The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

“And now I come back to this life,” Trent said. “My God, it’s like . . . I can’t even . . .”

Then to my astonishment he said, “Can I hug you?” And he held his arms wide.

Messenger said, “No. We are not to be touched.”

Trent nodded, accepting that. “I’m very sorry for you. It must be terribly painful for you.”

Messenger flinched and looked away. Then Messenger said stiffly, “Thank you for your concern. But we have our duty.”

“You believed you were punishing me,” Trent said kindly. “But you saved me. You saved me from what I would otherwise have become. I’m . . . I’m not that person anymore. I have to . . . to, to, to see my mom, to see my school, to go and change, like . . . everything.”

We let him go, Messenger and I, and we ourselves went away. Back to the place that’s not my home.

Messenger said nothing and finally I couldn’t take it. “Aren’t you amazed?” I demanded. “Aren’t you thrilled? I want to jump up and down and, I don’t know, sing a song or something.”

“I am pleased,” he allowed. Then, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, he added, “Yes, I am pleased.”

Then, the miracle. Messenger actually smiled.

It didn’t last long, just a second or two, but the boy in black, the Messenger of Fear, produced an actual, human grin. And then it was gone.

And now the time had come, and I was both nervous and excited. I feared that I had set in motion events that would leave me very alone. I was sad, sorry for myself, miserable, and yet, I felt no doubt about my course.

“Messenger,” I said, the words heavy on my heart. “Come with me.”

I didn’t wait for him to argue or forbid. I was suddenly there, and a moment later, so was he.

It was one of the mystical places of the type that Messenger had haunted, knowing that Ariadne had always wanted to visit.

“Stonehenge?” Messenger asked, puzzled. “Why are we at Stonehenge, Mara?”

Everyone has seen the photographs of Stonehenge, the tall, rugged uprights of ancient stone, the few remaining crosspieces that together inscribe a place of such eldritch power that few speak above a whisper there.

But the photos seldom show the surrounding emptiness, a grassy field in every direction. And they never show the quite modern building half a mile away where you can buy a sandwich and a coffee and board an open bus to take you to the henge.

It was a day of mixed sun and cloud, a sky at once promising and threatening, with the wind direction deciding fair or foul.

There were a few Stonehenge Down tourists walking slowly around the circumference, pointing cameras, striking poses, and sometimes just standing still and silent to feel the power of the place. The tourists were kept at a distance, but we, well, we had come by a different path to this place and so Messenger and I stood at the very center of the circle.

“Have you been here before?” I asked him.

He shook his head, mystified, and it was a small victory leaving him baffled for once. But it was a melancholy accomplishment because I sensed that this would be one of the last times, if not the last time, I saw the beautiful boy in black.

“No. But . . . but I have meant to come,” he said.

We were not visible to the tourists; they gazed thoughtfully and saw nothing. Only one person saw us and he stood on a slight rise beyond the parading circle. He had pushed the hood of his sweatshirt back, baring his head to the sun. Daniel watched. Did he know what I was doing? Of course he did—he is Daniel. Did he approve?

Well, he did not stop me.

“Why are we here, Mara?” Messenger asked.

“For a meeting. A reunion.”

“If this coyness is revenge for my own taciturnity, I understand but—”

“I went to the Shoals,” I said.

He froze. He did not move, speak, or even blink, for an achingly long time. Of course he knew why I had gone to the Shoals. There could only be one reason.