Page 24 of Snag
Nothing lasts forever, of course.
If I hadn’t already known that as absolute truth, the missing, stolen, or severed soul bonds between Rought, Rath, Reck, and me make that fundamentally clear.
But Precious and DeVille are mine to protect for now. To mentor. Or to nurture? Am I capable of nurturing?
Such relationships are common among the awry. Purple-eyed essence-wielders protect other purple-eyed wielders — though my aunt only mentored me.
Prior to becoming the Conduit, I floated around the world, tugged this and that way by the universe and fixing things. Then walking away. I didn’t even keep close tabs on those few who claim blood relations with me. No holiday cards or birthday celebrations unless I simply happened to be in town at the time. There were inheritances and bequests, but no one other than my aunt to turn to —
I never asked the Conduit for help. That wasn’t my place.
She belonged to the universe.
Didn’t she?
My head churning with too many unanswered questions, too many things I never slowed down enough to question before, I slip away, heading down the hall toward my aunt’s bedroom.
But once there, I don’t step past the doorway. Despite the massive plush bed and the easily lit fireplace, the room feels empty, unwelcoming, even for a simple nap.
People are still coming and going from the house, including Rought and Grinder seemingly swapping or coordinating vehicles, and Rath still prowling around.Doing what, I have no idea. Gigi’s in the kitchen, still interrogating anyone who crosses her path, and so subtly that they’ve no idea she’s compiling profiles on each of them. Unless I want to get pulled into any of that — and I don’t — a freshly churned milkshake isn’t an option either.
I find myself drawn to the last door at the end of the hall instead. It’s partially open, and I can’t remember if I left it that way.
Just beyond that door, a dark-wood staircase spirals up into the tower where my aunt kept her office. Built-in dark-wood shelves line the walls, all strewn with books, some neatly stacked and some haphazardly piled as if abandoned in the middle of shelving.
In tidy stacks of three or four, Mack’s black-metal-framed photographs are set around the base of the stairs, propped up against the lowest shelves with just enough space remaining to step through and ascend the staircase. Rath must have transferred the photos to the tower instead of my room, despite the fact that there isn’t any space to hang them on the book-filled walls.
Though I knew of the tower, and that my aunt spent most of her time in her office at the top of it, this door was always obscured from my sight when I was younger. It only appeared when I was summoned by my aunt. In the first year or so that I lived on the estate, maybe longer, I occasionally perched in the large oak tree deeply rooted on this side of the house, gazing up at the tower windows, hoping for a glimpse of Disa.
I don’t know if that’s my own memory or just an implanted echo of the picture of me and Muta in the oak tree that Mack captured. Captured and turned into a memory? Or has the memory resurfaced because of the photograph?
I can feel the bark of the tree under the palms of my hands, and the way I needed to twist my leg around the thicker branches to anchor myself in its boughs …
I wait, hovering at the base of the stairs with the photographs at my feet. I wait for more memories triggered by those images to surface. Memories of the friendship and love captured in black and white and …
None do.
I shake free of the moment, crouching down next to the nearest stack of framed photographs, then glancing back at the still-open door.
If the door to the tower is still obscured by whatever weaving tied it to the Conduit, Rath can apparently see and walk through those protections. Though perhaps that casting has eroded with Disa’s death.
At the front of the nearest stack is the last photo of all four of us together, on the beach by the fire with our fresh tattoos, in our late teens and early twenties. My tattoo was erased, along with the mating bite on my left hand, with my first death. And I’m just guessing that Reck is older than me by a few years.
Not really thinking about the why yet, I pick up and hold the surprisingly weighty photograph to my chest. Then I slowly climb the spiral stairs to the office at the top of the tower.
Though the cloudy sky valiantly attempts to filter through the upper windows, without the overhead lights on, the room is dimly lit. And desperately still. Quiet.
I grip the photo a bit tighter as my focus is once again instantly drawn from the top of the stairs to the massive curve-fronted, maple armoire set between the windows on the far right of the high-ceilinged circular room that tops the tower. Mahogany and rosewood glyphs line thearmoire’s double doors, concentrated around the two wooden handles. The metal of the picture frame digs into the flesh of my fingers, rubbing against my ribcage.
No keyhole has miraculously appeared on the sealed armoire since I was first drawn to it three days ago. Not that I’ve found any mysterious keys yet. The only clue to that nagging mystery is the note from my aunt I found with the ice-cream maker.
The armoire will open when you’re ready.
Ready for what?
And how is whatever spell sealing the armoire meant to judge that readiness?
With the photo cradled in one arm, I press my hand against the smooth wood of the armoire — right where I’m certain an upper shelf stands within. A shelf that holds something that belongs to me. And as before, a strange, disconnected terror slides through me. My heart is suddenly hammering against my rib cage.
