Chapter 16
SHE IS NO MONSTER
ELLIOT
I’ve never been in love. At least, that’s what I thought until Cora showed me that damned memory.
Looking through my eyes at fifteen, I absolutely have been in love.
I have been in the soul-consuming, beautiful, reckless love I recently believed didn’t exist. Even though I left the physical memory with Cora, I remember watching it all too well.
I can still feel that wild love in my chest, lodged somewhere deep between my ribs.
Two days later, and I’m sick with it, this realization I once loved Harrison’s murderer. It doesn’t feel possible, and I cling to the hope it’s not. Cora and her vampire clan might have manufactured the memory, and there’s one person who should be able to confirm it.
At least, I hope.
I step off the tram, my body vibrating with coiled tension.
People jostle around me, all clad in soft yellows and browns.
A man mutters about the dismal weather, and a cluster of children start a game of groundball long before they’ve cleared the crowd.
I stand in place, hands tucked into my pockets, and watch the children take off into Ochre.
I know this place better than anywhere else. The weathered sign with its bloodied thumbprints. The cobblestone streets. The clay and timber houses, all similar yet slightly different. Empty booths line the walkways, still standing from the recent autumnal festival, but clearly vacated.
With a quick glance at the address in my pocket, I follow the crowd to the east. It’s early enough in the afternoon that shop doors are propped open and the occasional vendor calls out to passerby.
I’ve done this, walked the streets of Ochre, too many times to count.
And yet, for the first time, I’m forced to acknowledge the strange sensations coursing through my body.
I’ve felt them for over a decade. Inexplicable flutters in my stomach when I pass the primary school.
A sharp pinch in my chest when I walk main street.
The feelings blossom into something darker, something heavier, whenever I pass the augur house.
I stare at the unremarkable building now, at the threadbare curtains covering each of its square windows. Though I’m tempted to slow, I don’t.
I never understood what those feelings were. I assumed they were my imagination. There was never rhyme or reason to tie the sensations to anything meaningful.
Now, I think I get it.
My body is reacting to memories I no longer have.
I might not consciously be able to name everything that’s happened here, but my body remembers.
I’m reacting to a history I’ve forgotten, and if this last memory is true, no one else remembers it either.
At fifteen, I was dating Secora in secret.
I hadn’t told Mama or Harrison. We hadn’t told anyone.
Still, I’m hopeful there’s one person who would have known—and she wasn’t just Secora’s friend. She was mine too.
I turn to the east and walk a series of near-identical subdivisions.
It’s late afternoon, and despite the cool air, the direct sunlight makes it feel warmer.
I’ve got the sleeves of my white buttoned shirt rolled to my elbows, but it’s not enough to keep the sweat from collecting on my palms. I wipe my hands against my pants as I reach the house at the end of the street.
It’s an ordinary timber and clay house. Only the overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows and the array of kids’ toys on the lawn set it apart. I smile at the sight, at the rush of nostalgia that warms my chest.
Margot Blake’s home today looks much like the one she had when we were children. Simple, but beautiful. Messy, but charming. Imperfect, but in a lovely way.
She doesn’t know I’m coming. There’s a chance she won’t be home at all.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell her, why I chose to come in the early afternoon, when she might still be at work.
There isn’t much information on her in the autumnal directory, but she’s currently employed at a nearby children’s center.
The last time I spoke to her—nearly ten years ago now—she still talked about pursuing a position in the council.
I follow a colorful brick pathway across her yard and to the front stoop. An empty bin labeled “frogs” sits to the left of the door, and several pairs of shoes line the right side. From the shoes alone, I can tell Margot has as many children as her parents.
Taking a sharp breath, I go to knock on the blue door, only for it to swing open before I touch it. A young boy, maybe five, with white hair and blue eyes stares up at me, a spitting image of Margot.
“Sorry, there’s no time!” he shrieks. He dodges around me, shortly followed by an identical set of girls, not much older than he is. All three of them carry a toad. The boy has one in each hand, and one of the girls snags the empty bin as they pass.
“Mama’s inside!” the other girl calls.
Their shrieked giggles fill the neighborhood, even once they’ve disappeared into one of the adjacent yards. Moments later, the laughter doubles, triples. Somewhere, just out of sight, there’s a whole cluster of kids screeching and cackling.
Despite where I am—and why—a smile tugs at my lips.
Harrison and I used to get into all sorts of trouble when we were their age.
We’d play pranks on the neighbors. Catch and capture every type of bug, only for one of our mothers to release them when we inevitably forgot about them.
We’d play groundball past our bedtime and make stink potions to release during mathematics.
We’d been terrible and wonderful, and Secora Reed ruined it.
I swallow and force my attention back to Margot’s home.
Her door is still open, revealing a short landing that splits to upper and lower floors.
Aside from the tiled entryway and the wooden steps, I can’t see anything.
I can only hear the tone-deaf singing of a young girl, followed quickly by her frustrated screech.
“Mama!” she screams. She’s got bright red hair and she leans over the upstairs balcony. Her face is stained with tears and heavy blush. “I can’t do this. I’m going to be the worst one—”
She cuts off abruptly when she sees me. Her face, which was already bright red, explodes with heat. Her pale hands cover her cheeks and eyes, and she collapses to the ground, out of sight. She must be fifteen, far too old to biologically belong to Margot.
I open my mouth to explain. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking…some strange man standing in her doorway, eavesdropping on her family. The problem is, I don’t know how to explain.
Your siblings left the door open? They were on a frog quest, and I got caught in the middle?
“Nadia isn’t accustomed to handsome men on our stoop. You’ll have to forgive her.”
I startle and turn in the direction of the basement. Margot Blake climbs up the final stairs, arms crossed over her chest, smile broad and blindingly beautiful. She’s always been stunning and charming and kind, and Mama used to constantly encourage me to ask her on a date.
I told Mama it would be weird. She was Harrison’s first girlfriend. She shared a home with his killer. Those excuses felt easier than the truth: Margot Blake was beautiful, but for some reason, I wasn’t interested.
“Mama!” the redhead—Nadia, apparently—screeches. “Why would you say that?”
She’s crying now, and Margot glances toward the upper balcony, an affectionate smile on her face.
I still haven’t said a word, but now, I’m not even trying. Instead, I have a palm to my chest, feeling the steady beat of my heart. Everything within me moves exactly as it should, and yet, I am hit with that eerie sensation again. That same one I notice more and more now that I know what Cora did.
My body remembers things about Margot Blake that I don’t. It’s a terrifying, world-tilting sensation. Were the memories about her good or bad? Safe or dangerous?
“Let’s step outside,” Margot says. Then, to the girl upstairs, she adds, “Keep practicing, love. You’re getting better all the time.”
I don’t dare ask what she used to sound like.
I step back onto the porch, leaning against one of its wooden pillars. Margot closes the door behind her, moving carefully around her family’s haphazard collection of shoes, and mirrors my stance against the opposite pillar. That blinding smile is back as she scans over me.
There’s nothing sexual in the way we regard each other, only a nostalgic fondness that warms my chest. Margot Blake is as beautiful as ever, but she’s undeniably different. Older. There’s a soft crease between her eyebrows now, and her blonde hair is darker than it was in my memories.
“Did you come to inform me you’ve lost your voice?” she teases. “Or to stare at me like I’m an endangered creature?”
“Secora Reed,” I say. They’re the first words I speak to her, and my voice is so raspy, it doesn’t sound like mine. Cora’s name is a terrible combination of curse and anguish coming from my lips. “I’m here because of Secora Reed.”
Margot’s expression falls. Goes blank. Even her eyes, forever gentle and kind, go distant.
“Not here,” she says quietly. The words tremble from her mouth, and her gaze darts down the street, as if expecting someone to be lurking nearby. “We can’t do this here, Elliot.”
“Can’t do what?” I ask. I lower my voice to a whisper, stepping to bridge the distance between us. Down the street, the children have started shouting again. Margot looks toward the sound, but I keep my eyes locked on her. “Margot. You have to tell me.”
“This place doesn’t know her like we do,” Margot says. She steps closer, angling her body so that she’s facing the house, rather than the street. “Anything you say will get you in trouble, Elliot. You never know who’s listening.”
Another flicker of her attention.
My stomach twists, sinks, distorts into something unrecognizable.
I came to get confirmation on what I wanted to be true: Secora Reed and I are strangers. We were acquaintances, at most. We weren’t friends, and we definitely weren’t lovers.
But the way Margot speaks…as if she and I knew Cora better than anyone else. As if I—Madam Lyrie’s son—wouldn’t be a threat to whatever twisted secret she has.
We have.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says. There’s an urgency in her voice I’ve never heard before. I think back to our last conversations, but they were always quick. Easy. I never mentioned Cora, and neither did she. “Whatever you and Secora are doing now, I can’t be part of it.”
“What makes you think I would be doing anything with her?” I ask. It’s meant to be a snarl, but it’s a whispered, pathetic question. A burning desperation that claws up my throat, laced with self-loathing.
Tell me, Margot. Confirm what I now know is true. Tell me I once loved a monster, and she loved me back.
Margot flinches, putting space between us once more. She stares at me, brows furrowed, eyes darting between my features. And then, all at once, her face softens. In a single moment, she looks years younger.
“Oh, Secora,” she says. She’s not looking at me as she speaks, but off in the distance, as if speaking though the realms, all the way to that horrible, vampiric manor. When she looks back to me, her eyes are watering. “I suspected it. That she may have taken them. I guess I just hoped…”
“Margot, if you’re fucking with me, if this is some ploy that you and Cora conjured—”
She huffs out a silent laugh, the tears remaining unshed in her eyes, making them impossibly blue.
“I haven’t spoken to Secora since the night they took her,” she says. “Clearly, you have. I can tell from the look on your face, I’m right. Did she take them all?”
“How would I know?” I snap. “She stole my memories, Margot. I barely remember her. And now, she’s giving them back, piece by piece, making it look like we were dating—”
A surprised laugh sputters from her lips.
“She’s evil,” I snarl. “She killed Harrison. My best friend. And I’m supposed to believe—”
“She loved you more than anyone, Elliot. Even herself,” Margot interrupts.
She wipes at her eyes before finally looking back at me.
Something like anger ripples beneath her expression, and her words echo through my mind like a pulsing drum.
“If she took your memories, it was for you. Not her. You may not remember Secora, but I do, and you will not speak ill of her.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. It’s an accusation. A demand. A plea. “Why the hells—”
“It’s almost impossible to steal memories,” she says, once again cutting me off. “Did you know?”
“She’s powerful,” I spit. “Her magic…it’s not like ours. Normal witches can’t steal memories, but she’s not normal. She’s a monster. She—”
“Secora is no monster,” Margot says softly. She steps away, touching the door but not opening it. “The fact you’re here, confused on my doorstep, is proof enough of that.”
“You should hate her,” I say. Demand. “She killed Harrison.”
“Yes, she did,” Margot says. “She killed him, and they imprisoned her for it. Beat her. Starved her. Planned her execution as the event of the century.”
She’s shaking as she speaks, fists so tight her hands lose color.
“If his death is what makes you angry, perhaps you gave her too much,” she says.
“She stole them,” I say. “I didn’t give her a fucking thing.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. She finally opens the door, stepping inside, where sounds of her spare daughter’s off-key singing persists. “Because I promise you, Elliot, you loved her more than anyone, too. Even yourself.”