to kill us yesterday.”
“So that means all the monsters are out?” Luis asks flatly. “Because that’s three now.”
“I don’t know about all—” I break off as a different scream fills the air, higher and more eerie than the first one.
“Pretty sure that answers your question,” Remy tells him dryly.
“But how? I’ve been down there a hundred times with you. The cages aren’t electric. Maybe one lock failed. But all of them?” Luis shakes his head. “No way that happened.”
“The waves haven’t hit hard enough to have fucked things up in the admin building. If they had, this whole area would be flooded,” Mozart comments. “So what did it?”
“I think you mean who,” I answer.
I can’t help remembering Jean-Luc’s face yesterday in Brit Lit, after that snake monster thing attacked. He was really excited, gleeful even. At the time I couldn’t figure out what had him in such a good mood, but now that I know Jude wasn’t the mysterious visitor in the dungeon yesterday, all of this is starting to add up.
“The Jean-Jerks.” Luis beats me to it. We’ve been best friends for a long time, and he can obviously read my face.
I tell them about yesterday and finish with, “It’s the kind of petty bullshit thing they would do.” I look over at Jude, who looks absolutely guilt ridden. Because the mafia rule tends to be if you fuck with them, they go after the people you care most about. Jude shut them down in class, and I nearly got my ass kicked by the grossest snake monster imaginable.
“Kill our friend and I’ll let loose a plague of monsters on everyone?” Remy sounds skeptical.
“I’d do it if someone pissed me off enough,” Izzy tells him.
As one, we all turn to stare at her in horror. But Mozart is the only one brave enough to ask, “Really?”
Izzy draws it out for a second, then laughs and says, “No. But I one hundred percent believe those assholes did it.”
“For what purpose?” Ember’s been listening to the whole conversation, but this is the first time she actually has something to say.
“Revenge?” I suggest.
“To watch the world burn?” Simon contributes.
“For the tapestry.”
It’s Jude’s first time speaking as well, but he says it with such certainty that we all listen to him.
“Think about it,” he continues. “For some reason that makes absolutely no sense to any of us, those assholes want the tapestry. They’ve tried to get it twice already, would even kill for it, and have failed both times. And the second time, one of them ended up dead.”
I studiously avoid looking straight at Izzy when he says that, but it doesn’t seem to faze her.
“They’re running out of time and options, so what better way to get one more shot at the tapestry than to distract us?” Jude concludes.
“With nightmare monsters?” Mozart asks incredulously. “You really think they’re willing to take that risk?”
“I think they were dying to take that risk,” he tells her.
“Because at the end of the day, they’re reckless assholes,” I say, ticking the points off on my fingers. “They do want revenge, they’re dark fae, and they are absolutely the kind of jerks who mess stuff up just to watch it burn.”
“Pretty much,” Jude agrees.
“Well, this is a problem.” Luis stands up and crosses the high-polish parquet floor to look out one of the windows. The administration didn’t bother to board them up for the hurricane, probably because no one uses this place anymore and they didn’t think anyone would be riding out the storm in here.
“I don’t actually think it is a problem,” Izzy comments from where she’s kicked back on her elbows with her legs stretched out in front of her.
“Of course you don’t,” Mozart snorts as she exchanges an amused look with Simon.
A smile plays around Izzy’s lips, but all she says is, “I’m serious. We have the tapestry, which means our problem is exactly the same as it’s always been—figure out how to fix the tapestry so Jude can do his little nightmare magic trick and send the monsters back to where they belong. Whether they’re in the dungeon or wandering the campus doesn’t matter, especially not until we figure out how to fix the damn rug.”
“You’re right,” I tell her.
“I know I’m right.” She shrugs. “But once we do figure it out, I get to kill three more Jean-Fuckheads. We’ll consider it a bonus for a job well done, once we take care of the monsters.”
I have absolutely no idea what to say to that—especially since I kind of think she’s kidding, but I also kind of don’t.
“So does anybody have any ideas?” I look at Jude, since it’s his tapestry. But he just looks back with a solemn shake of his head.
“I say we take a break,” Ember suggests, reaching for her pack. “I’m hungry, and I’m tired, and I’ll think a lot better if I can take care of both of those situations. Can we just take half an hour of downtime before we try to figure out how to solve this mess once and for all?”
The others agree, so we do as she suggests. Between us we’ve got about a dozen granola bars, several packets of trail mix, and a bunch of peanut butter crackers.
It’s not optimal, but it’s way better than nothing.
After I eat a packet of trail mix and drink some water—thankfully the dance hall has a working bathroom and bar faucets—I get up and wander around the elaborately decorated ballroom as Mozart continues the piano. This time it’s Olivia Rodrigo’s “hope ur ok,” and I can’t help but think of Carolina.
When we were kids, she and I loved to come in here—with its bold, floral fabric walls and gorgeous wood floor with inlaid stars, it was a little girl’s paradise. Especially a little girl like Carolina, who loved to turn on the chandeliers with their bright lights and missing crystals and dance across the floor to the large stage that takes up one whole end of the room. Most days, she didn’t even need music. She just danced.
Some days she’d climb on up to that stage and give a speech or recite a monologue or pretend she was accepting an Academy Award while I clapped enthusiastically from the upstairs balcony.
I turn to look at the stage, and I swear I can almost see her on it. That’s the real reason I haven’t been here in three years—not because I got too busy to come visit this beautiful place, but because every time I do, it just makes me miss Carolina more.
If I have to see ghosts, why can’t I, just once, see her?
I shake my head to ward off the newest wave of sadness rolling through me and catch Jude wandering up the ornate, art deco stairs to the balcony. He sits in one of the gold velvet chairs, eyes pensive and far away, so I decide to join him.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, and I definitely don’t have a clue what he might say to me. I do know that we haven’t had a chance to talk, really talk, since he fished me out of the ocean this morning. And I really want to hear what he has to say.
He seemed pretty clear in those moments—I’m not okay living in a world without you in it is simply a certain level of…something. But this is Jude, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s given me pretty words only to yank them back when I need them most. Before I start letting myself think about him…us, I need to make sure this isn’t all in my head.
Even knowing what I want—what I need—the climb up those stairs is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My hands are trembling by the time I make it to the top, and my knees are so wobbly that I’m surprised they manage to hold me up—even before Mozart switches to playing Coldplay’s “The Scientist” and my already shaky stomach falls to my toes.
My feet forget how to walk.
My lungs forget how to breathe.
And my heart—my poor, battered heart—forgets how not to break.
The phantoms of our broken past litter the space between us, and now that I’m here—now that we’re here—I can’t force myself to cross the divide. Not again. Not one more time.
Not when I’ve been hurt so many, many times before.
Jude’s gaze collides with mine from across the room, and a sob wells in my throat. Though I try my best to hold it back—to swallow it down—it escapes.
His eyes widen at the sound, and humiliation burns through me. All these years I’ve worked so hard to hide my pain—to focus on the fury—that its escape now feels like one more betrayal in a wild, raging ocean of them. Only this time, there’s no one to blame but myself.
I turn to flee back downstairs, where the only monsters I have to fight are the ones with teeth and claws. But I only make it to the second step before Jude is there, pulling me into his arms. Holding me against his heart. Whispering fast and frantic words against my ear.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me over and over again. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”
“It’s not your job to keep me safe.” All the years of pent-up fear and confusion explode in an instant. “It’s your job to be my safe place—they’re not the same thing.”
“I know,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look in my eyes. Just enough to run his finger over the tiny dent in my chin in that sweet and serious way he has that breaks my heart every fucking time. “I’ve finally figured that out.”
“Then why—” My voice breaks like my resolve, and I sink into him before I can stop myself.
Despite everything, he feels good and safe and right. So right. I breathe deep, wrap myself in the scent of warm honey and confidence. Then burrow closer as I wait for what feels like an eternity for him to speak.
When he does—when he pulls away and strokes a hand down my cheeks—he says the absolute last thing in the world I would ever expect him to say.
“I hate brussels sprouts.”
At first, I’m convinced I’ve heard him wrong. Convinced that too many chrickler bites and monster fights have done some serious damage. “I’m sorry?” I shake my head. “What did you say?”
The corners of his mouth turn up in that tiny smile that is only a smile if you’re Jude, and though I’m confused as fuck, my heart starts beating overtime anyway.
He holds up a finger. “I hate brussels sprouts.”
What the—
He holds up a second finger, and his eyes never leave mine. “I love you.”
Everything inside me freezes at his words—and at the realization of what it is he’s doing.
He’s finishing what we started last night before our world turned upside down. His very own Jude Abernathy-Lee version of Two Truths and a Lie.
I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to hope, as I wait for whatever comes next.
He holds up a third and final finger. And this time I have to strain to hear as he whispers, “I got sent here when I was seven because I killed my father.”