Chapter 48
FAULT LINES
Imove aside dead leaves and twigs as birds chirp and the crisp morning air nips my skin. I cast a look over my shoulder, toward the trail.
He’s late.
He probably stopped for gas and got caught in conversation with the clerk.
Everybody’s talking about the earthquake that wasn’t an earthquake.
At least, not one that registered on any richter scales.
So then, what was it? The town is abuzz over one more unexplainable event in Foggy Hollow’s long list of them.
The Flash of 1757.
The Fire of 1822.
The Disappearance of 1995.
And now, the Tremble of 2025.
Only this time, I know the cause.
Our town exists on a supernatural fault line. Not a fracture in the Earth’s crust, but a schism between worlds. Because of that schism, we have a rift.
And a curse.
My hand moves to my collarbone. The touch burns, only the burn isn’t hot but cold.
I told Dad I wasn’t feeling well and stayed home from church.
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. There’s a pit in my stomach that no amount of sleep or Maggie’s chamomile tea can soothe.
But I never intended to stay home and rest.
A branch snaps behind me.
I turn fast, extra jumpy given the circumstances.
Twig emerges from the trees, one arm tucked tight in a sling, the other clutching a crowbar and a car jack.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and careful, like someone might hear. “I triple checked to make sure nobody was following me.”
By nobody he means Rafe.
The two of us get to work, at first in silence.
Twig wedges the crowbar beneath the slab.
It takes both of our strength to lift it enough to fit the car jack underneath.
Not until we descend the stone stairs with our flashlights on do I start talking.
The words pour out in a gush. I tell him all about Rafe’s plan.
The way he used Lainey to execute it. The rift opening and what it was like on the other side.
Twig listens, his head on a swivel as he takes in our surroundings. When I use the key to get inside the crypt, he turns into a kid in a candy shop. I don’t blame him. If I weren’t in such distress myself, I’d probably join him. But the burn beneath my collar smarts—so sharp, I grimace.
“Hey,” Twig says. “Are you okay?”
I consider lying.
But this is Twig.
He’s going to find out sooner or later.
So, I pull down the collar of my shirt and show him what I have yet to show Jude.
His face turns gray.
I tug the collar back into place. “Please don’t say anything to him.”
“But that’s—”
“I know what it is.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.
“Please, Twig? He’s going to freak out.”
“Shouldn’t you be freaking out?”
“What’s the point?” The mark is there. That’s a fact. But maybe it doesn’t have to mean what we think it means. “There’s a reason Ezra painted me. Those words he wrote? Beacon. Balm. Blessing. Maybe that’s what I can be.”
“Do you know how to break a curse?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.” I turn away from my friend and his very visible concern. I didn’t come here to talk about the curse. I came here to protect the people I love.
“Selah? I really think you should tell him.”
I pick up the pearl and the onyx. I grab the locket, too. Because why not have all the pieces to the puzzle? Rafe wants the gemstones by midnight. I’m not convinced handing them over is a good idea, but given his ultimatum, what other choice do we have?
A haunting sonata envelops me as soon as Tulane invites me inside.
Jude sent a text.
We need to talk.
He’s right. We do.
We need to devise a plan, figure out exactly how to hand over the gemstones while keeping Rafe from his ultimate goal.
But right now, that goal feels small and far away.
All that exists is this soul-stirring music, so filled with longing, it makes my chest ache.
I follow Tulane to the music room as if in a trance.
Then we reach the open doors, and whatever’s left of my breath whooshes away.
The rift hangs in the air like a freshly stitched wound.
A jagged seam of darkness, the edges frayed and flickering with veins of obsidian light.
I turn to Tulane, but he simply bows and leaves like nothing is amiss.
Like that wound is as invisible to him as it was to Twig and Lainey the night before.
I step closer, remembering the way it tore open in my dream.
A violent explosion that sucked Simon and his family straight in.
The police found no evidence of anything amiss other than a fallen candelabra.
But what if it was there all along in the dining room?
A fresh wound, just like this one. Only they couldn’t see it.
A niggling thought wiggles into my brain.
Ezekiel Cotton’s first claim.
Last night, I found it underwhelming and obvious. Of course mortal descendants of angels would have a strong connection to the spiritual realm. But now, stepping around the rift as it hangs there like an omen, warping the music ever so slightly, I find myself reconsidering it.
Dante wasn’t the only angel to create a mortal line.
I stare, as transfixed by the sight as I am by the music. If I reached out and touched it, would my hand slip through? Is that creature from the fountain waiting for me on the other side?
I take a step away, closer to Jude.
He sits at the piano, unaware of my presence. The soft cotton of his oxford shirt pulls gently across his back, tracing the shape of lean muscle as his hands move like liquid across the keys.
I recall those same fingers in my hair.
His lips on mine.
Our bodies pressed together.
Heat blooms low in my abdomen.
The spot under my collar burns like ice.
And I wonder. Is this what masochists feel?
Pleasure in pain.
A hunger for more.
Jude stops playing in the middle of a refrain.
The room goes jarringly silent.
He sits impossibly still. Achingly forlorn. Then—bang—he slams the lid shut. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
My heart leaps.
The rift crackles.
He pushes to his feet and kicks the stool out from under him.
It clatters across the floor and slides to a stop.
With his hands curled into fists, he turns. And for one raw, unguarded moment, before he sees me, his expression is ravaged.
I step toward him.
But he lifts his hand in a gesture to stop. To stay away. “When were you going to tell me?”
“T-tell you what?”
“Really, Selah?”
I swallow, unsure. For all I know, he went to the crypt and found the empty jewelry box. He’s upset I didn’t invite him to join. “I went to St. Fortuna’s this morning and got the gemstones.”
“I’m not talking about the gemstones.”
I bite my lip.
His eyes burn as he crosses the room, as he stands in front of me. Ever so gently, he brushes my hair over my shoulder. My heart pounds like a caged bird. I wish I’d zipped up my coat. Opted for a turtleneck instead of this shirt with a scooped neck.
With his attention fixed on my clavicle, he hooks his thumb beneath the fabric and draws it aside.
His chest rises, sharp and uneven.
“Twig told you,” I whisper, frustration seeping into every syllable.
“He’s scared.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’m scared,” he says, his voice simmering.
“It’s going to be okay.”
With a shake of his head, he lets go of my shirt and turns away.
Tentatively, I touch his shoulder.
He turns so fast I startle. “Explain it to me, then.”
“E-explain what?”
“How is it going to be okay?”
“My mom didn’t die.”
A bitter laugh breaks from his throat.
“No, listen,” I say. “She had this same mark. But she kept living.” I step closer, needing him to believe me. Needing to believe myself. “The curse didn’t kill her.”
Sure, Simon and his family got sucked through the rift. But no need to call that out. At least, not at this very moment.
He shakes his head again, like I’m talking nonsense. Like I don’t understand. “She was put into a psych ward. She turned into an addict. A mother who walked out on her daughter.”
The truth cuts.
“Maybe she’s alive out there somewhere, but that doesn’t make her any less tragic. All because Simon dared to love her.” His voice is bitter, cracked through with pain. “I don’t accept that fate for you.”
“It’s a tricky thing to avoid, though, isn’t it?”
We both turn.
Rafe steps into the room with a shiny red apple. “I heard the two of you arguing. Thought I’d pay a little visit. Remind you of the deadline. Only to discover this fun little turn of events.” He twiddles his fingers in my direction. “You can’t fight fate, Jude. Unless, of course …”
He lets the words dangle as he polishes the apple on his suit coat.
I glare, my blood boiling.
Ezra should have let him die.
Let him rot in the grave where he belongs.
“The only one who can undo the curse is the one who cast it, and Seraphina’s still trapped in a tomb.” He leans against the doorframe, crossing one ankle over the other.
“Help me free her and your sweet Selah won’t have to—” He drags a finger across his neck with the sharp click of his tongue. Then, with a taunting lift of his brow, he casts a glance at the rift and tosses Jude the apple. “Looks like we’re on the same team now, Cousin.”