Chapter 16
SICK AS A DOG
Isprint through the woods, lungs burning, heart racing as branches scratch and claw at my face and arms. I look over my shoulder—at the rabid, snarling beast in close pursuit—and a vine grabs my ankle.
I fall flat on my face with a loud oomph.
I scramble to my feet and keep running. I don’t look back and I don’t stop until I burst into a clearing.
Two bodies lay in the grass.
There’s blood.
So much blood.
And a young man, rocking back and forth, weeping in despair.
I turn to flee.
But Rafe is there, blocking my way.
Fear turns to anger.
“You punched Jude.”
His smirk curls into a grin.
I wind back and clock him in the jaw. He grabs his chin. His nostrils flare. His chest heaves. His skin grows fur. He tips his head back and howls at the moon as his body morphs into the monster. The Nachtdier. His eyes glow red, and he pounces.
I lurch upright in bed, my sheets drenched in sweat, my stomach a ball of fire that hurls up my throat. I cup my hand over my mouth, fall to the floor, and grab the garbage bin next to my desk just in the knick of time.
Dad finds me.
His strong arms scoop me up. He places a cool rag over my forehead as I slip into fevered dreams.
I’m dancing in a candlelit ballroom, the faces of the guests blurred like melted wax.
I’m tumbling down the stone well and there are crows at the bottom.
They peck at my arms and my legs. I stand in the hallway at school with Twig, who holds a lighter in one hand, the Vandenberg Family Tree in his other.
“We have to erase all of them,” he says, touching flame to parchment.
Hooves clop on cobblestone.
A horse whinnies outside.
My bedroom door opens.
A gaunt man in a dark coat and cravat steps inside carrying a black medical bag. His eyes are sunken, his cheekbones sharp as he comes to my bedside with a mournful shake of his head.
He opens his bag.
An assortment of tools glint from inside. He pulls out a glass jar. The dark water churns sluggishly. Sinuous black forms writhe within. “We must draw the fever out.”
I bat my hand listlessly.
The doctor is gone.
The sickness remains.
My body is fire but I can’t stop shivering. My teeth chatter. My stomach rolls. My bones hurt.
I’m standing in the ruins of St. Fortuna’s.
The Woman of the Woods is with me, her long raven hair cascading down her back.
I want to see her face. I want to speak with her.
Ask her who she is and why she haunts this place.
But she keeps dancing out of reach. I can’t get to her.
Then the ground opens up beneath me and I’m falling, falling, falling.
Into a dungeon with coffins.
One creaks open.
A whisper rises from within.
“Seeeeelaaaaaaaaah.”
The voice is familiar and feminine.
“Come find me.”
My eyes flutter open.
I lie in bed, my sheets still drenched. Or maybe drenched again?
I try to move my tongue but my mouth is Sahara Desert dry.
Sunlight pours through my window. Birds chirp outside.
The clock on my bedside table reads 10:58 a.m. There’s a bottle of Pedialyte on my bedside table.
A digital thermometer. And a bucket. With a grimace, I rise up to peek inside. Thankfully, it’s empty.
I sink into my bed.
I feel like a wrung out rag. A bowl full of limp noodles.
It takes all my strength to sit up and grab the Pedialyte.
I take sips at first, then long draws, until the bottle is empty and my tongue is no longer sandpaper.
My body, however, feels like it’s been through war. Even reaching for my phone hurts.
The screen lights up.
It’s Thursday!
I’ve been incoherent for over twenty-four hours. With a million missed calls and text messages, most of them from Twig.
Dad pokes his head inside my bedroom. When he sees me sitting, his tired eyes brighten. “Hey, there.” He comes all the way in. “It’s good to see you up.”
“I wish it felt good.”
Dad chuckles a little, then runs his hand through his hair, which sticks up in the back. “Can I get you some more Pedialyte? Maybe something to eat?”
I grimace.
The mere mention of food makes me queasy, but if I want to get some modicum of energy back, I should probably try to eat.
We agree on toast and a Gatorade. He helps me to the bathroom, where I set my hands on either side of the sink and behold my reflection.
I bear an uncanny resemblance to the physician from my dreams. Pale face. Sunken eyes. Hollow cheekbones.
I move like a sloth as I brush my teeth, shower, dry off, and dress in fresh clothes.
By the time I’m back in my bedroom, Dad has changed the bedding and fluffed my pillows.
There’s a bottle of white Gatorade on my bedside table, along with a plate of toast and a sleeve of saltine crackers, a bottle of Tylenol, and a television remote.
Dad comes in behind me carrying the set from downstairs.
“Dad,” I say.
“In case you get bored.” He sets it on a TV tray and plugs in the cord. “Will you be able to see it from your bed okay?”
“I’ll be able to see it just fine.”
He nods, his hands resting on his hips. “Well, I have a lot of work to catch up on, so if you’re feeling better …”
I tell him I’m fine and thank him. He drops a kiss on my forehead. I crawl back into bed with my phone and sink against the pillows. I drink some of the Gatorade. I force down a few bites of toast. Then attend to the messages I’ve missed.
There are two from Walt. One’s from him, and the other is from him on behalf of Maggie, who doesn’t own a cell phone, because why in tarnation would I want to make myself constantly available? There’s two from Naomi, three from Harper.
The rest are from Twig.
Wednesday, 8:16 a.m.: Hey. Where are you?
Wednesday, 8:31 a.m.: Must talk ASAP. Text me when you get here.
Wednesday, 8:32 a.m.: Dug this up last night.
The message came attached with a link. When I click on it, I’m taken to an old blog post titled Forgotten Crimes of West Virginia. There’s a small paragraph dedicated to a bank robbery in 1930. In Foggy Hollow. Isaiah Vandenberg and his wife are listed among the victims.
I return to my messages and continue scrolling.
Wednesday, 9:24 a.m.: I’m at DEFCON 2 here, Selah. One more hour and I’m calling in the National Guard to report an alien abduction.
Wednesday, 10:12 a.m.: Okay. So Mom says you’re sick. Hope it’s not too bad. Talk after school?
Wednesday, 5:32 p.m.: Thinking of you. Feel better soon.
Thursday, 7:04 a.m.: Any better? Proof of life?
Thursday, 8:23 a.m.: Mom says you’re still sick. I have robotics at four, but I’m stopping by after school to make sure you aren’t actually transitioning into a vampire. If you’re going immortal, I’m going with you.
This makes me smile.
There’s one final message at 8:25 a.m.
P.S. Will bring homework.
The time is now 1 p.m. I take two Tylenol and munch on some saltine crackers as I pull up the picture I took of the Vandenberg Family Tree.
I try to do some research, but there’s little to no information online and my eyes are sore.
I’m dying to talk to Maggie, who would know all about the train crash in 1890 and the bank robbery in 1930.
I ring Evermore Books, but there’s no answer.
I’d email her, but I don’t think she has one of those either.
Walt does though.
A phone, too. Hence, his text messages.
And he used to work for the Foggy Hollow Gazette.
I send him my request.
Hey Walt, I’m looking for information regarding a train crash near Foggy Hollow in 1890, as well as a bank robbery in 1930. I’d get myself to Maggie’s archives, but I’m still under the weather. Can you help?
I hit send and stare at the screen, like Walt is attached to his phone and might send an immediate response. But there’s nothing. No read receipt. No scrolling ellipse.
With a sigh, I turn on the television. I open Prime, where I have a collection of fantastic movies at my disposal. In light of Twig’s reference to the immortal, I select The Lost Boys. Right around the time Michael lets go of the train tracks and plummets into the fog, I begin to doze.
An hour and a half later, my phone dings.
Walt has replied.
And he has delivered.
I skim the pair of headlines.
Bank Heist Ends in Bloodshed; Prominent Businessman Slain in Crossfire.
Express Train Plunges from Tracks; Multiple Dead, Many Injured.
I zoom in on a grainy black-and-white photograph of a wealthy-looking family standing shoulder to shoulder, and read the caption below.
The Vandenberg family, photographed earlier this year at their estate in Foggy Hollow, West Virginia.
All but Mr. Isaiah Vandenberg perished in Thursday’s fatal derailment en route to New York City.
Also among the deceased was Miss Helena Pisel, a young woman traveling in the family’s company.
Sources close to the family confirm she had been engaged in a quiet courtship with Mr. Vandenberg, the family’s sole surviving heir.
Poor Isaiah.
I swipe to the bank robbery article. There’s no picture, but there is a list of the deceased, which includes Isaiah.
He escaped death in 1890 only to meet an untimely demise forty years later, alongside his wife, and a young woman who was betrothed to their son, Enoch. Enoch survived, but lost his left eye.
Jude’s one-eyed uncle.
That’s how Enoch became one-eyed. He was injured in a bank robbery, which stole the life of his parents and his fiancé. Before him, his father lost everyone he loved in a train crash. And before them? Young Ruth Vandenberg was killed alongside her friend in a supposed animal attack.
“Yikes,” I whisper.
Downstairs, the front door opens.
A familiar voice calls from below.
“Selah? Your dad said I could come up.”
After a beat, footsteps sound on the stairs.
Twig peeks inside my room and smiles. “A queen on her throne.”
“A sickly queen,” I reply.