Page 46 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Nomelogranitonight, at least,” he said.

I had always loved the Italian word forpomegranate, not only because of the way it rolled off the tongue but also because of the imagery it evoked, an apple (mela) with many grains (grani). But now it had taken on a darker meaning for me, and if I never heard it again, I would not mind. “Sì, I am glad for that.”

“Be careful, Signorina Julia.” He gave me a little nod, then left me at the door to my room.

13

I awoke to a commotion in the hallway. It was still dark and I flipped the switch on the lamp at my bedside. Gala and Dalí were bantering loudly outside my door, and Jack was shushing them.

“Your room is that way, the last one down the hall,” he told them.

“Ish this your room, Jack?” Gala slurred. “Come to ours.”

“I was already there,” he said to her, like he might a child. “You wore me out, Gala, darling. Now I need to sleep. So do both of you. And, yes, this is my room.” He rattled the doorknob, and I wondered if he knew it was my room or if he was also too drunk to remember who slept where.

“Galachuka! Come! Let me undress you. Let me worship you.” I could barely understand Dalí between the liquor and his heavy accent, but the sound of his voice fading out seemed to indicate that he was leading Gala away.

Jack rattled the knob again and softly knocked two times. “What a schnook,” he whispered when I opened the door. “She’ll believe anything when she’s deep in the sauce.” He stepped into my room and locked the door behind him.

“Including the gobbledygook that this is your room?” I asked.

He gave me a broad grin. “Exactly.”

I rolled my eyes at him.

“Oh, come on, doll, you’ll let me stay for a little bit, won’t you?” He picked me up with sudden swiftness and brought me to the bed. “It’s a big bed and a dark, scary house. Let me hold you in my arms and keep you safe.” He laid me down and then leaned in to kiss me.

I had not planned on letting anyone into my room tonight, yet despite my best intentions, here was Jack—warm, strong Jack. And Ididfeel safe in his arms. In fact, the low level of fear I’d been harboring dissolved with his touch. Then I let him kiss me—slow, deliberate, and careful—and the world around us both seemed far away. His earthy smell was comforting, and he tasted faintly like apples. I wondered if Gala had stolen his Elysium wine and left him drinking calvados.

I watched him undress, his hard, chiseled body beautiful in the light from the small lamp at the bedside. He was ready for me, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He climbed into bed and roamed his hands all over my body, caressing every inch of my skin, teasing me with his fingertips, his tongue, and his lips. The longer he touched me, the more he felt familiar, deeply familiar, as though I had known him for thousands of years and his hands had explored my body countless times. We were melting into each other, rivers flowing between us, our pleasure lapping up against our very banks. At some point, I lost myself, and he must have, too, but I don’t remember it. When I woke later, it was still dark, the bed was cold, and Jack was gone.

I pulled my robe around me and went to the door to lock it again, but for some reason, I felt compelled to open it and look down the hall first. And there was Ignazio at the end of the hall, by the stairs, striding toward me with purpose. I was so stunned to see him I couldn’t respond. I watched him, transfixed, danger and desire coming closer with every step.

When he reached me, he said nothing, only stepped inside my room and pulled me close. I let him. He buried his face in my hair and wrapped his hands around my back. Dark autumn enveloped me, smoky, heavy, and hot. So hot, I thought I might burn with fever, with desperation. I had never imagined wanting someone as much as I wanted this man before me. Everything about Jack paled in comparison. I tried to speak, but he shushed me and pulled off my robe. Then he dropped to his knees and worshipped me. I almost lost myself in a cry of pleasure, but he rose again, placing his hand over my mouth before I could make a sound.

“Mine,” he whispered, his breath warm in my ear. Closing my eyes, I let his husky voice seduce me. “Only mine.”

Then he was gone. There was no embrace, no hand upon my mouth, no one touching my skin, only the cold air of the room and the lingering, faint scent of smoke. I opened my eyes and found that I was alone, leaning against the bed, naked. Shocked and terrified, I picked my robe up off the floor, wrapped it around me, and checked the door. It was locked.

As I climbed back into bed, I heard the voice again.

Julia...

I turned my head toward the sound, and there, near the door, was that same image of me that I had seen in the fire, though, this time, it wasn’t nearly so concrete, but faint, almost transparent. The apparition pointed at the door and held up three fingers. Then she winked out.

For the next few hours, I sat in bed with all the lights on, playing over the events of the morning in my mind. I could come up with only two plausible explanations. Either I was going completely mad, or there truly were supernatural forces warring over me. I leaned toward the latter, if only because the others around me had been on the edges of the same experiences.

At some point, I must have succumbed to sleep, too weary to drift into the nightmares I anticipated, for it was a knock on the door that stirred me awake. Bright sunlight crept around the edges of the curtains, and, in the light of day, the night before felt like a strange dream—a vivid one—but there was no evidence that either Jack or Ignazio had ever been in my room.

I opened the door, and there stood Gala, hands on her hips. “What are you doing, lolling about in bed?” She pushed past me and went right to the wardrobe. I was surprised to see her so hale. She was twice my age, and I knew older women didn’t bounce back from the booze the way someone my age could. She threw a dress at me, a red, flowing gown with black trim, muttering about the hard work that went into Dalí’s paintings, how useless I was, and how it should have been her image on the canvas, not mine. I narrowly managed to dodge the pair of shoes she threw at me. “This job is gravy for you and you want to muck it up by sleeping all day.” She began to mutter something about it being one of the few times she let Dalí have his way.

“That’s not true, Gala. This job is important to me.”

She pulled up the shade to my window and blinding light flooded into the room.

The light was green.

“Get a load of that,” I said. She only nodded, her mouth open in shock.

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