Dark Flame (Immortals 4)

I mean, he is kind of old, and the twins do look exactly alike, or at least they did when they lived here and wore those private-school uniforms every day, and I can only imagine how they dressed before Riley got ahold of them. But something about the way he said it, so sure, so confident, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. Or if that mean, bratty, resentful side of Rayne is reserved just for me.

Hoping he can hear me before he gets too far away, I call, “Sir—um, excuse me—but do you think it’s okay if I go in and take a look? I promise I won’t disturb anything.”

He turns, waving his cane jauntily as he says, “Help yourself. Ain’t nothin’ ’ere that can’t be replaced.”

He turns, continuing on his way as I push the door inward and step inside, my foot meeting a simple, red, braided rug that softens the creak of my weight on the old wooden floor. Pausing long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dim light as I peer into a large square room dotted with a few uncomfortable-looking, straight-backed chairs, a medium-sized table, and a large wooden rocker beside a stone hearth full of ashes from a fire that was recently burned. Knowing I’ve just walked into an exact replica of the world Romy and Rayne both fled in 1692 only to re-create it right here—minus the hypocrisy, lies, and unabashed cruelty of course.

I make my way through the room, gazing up at the heavy wood beams lining the ceiling as my fingers trail along the plain, rough walls, the tables piled high with leather-bound books, along with an assortment of candles and oil lamps used to provide reading light. Unable to shake this sneaky, guilty feeling that I’m prying into something, peering into a private life I’m not sure I should see.

But, at the same time, I know it’s no accident that I’m here, I was meant to find this, of that I’ve no doubt. Because if nothing else, I know enough about Summerland to know that events are not at all random. Somewhere in these walls is something I’m meant to see. And as I wander into a small, plain bedroom I immediately recognize it as a replica of the bedroom of the aunt who raised them—the one who urged them to hide out here in Summerland in order to spare them from the Salem Witch Trials—the ultimate source of her own gruesome demise. The bed is narrow, uncomfortable-looking, offset by a small, square table holding a large leather-bound book and some dried flowers and herbs resting on top. And other than another braided rug and a tall, slim wardrobe in the corner, its door cracked just enough to glimpse the brown cotton dress hanging inside, the rest of the room is left bare.

And I can’t help but wonder if Romy and Rayne ever manifested her into existence like I once did with Damen. Can’t help but wonder just how long they fought to hold on to their life as they knew it before finally giving up, and settling for this—an imitation of what was.

I close the door behind me and head for the short ladder that leads to the loft, ducking my head against the dramatically sloped ceiling and wincing as the wood groans loudly under my feet. Quickly moving to an area where the ceiling rises higher, I straighten up and take in the narrow twin beds, and the small wooden table between them holding a pile of books and a well-used oil lamp—pretty much the same setup as their aunt’s—except for the walls that are littered with new millennium, pop-culture references that could only be the result of Riley’s influence. Every square inch of space covered with a collage of Riley’s favorites, who, knowing Riley, the twins had no choice but to pledge their allegiance to.

My eyes dart around the room, surrounded by the happy, shiny faces of former Disney stars turned teenaged tycoons, a lineup of American Idols, and just about anyone else who once graced the cover of Teen Beat magazine. And when I see the piece of notebook paper tacked to the door, I can’t help but laugh, knowing this class schedule, this roster of their manifested boarding school events, could come from no one other than my ghostly little sister.

1st period—Fashion for Beginners: Do’s & Don’ts & Mustn’t Evers

2nd period—Hair 101: Basic styling techniques, a prerequisite to Hair 102

Break—10 minutes: To be used for gossip & grooming

3rd period—Celebrity Basics: Who’s hot, who’s not, and who’s not at all what they want you to think

4th period—Popularity: A comprehensive course on how to get it & keep it without losing yourself in the process

Lunch—30 minutes: To be used for gossiping, grooming, and eating if you must

5th period—Kiss & Makeup: Everything you ever wanted to know about lip gloss but were afraid to ask

6th period—Kissing 101: What’s ick, what’s sick, and what makes him tick

A full roster of Riley’s usual obsessions, the last of which I’m sure she never got a chance to experiment with.

And just as I’m about to leave, sure there’s nothing more to see, I spot a beautiful, round jeweled frame, perched up high on the armoire, and I rise up on my toes to get it. Knowing it can’t belong to Romy and Rayne since photography wasn’t even invented until long after they left Salem, and gasping audibly when I take it all in, my eyes sweeping over a picture of us.

Me, Riley, and our sweet yellow Lab, Buttercup.

The mere sight of it eliciting a memory so clear, so palpable, it slams like a punch in the gut. Forcing me down to my knees and onto the floor, paying little notice of the rough wood scratching my skin, paying no mind to the tears that stream down my cheeks and onto the glass, leaving it streaky, blurry, but I’m no longer looking at the picture, I’m watching the event in my head. Replaying the moment when Riley and I leaned all over each other, smiling and laughing, and hamming it up as Buttercup barked excitedly and ran circles around us.

All of it just moments before the accident.

The very last photo ever taken of us.

A photo I’d forgotten about since Riley died long before she ever got a chance to download it.

I gaze around the room, my vision blurred by tears, my voice tentative, squeaky, as I call, “Riley? Riley—are you—watching this?” Wondering if she’s here, if she set this whole thing up, if she’s off in a corner somewhere, observing me.

Using the hem of my sweater to wipe first my face, then the glass, knowing that even though she fails to respond, even though I can no longer access her, this is her doing. She recreated this picture. Wanted me to have yet another reminder of what we once shared and who I once was, just one year before.

And even though I’m tempted to try to take it back to Laguna,

I leave it right where I found it instead. It’s a Summerland thing. It’ll never survive the return trip home. Besides, for some strange reason, I like knowing it’s here.

I make my way down the ladder and back through the great room, sure I’ve seen all I was meant to and preparing to leave. Almost at the front door when I notice a painting I missed on my way in. Its frame simple, black, crudely crafted from a few strips of painted wood. But it’s the subject that grabs my interest, a finely honed portrait of an attractive yet somewhat plain woman—or at least by today’s standards anyway. Her skin is pale, her lips are thin, and her dark brown hair is scraped severely off her face, pulled back into what was probably a tightly coiled bun. But no matter how serious the pose, no matter how stern the expression, there’s something much lighter shining in her eyes, as though she’s merely playing the part of a proper, subdued woman of her time, posing this way for propriety’s sake, while inside lurked a fire few people would’ve guessed at.

And the longer I stare into those eyes—the more sure I am. Even though I try to talk myself out of it, convince myself it’s not possible, not in the most remote way—that subliminal hint that’s been edging at me, persisting off and on for the last several weeks, has now manifested before me, in a way so clear, so startling, it can’t be ignored.