Lightning Struck (Brothers Maledetti Book 3), page 18
The men yelled at each other, each gesturing wildly.
This was surprisingly more fun than I had anticipated.
I puffed myself up and lunged forward, moving straight for the driver’s head. Predictably, he screamed and swerved, sending us all off the road.
The car flew down a short embankment before colliding with a stone wall. The airbags deployed but the driver’s head still hit the windshield, knocking the man unconscious.
The passenger fared better, but the car was wedged against the wall, pinning that side of the car shut. The passenger with his gun was trapped for now.
I was completely unaffected by the crash. I simply remained standing in the hood of the car, now crumpled and steaming. I walked into the interior of the car, looming over the hyperventilating passenger.
“Who are you?” I hissed in Italian, making my voice as ghoul-like as possible.
“W-what do you want?” The man pressed himself against his door. “We were just following orders.”
“Whose orders?” I barked.
“The S-storm.” La Tempesta.
Of course. As suspected.
“What do they want?”
The man flinched.
“Tell me!” I lurched forward, my nose mere inches from his.
The man shrank backward. “The woman. She has to die. She heard too much.”
I nodded.
“Tell your boss that if one hair on Chiara D’Angelo’s head is harmed, I will haunt him throughout eternity.” My eyes flared as I spoke, my face creeping even closer, my voice low and spectral. “Anyone who comes after her will be damned. Anyone who issues orders to hurt her will be damned. Your boss had better hope that Chiara lives for a very long time. Because I am an Enemy. To. Be. Feared.”
The man’s face paled.
“Do you understand?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Say it!”
“I-I unders-stand,” he panted.
“Your word is your bond,” I intoned. “I expect the entire Tempeste organization to abide by this agreement. Goodbye.”
I didn’t wait for the man’s reply. I simply walked right through him, into the rock wall beyond, his terrified yelp ringing in my ears.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Witnesses to the accident had parked their cars on the shoulder of the road and were calling to the men. One intrepid soul was even scrambling down to them.
For my part, I crept around the mayhem, sticking to the shadows until I came to the road again. From there, it was easy to throw myself into the back of another lorry, carrying me north toward Chiara.
Chiara
I drove for several miles after passing the semi, putting space between me and the men.
They didn’t reappear behind me. My mind knew that Jack would be okay, but my heart put up such a racket, it was hard to hear the logical side of the argument.
He’s a ghost. Nothing can hurt him. I repeated the phrase over and over.
I pulled onto a nicely hidden side street, debating how long I should wait before going back to find Jack. Obviously, I needed a much stronger sense of self-preservation. Fortunately, I was only five minutes into my internal struggle when Jack dropped off a passing semi and loped up the lane.
It took all my reserves not to throw open my car door and race toward him, throw my arms around his neck and cling to him like velcro. The scene looked amazing in my mind. Roll-the-credits theatrical.
But in reality, I would flow right through him and land in a heap on the muddy road.
So . . . yeah.
Having more-than-friend feelings for a ghost kinda sucked.
Instead of a movie-worthy reunion, I sat tight. Jack slid into the car—literally ghosting through the trunk into the back seat.
My eyes hungrily drank him in, scanning for changes.
“You’re okay?”
“Thank heavens, you are unharmed.”
Our voices overlapped.
I laughed, trying to break through the tension.
“What happened?” I asked.
Jack caught me up-to-date. Car. Bullets. Thugs. Crash.
Wow. The Cosa Nostra really had put out a hit on me.
Let’s face it. It was bound to happen sooner or later. But still . . . my heart lurched into my throat and my pulse pounded and my vision darkened at the edges.
Keep it together, Chiara.
From there, I made a series of phone calls.
Inspector Paola was predictably furious, telling me I needed to tuck myself away in a hideout and keep my face out of the limelight.
My brothers were horrified and suddenly ridiculously overprotective. It was sorta nice once I overlooked the ridiculously overprotective part.
Jack felt confident that his threats to the mobsters would deter them from coming after me. The mafia were a superstitious lot.
None of the rest of us were so sure.
Dante called a friend who then called another friend who called in a favor from another friend, eventually landing us a vacation apartment in the Cinque Terre—the Five Earths—a colorful series of fishing villages sprawling down cliffs along the Ligurian coast, north and west of Florence.
Tucked against the rugged coastline, Riomaggiore was the very definition of a charming, Italian seaside town. Small and difficult to access, it would be the perfect hiding place. We made our way north, skirting Florence and winding along back roads.
We arrived late. Streetlights flickered past, painting the inside of the car in rapid-fire streaks of tie-dyed orange and yellow.
Driving into the top of the town, I parked my car in the private garage that came with the apartment. From there, I shouldered my luggage and a bag of groceries and began the long slog down to the apartment itself. Jack drifted along beside, grumbling about not being able to help me.
Riomaggiore as a town had grown organically over thousands of years, moving up the steep mountain slopes from the ocean’s edge. For most of its existence, the village had ignored the reality of wheeled vehicles. This meant that the streets were mostly stairs and alleyways with no rhyme or reason. The ultimate labyrinth. Fortunately, it was late and dark, keeping Jack well-hidden.
After getting lost not once but three times, we managed to find the tiny alleyway and entrance to the apartment. I was exhausted and ready to collapse into bed.
I fumbled with the lock and stumbled into the apartment only to be greeted by an enormous poster of Ariel from The Little Mermaid.
I blinked.
And then slowly rotated.
Belle. Cinderella. Elsa. Ariel. Tiana.
The house looked like a Disney cruise gift shop had been sick all over it. Vaguely, I remembered Dante mentioning something about the apartment being dedicated to the owner’s small grandkids.
Jack spun in a circle, eyes snagging on the array of princess-themed bike helmets, life vests, beach floats and other accessories stacked against one wall.
Our eyes locked.
Him: This is kinda creepy.
Me: Beggars can’t be choosers.
Him, eyebrow raised: Oh, but we can. It’s something we learn in Lord School.
Me: I’m too tired for this.
There had been too many revelations today. Too many emotional ups and downs.
I needed sleep.
I fumbled through the luggage, digging out Jack’s tablet. I set the tablet on the coffee table and propped it up on its stand, unlocking the screen for him.
“Thank you,” he said. The tablet had voice activation and would enable him to watch television and continue to research the D’Angelo archive.
“You’re welcome. I’m off to bed and a very long sleep. That is, unless the building is on fire or a meteor hits the city.”
It was a testament to my exhaustion that I passed right by a Sleeping Beauty dream catcher without a single comment.
“I’ll be here, Chiara. Sleep well.” Jack’s warm voice followed me down the hall, carrying comfort with it.
I changed into some pajamas and managed to brush my teeth before collapsing face first onto a Princess Elsa bedspread.
I blame Riomaggiore and all the cutesy kiddy-kitsch for the dream that followed. Though it wasn’t so much a dream as a memory.
I was ten-years-old, sitting next to my dad as we drove along the Amalfi Coast. Just me and him. A daddy/daughter autumn getaway, he said. He even let me sit in the front passenger seat.
“I don’t know if you’ll ever be big enough to ride up here, mia passerotta,” he said. “So we’ll just have to bend that rule.”
Babbo never let my size hinder my ability to accomplish things.
I felt so grown-up. The wind was in my hair from the open window, miles and miles of blue ocean stretching before me.
The Amalfi Coast was a white-washed version of the Cinque Terre. Instead of buildings plastered in every color of sunset, houses along Amalfi were all painted shades of white. They stacked up the towering slopes like Lego blocks, a winter scape nestled between green hills and blue Mediterranean sea.
I was in my Mulan phase because she was just like me—dark hair, dark eyes, petite, lots of spunk, determined to hold her own in a man’s world. I desperately wanted to move to China to begin my life as a warrior princess.
My dad took me to Amalfi instead.
We sang songs from the Mulan soundtrack and stopped for gelato in Praiano. We wandered across the cathedral piazza, me clutching my little cup of ice cream. Leaning against the stone railing overlooking the sea, I ate my chocolate nocciola gelato far too fast. Babbo didn’t care. He simply handed me his half-eaten strawberry and pistachio to devour.
“Look at the seagulls there.” He pointed toward the birds hovering over the water. “They’re searching for something to steal.”
“No, they’re not, Babbo,” I giggled, watching the birds swoop up and down. Seagulls didn’t flock like sparrows or meadowlarks. They had more individuality. “They’re telling us to be careful. Dark times are coming, but there will be happiness and light after the storm has passed.”
I had been superstitious even then.
Babbo had certainly noted it. He had stared at me for a long time, eyes suddenly pensive.
“When did you become so wise, mia passerotta?” he asked.
I giggled again, shoulders shrugging in careless indifference. I had learned to shrug like that after watching my friend, Mary-Charlotte Rossington, do it over and over when she talked with the sixth graders. Mastering a world-weary shrug seemed an important stepping-stone into teenagerhood.
Of course, my giggling laugh kinda killed the whole effect.
But I didn’t care.
A little brown sparrow suddenly darted down from the cathedral tower above, landing on the railing beside us and pecking at tiny crumbs.
Babbo smiled at the bird and then turned his head to me. His dark eyes lit with love and warmth, sun rimming his head in golden light.
“I will always love you, mia passerotta,” he said. “No matter what. Never forget it.”
FIFTEEN
Jack
Princess memorabilia was surprisingly terrifying. That was my conclusion after five hours of Belle and Elsa et al. drilling a hole through my shoulder-blades. Why were there so many princess posters on the wall? And did their eyes have to be so huge and sparkling and judgmental?
Focus.
I had begun the evening sorting through email and messages on my tablet. The media had found my email address, and my inbox showed hundreds of new messages.
No, I did not want to appear on The Today Show.
No, I did not want to send CNN photos of my unique clothing choices.
No, I did not want to grant Candy White an exclusive interview.
No, I did not want to share lottery earnings with a Nigerian prince.
I finally just told Siri to select everything and delete it all.
From there, I watched three rounds of news channel pundits and then moved on to action films. The pounding energy of the movies helped me drag my finger into corporeality as I watched.
Push. Pain. Bounce.
Push, Pain. Bounce.
A sudden shuffling noise sounded to the right of me.
My head snapped around.
Chiara stood in the doorway to the sitting room, eyes staring straight at me.
I recoiled.
It was her psycho stare. The one where her irises bled to black and she moved with wooden animation.
Mmmmm. I shot a glance back at the screen I was watching. Men in Black. An old-school action flick according to Chiara. But right now . . . she kinda reminded me of Edgar, the man possessed by an alien in the movie.
Chiara moved farther into the room, her eyes never leaving my face.
“Lightning. The only answer,” she said in Italian, voice low and hoarse.
All right. I could play along with this.
“How is lightning the answer?” I asked.
She angled her head, a curious bird inspecting dinner perhaps. That same something flickered in my peripheral vision. I swung my head toward it but saw nothing.
“The lightning. Find the power,” Chiara continued.
Well. That was certainly . . . odd.
“End the lightning.” Her forthright gaze was decidedly unnerving.
She moved farther into the room. I glanced at my tablet screen, suddenly realizing I should record Chiara’s sleepwalking for her. It might help us find some answers.
To that end, I pushed my finger into corporeality, nudging the tablet to the side, intent on moving Chiara into sight of the camera. But I never got a chance to start the video recording.
The small action of moving my tablet caused a cascade of events that distracted me.
Chiara continued to stare at me, repeating: “End. Lightning. Power.”
The flickering in my peripheral vision grew. Again, I swung my head toward it.
A scar appeared, small but unmistakable. Glowing, edges fluttering, as if some unfelt breeze flowed through it, just as it had with Tennyson and Branwell several weeks ago.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision.
This wasn’t happening. The rifting was tied to the brothers, not Chiara. There had been no scar here earlier. No scar in my villa, either. No scar had followed us.
And yet, a scar was clearly here now. What chain of events had led to it appearing?
Worse, my fingertip pulsed in time to the fluttering. I glanced down. My index finger fluctuated in and out of existence, as if controlled by some unseen heart.
“Listen!”
I jumped. Chiara had moved closer to me, her face a mere foot from mine.
I lurched backward with a yelp, half burying myself in the couch.
The scar continued to flicker.
“Find. Power,” her voice rasped.
“Power? What power?”
Chiara’s mouth moved, as if trying to speak. Her eyes rolled back into her head, shoulders jerking.
My finger flickered in time with her spasms. The entire supernatural world short-circuiting.
“Chiara!” I poked her with my still pulsing finger. Anything to wake her up.
That was the final straw.
The scar ripped fully open. Roiling blackness poured through, flooding the room, hungrily spreading over chairs and tables, eddying around Chiara. Clinging to nothing but me.
I scrambled upward, but not fast enough. The Chucky-slime latched on to me, creeping around my chest, legs, arms. And then, like before, it retracted, pulling me toward the rift. My finger ached, a fluttering heartbeat.
Frantically, I undulated in the air, desperately fighting the sludge, determined to escape the suction of the black, slimy goo. Glancing behind me, the edges of the rift flapped open. Inside, shapes spun and twisted, caught in the rippling darkness. Every now and again, I glimpsed an arm or torso, a head with accusing eyes glaring.
“Chiara!” I screamed, bucking against the slimy tar. “Wake up!”
I swung my arms and legs, wriggling my body, trying to kick my legs. But it wasn’t enough. The slime continued to crawl over me, dragging me down.
The maw of the rift loomed. The shapes inside . . . open mouths, black eyes, claw-like hands.
“CHIARA!!”
Chiara jerked and staggered sideways, shoulders slumping.
The Chucky-slime vanished off my body, releasing me.
The scar snapped shut.
I shot forward, my head driving into the stone wall. Rock slithered through me.
I pulled out of the rock and whipped around.
Chiara collapsed on the couch. Eyes closed. Chest heaving. As before, the room was completely undisturbed. The dark slime had affected only me. A scar now hovered in the corner near the door.
What. The. Hell.
Weakness swamped me. Stunned, I allowed my body to sink to the floor. Shaky. Unsteady.
Questions flickered through my brain.
Why had the scar suddenly appeared here? Why had the Chucky-slime emerged? And why with Chiara this time? Why had my finger flickered in and out of corporeality?
Were the scars and Chucky-slime tied to me in the end and not the D’Angelos?
Clearly, something between my ghost state and my physical state affected the scars. My finger fluctuating had to be a connection.
But beyond that . . . I sorted through ideas and options, arriving at several potential answers but nothing concrete. I needed to discuss them with Chiara when she awoke.
In the meantime, was I in danger? The Chucky-slime was strong. Would it continue to emerge? And did I care, given Chiara’s current situation? I had come so close to losing her earlier on the highway. If I hadn’t been with her and able to distract the assassins . . .
My heart clenched painfully, lurching into my throat.
I couldn’t leave Chiara alone. She could sleepwalk heaven only knew where. And as long as this thing with the Tempeste family remained unresolved, she would be threatened. I would offer what protection I could. To that end, I scooted closer to the couch. Chiara had drifted back into a deep sleep, her breathing regular.
I adored watching Chiara sleep. Creepy but true. When awake, she was always in motion. So to be able to sit and stare at her . . . her face relaxed in sleep. The faint hint of laugh lines curving toward her mouth like parentheses. The tiny mole next to her right ear. The way her hair curled against her throat.
