Taken (Dark Legacy Duet 1)

But then, when I get closer, I can see that beneath the thick strand of stone hair, the angel’s face is just visible enough, and one eye looks straight out at me. It’s a Watcher, standing guard over the Scafoni remains, not passive at all, but fierce.

And she knows I don’t belong here.

It almost makes me stop. Almost.

But I steel my spine and reach out to brush the tips of my fingers against the gritty iron of the gate. It’s slightly a jar, not quite closed, and I push.

It’s so quiet here that the creak sounds a hundred times louder than it is. If I’d thought it was chilly outside, it’s doubly so inside. A hanging lantern shines a red light over the space, illuminating the room just enough to let me see. A breeze blows, and something tickles my toes, making me gasp and jump until I realize it’s just a dead leaf blown out of its resting place by the wind.

All around me, Scafoni names are carved in stone, dates beneath them. Birth and death. Iron candle holders, like long fingers, protrude from beside each name. Some have stubs of candles, some are filled with dirt. I read some of the names, the oldest ones. Hundreds of years old.

When I come upon Anabelle’s, I stop. I reach out and touch the engraving.

Hers is one of the forgotten graves. And beside her is her son, Giuseppe.

His last name is listed as Scafoni-Willow.

I’m surprised at it. Surprised they’d not banish the name from this final resting place of the Scafoni family because they can’t want to remember us in death.

Although the Willow part of the name seems to be vandalized, like someone took a jagged stone and scratched it through a hundred times, but it’s still there. Still among the Scafoni dead, hanging like a shadow over them even in death.

I reach out to touch it, trace the letters of my name.

Do I believe the story Sebastian told me about Anabelle? He could have lied. What’s to prevent him from lying? Painting us in the worst possible light?

I drop my hand, cross to the newer stones. I find Joshua Scafoni’s marker. Sebastian’s father. The man who chose my Aunt Libby to be his Willow Girl. Beside it, I expect to find his mother, and I do see her, but there’s one name between them. Timothy Scafoni.

Confused, I read the date. The child lived three days. I do the math. Do it again. It can’t be.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice makes me jump and I spin around, clutching my heart.

They sound so much alike, Gregory and Sebastian. You’d almost mistake the one for the other.

Not me, though. Gregory’s voice carries a hint of malice in it. It’s just a hint, but I hear it.

“You don’t belong here, Willow Girl.”

I swallow. I’d step back, but I’m already backed up against the stone grave wall, and the iron candle holders are digging into my back.

He takes a step toward me, looks just beyond me, comes close enough to touch me. But he doesn’t.

“I got lost.”

I can’t move when he turns to me, when he’s so close I can feel the heat of his body and all I see are his eyes and the way they watched me that night.

“I don’t believe that,” he says, his voice quiet. Almost gentle. Not quite, though. It’s missing something to be gentle.

I wonder why he’s wearing a suit and remember how, before he took me down from the whipping post, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. A small kindness.

I meet his eyes, but I can’t read him.

“I’ll go,” I say.

“Did you do the math?” he asks, reaching for a candle and taking a lighter out of his pocket to light it.

My legs seem finally able to function again. I take a step away and watch him drip wax onto the stub of a candle in the holder at his father’s marker, then push his candle into it, uniting the two.

He turns to me. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Sebastian’s not firstborn.”

“Twins.”

Gregory nods. “Timothy was first. Only survived days, though.” He glances at Sebastian’s mother’s marker. “Killed her too, two years later.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sebastian didn’t tell you?”

I shake my head.

“His mother committed suicide. In here.”

I glance at the marker, read the date of her death, the month, the day. It’s the day her sons were born, just two years later. She killed herself on Sebastian’s birthday.

Gregory steps toward me and again, I’m locked in place. Trapped.

“Still not scared of me?”

I shake my head quickly. Too quickly.

“What do you think he’ll do when you learns you were in here?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know.” He slides his gaze over me. I’m wearing a T-shirt to cover the marks on my back, and a skirt. His eyes settle at my thighs for a minute, then a little higher. When he returns his gaze to mine, he cocks his head to the side. “He’ll be mad. Pissed enough to use the whipping post for what it’s meant for.”