Page 83 of In the Garden of Monsters

I didn’t slow my pace. “Then maybe you should go back.”

“Don’t be silly, Julia. We’re not leaving you,” Jack said. “Right, Dalí? I know that I’m seeing this through with you to the end.”

Something about his declaration of loyalty fell flat. But if physical danger did lurk at the end of the tunnel, perhaps I would be grateful to have his brawn at my side.

Finally, we reached the bronze door. It was wide open, and the last dim rays of the setting sun glowed against the green metal. We raced down the path, across the boards at the stream, and through the veil that separated theboschettofrom the rest of the world.

Orpheus waited for me on the other side. He jumped into my arms, meowing. “I don’t have time for you right now, little one,” I said as I put him back down on the ground. Jack was the last one to cross the stream, and as he neared, Orpheus suddenly gave a hiss and a yowl before running back into the bushes. We looked around for the disturbance but saw none. Had he been hissing at Jack?

We took the path toward the heart of the garden, the one that Dalí had taken when we were looking for Lillian. As we turned the corner and came upon the dried-up fountain of Neptune and his dolphin, like the night before, a tangle of bushes and trees had grown up. But the bushes were different, only leaving room for a path that snaked between them in the direction of Ceres, who loomed between the trees about a hundred feet away. While that made me nervous, I was more immediately concerned with the type of foliage that had appeared. The pomegranate trees were bursting with fruit.

And that fruit was bursting.

“Mon Dieu,”Dalí cried. I couldn’t tell if he was horrified or amazed. Perhaps a bit of both. There were dozens upon dozens of the ruby fruits, each split open horizontally, revealing rows of seeds, some still unripe and white, others bloodred. They hung on the vine, arils bared like vicious fangs, their downward crowns reaching out like little tentacles, turning the pomegranates into horrifying little monsters.

“These,” he said, examining the opening in the skin that looked like a mouth, “are the most Dalínian fruits I have ever seen. If only Paolo were here with his camera.”

“They’re all split,” Jack marveled. He looked at me. “What could it mean?”

“How should I know?”

“I just thought you might,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

He sauntered over to a bush, plucked one of the fruits, and held it out to me. I recoiled, horrified.

“She’s not fond of those,” Dalí said, coming to my rescue and snatching it out of Jack’s hand. I was shocked. It was the first time that Dalí didn’t try to make me eat a pomegranate. I wondered why. I only had one more seed to eat, and if he was some sort of mechanism for my destruction, wouldn’t he want me to eat it?

“What a terrible Proserpina you make.” Jack chuckled, but I sensed he was being serious. And mean. Something was not right about him, and I didn’t like it.

“Truly terrible,” I agreed, bristling. “Come, we don’t have time for this.”

Dalí chucked the pomegranate into bushes beyond the statue of Neptune. The wind immediately kicked up, rocking the trees around us, whipping my hair into my eyes and mouth.

“Maybe you should have eaten it,” Jack said. He yanked another pomegranate off the bush, one with a jagged line of unripe white seeds.

Orpheus ran up between us and began a horrible caterwaul, a mournful, terrible sound. Jack snarled and gave the beast a swift kick, knocking him into the bushes.

“What is wrong with you? Why did you do that?” I screamed, pushing past him to part the bushes in search of Orpheus, but Jack spun me around to face him. His mouth was twisted into a snarl and his eyes were suddenly green, not that beautiful blue that I had once admired.

“I’m tired of this game,” he said, but his voice wasn’t his voice. It was the same one I heard every time I had encountered Demetra in the hallways of Palazzo Orsini. And then I understood. Demetra, named after Demeter, the Greek name for Ceres. I cursed myself for not making the obvious connection sooner.

His eyes flashed green, just as the giant’s had last night.

This wasn’t Jack. It was Ceres. Or at least, he was being controlled by her.

He yanked me toward him, pulling me into a one-armed embrace that pinned my arms to my sides like a vise. With his other hand, he pushed the pomegranate toward me, pressing the fruit against my lips.

I clenched my mouth tight, my screams muffled. I tried to struggle, but he held me fast. The pomegranate was hard against my face, smashing my lips against my teeth. I was sure he was going to break them when suddenly he crumpled, his hands loosening and falling away. The pomegranate rolled toward the bushes where Jack had sent Orpheus flying.

“No one defiles mymodelo,” Dalí said, dropping the rock in his hands. There was a splotch of blood on one side.

On impulse, I threw my arms around him. “Thank you.” I didn’t know the reason he saw fit to stop Jack, but I was grateful for it.

He stiffened in my embrace, and I pulled away. He lifted a hand, calloused from holding his brushes for hours at a time, to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

I turned from him to look for Orpheus, digging through the leaves, but he wasn’t there.

“Come, it’s getting dark,” Dalí said, putting a hand on my shoulder and looking down at Jack’s body. “Let’s find Lillian before he wakes up.”

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