Lightning Struck (Brothers Maledetti Book 3), page 19
She was safe. She was here. I was here.
For now . . . that simply had to be enough.
Hours later, midday sunlight crept across the stone floor. I stood and crossed to the window. The Mediterranean Sea spread before me in absolute blue glory. Given our late arrival the night before, I hadn’t noticed the view.
The apartment was part of a medieval house scrambling up the cliff. Glancing down, a narrow lane ran in front of the building—the only thing between the house and a short drop to the ocean below. To the left, houses crowded around a small harbor, structure after structure built on the back of the one in front of it, climbing the steep hillside until the houses melted into sprawling vineyards.
A groan sounded from the couch behind me. I turned just as Chiara sat up, wincing in the bright sunlight.
She pushed the mass of her dark hair away and shaded her eyes, looking for me. “I take it I sleepwalked again last night.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
“Care to elaborate?” she asked.
“You said some weird things. Then, a scar appeared. It opened, and the Chucky-slime tried to pull me through.”
Chiara recoiled, sucking in a hissing breath. “Could you be more blasé about it?”
“Probably.”
She threw her hands up with a disgusted noise. “You stupid British gentlemen and your dumb concept of ennui.”
I suppressed a grin.
I recounted as best I could what had happened: her odd, gravely voice and words about lightning. My finger flickering and the scar appearing and then fracturing open. Chucky-slime emerging and trying to devour me.
She listened without comment, though her quick breathing and convulsive swallowing betrayed her anxiety as I described the Chucky-slime.
When I was done, she didn’t immediately say anything. Instead, she rubbed her hands against her thighs and plucked some fluff from the bottom of her shirt.
I expected her to speak, to explain. Chiara was never silent. On any topic. That alone had alarm bells clamoring around my brain.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” I said.
“I don’t like this.” She chewed on her lip. “You came so close to being hurt, Jack. This Chucky-slime crap is seriously freaking me out. Maybe”—deep breath— “maybe you would be safer somewhere else.”
“Trying to get rid of me already?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.
It didn’t feel like a joke.
“Of course not! Don’t be dumb.” That was more shades of the Chiara I knew, but she was still withdrawn. “How am I supposed to keep you safe from the Chucky-slime?”
I paused, trying to unravel the knot of emotions her words created.
“You can’t keep me safe. You need someone here right now, and the Chucky-slime is a risk I’m willing to take. Besides, we now have more data to apply to our research on the scars.”
Chiara growled a little and sank back into the ouch. “You were almost Chucky-food, Jack. Research isn’t my top priority right now. I don’t like thinking about how this thing can hurt you. It’s not cool.”
“Your concern is noted, but avoiding this won’t make it go away.”
Her concern was touching, if a little unnerving, but I knew Chiara. Given how she kept swallowing, my safety wasn’t the only thing that had upset her. Something wasn’t quite right. It was as if someone had a Chiara-remote-control and had turned down the volume.
I pressed forward.
“Look, I’ve had nearly seven hours to think about this. As I figure it, there are two possible scenarios that explain the scars.”
She shifted and lifted her head, begrudgingly focusing on me. “Which are?”
“One. The scars are caused by something other than your brothers’ GUTs. Another supernatural force working against us or some odd confluence of my presence with some unknown thing. Just because the scar reacts to your brothers using their GUTs doesn’t mean that the relationship is causal.”
Chiara stirred, almost unwittingly interested in my discussion. “Correlation is not causation and all that? Proximity and reaction are not the same thing as origination. So the scars react to my brothers, but they are not necessarily the cause of it?”
“Precisely.”
She angled her head, processing that. “Okay. What’s the other option?”
“The scars are tied to the D’Angelos and your GUTs, which means . . .”
I paused, debating. And then said it anyway. “You have a GUT, too.”
SIXTEEN
Chiara
You have a GUT, too.
Jack’s words lingered in the room, taking on a life of their own.
A GUT?!
Me?!
The idea cut through my brain, sparking me to life.
I instantly rejected it. “Not possible, Jack. I don’t have a GUT.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as anyone could be.” I gathered the weight of my hair and pulled it into a loose bun. “I mean, yes, I think I would know. Just . . . the scar opening and now this”—I flicked a hand at him—“it’s a lot to process.”
Part of me was still panicking over how close I had come to losing him to the Chucky-slime. If I had wondered before that moment if I really had feelings for Jack, realizing he had been so close to annihilation had quickly set me straight.
I adored Jack Knight-Snow. I loved his snarky sense of humor. His quick mind and insightful ideas. His lingering Lord Knight mannerisms. His kindness and gentleness. His too-seeing eyes and the way that he accepted me, obnoxious and imperfect as I was. The sense that he would always care for and protect those he considered his.
As for my sleepwalking and everything I had apparently said about lightning? They were clear references to things I never let myself think about. Babbo and my dream from the previous evening floated through my memory.
Were these dreams just dreams? Or were they something more?
Did I have a GUT?
“Chiara, I truly believe you have a GUT, too.” Jack’s earnest eyes met mine.
I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. I needed to tackle one thing at a time.
“No, I don’t.” I gave him my best duh look. “I would know if I had a GUT.”
“But how can you be so sure that you don’t?”
“Uhmm. Remember the whole family curse thing? Gypsies and the first born son?” I asked him. “It’s absurdly medieval and, quite honestly, sexist but the D’Angelo curse has never been attached to us women.”
“Perhaps—”
“Besides, the curse causes madness and suicide. There have been times when certain situations or people—present company included—have driven me to feel homicidal. But suicidal? Nope. Nada.”
Jack wasn’t giving up, his brow drawing down over his pale eyes. “But the events with Branwell last year call that into question. We’ve discussed this. Your family’s curse may just be a genetic legacy that has played out in different ways over the millenia.”
“Your point?”
“If your family’s abilities of Second Sight are genetic, then it stands to reason that they would show up in more than just the first born son. Or sons, in the case of your brothers.”
I scrunched up my mouth, pondering.
No. Not buying. No matter how hard Jack tried to sell.
“Jack, my brothers’ GUTs are super clear and obvious. I assume that, were I to have one too, it would be the same.”
“Have you ever tested to see if you have a GUT?”
Well . . . “No.”
Jack spread his arms wide. As if that made his point for him.
Stupid man.
As if I was too unobservant to know that I had a gift of Second Sight. Sheesh.
“Fine,” I huffed. “Let’s test it. I would hate for you to get your proper English nobleman knickers in a knot.”
I glanced about the room, trying to find something.
“Hah! This will do.” I plucked an obviously well-loved plush Pooh bear from a basket. “Using something that has emotion attached to it should help.”
I had watched my brothers read things many times over the years.
Dante would stare an object down, brows drawn in concentration. Sometimes he would lift his head and track things I couldn’t see.
When Branwell touched something, he would close his eyes and tilt his head, listening to sounds I couldn’t hear.
Tennyson’s visions took many forms. Sometimes he merely rubbed his chest, as if trying to wipe away the feelings of others. Other times he tracked unseen scenes with his eyes or stared sightlessly ahead, murmuring.
I pressed the bear between my bare hands and concentrated on Pooh Bear’s manically smiling face. I got . . . nothing.
For the record, I felt like an idiot.
I puckered my brow. I closed my eyes and tilted my head. Nothing. I opened my eyes and stared unblinking until Pooh divided into a kaleidoscope of bears.
Not an iota of anything.
Not a stray thought, not an odd vision, not a fluttering emotion.
Nothing.
Just the sound of ocean waves lapping and gulls calling. The hum of people walking along the lane outside.
And a growing sense of my own ridiculousness.
I threw the Winnie-the-Pooh plush across the room.
“I got nothing. I’m telling you, Jack. I don’t have a GUT.”
Jack frowned. “Perhaps your GUT just works differently.”
“Or, more likely, I don’t have any sort of Second Sight abilities, and you’re grasping at straws here.”
“Something is going on.”
“I don’t disagree, but me having a GUT isn’t it.”
“I will allow that to pass for now, but I’m still not convinced.” Jack’s look said he wouldn’t be letting this go. “So assuming the scars are not actually tied to your family’s abilities, then there is another force at work here. Perhaps I am a factor, though again, without me present to see the scars, it’s impossible to test. I may not cause the scars, but they have to be connected to me somehow.”
“Because of the weird finger-flickering?”
“Yes, and the fact that I alone can see them. But the cause itself could be something entirely outside and merely stretching to interact with us.”
“But . . . like what? What kind of cause?”
“Let’s take your sleepwalking, for example.”
“Me sleepwalking is the cause?”
“Inadvertently, of course. To be extremely honest, you appear possessed when you sleepwalk. And you speak of power and lightning.”
I swallowed. Jack had a point. I hated the direction my thoughts drifted. I had some truly frightening suspicions.
“You said a couple days ago that your father committed suicide via lightning.” He paused, blue eyes skewering me with their intensity.
I knew what he was going to say. Mentally, I willed him silent.
But though his gaze was filled with compassion and his voice hung with concern, Jack said it anyway:
“I think it’s time we talked about your father’s death, Chiara.”
Ugh.
I sank back on the couch, biting my lip.
“This is what I’m talking about.” I jabbed a finger at Jack. “This was how I know I don’t have a GUT. If I did, I could stop people from putting me on the spot like this.”
A sympathetic smile tugged at his lips. “I know you don’t like talking about it, Chiara, but we both think it might be related. Talking about it could help us in many ways.”
My dream the night before of Babbo and me in Amalfi had been potent, bringing back so many memories. Happy memories. Why was it that one horrific memory made you bury all the good ones right along with it?
As if he read my mind, Jack said, “Tell me a memory of your father. A positive one.”
I picked up a throw pillow—Cinderella twirling under the words Dreams do come true—
Ironic.
“Please, Chiara?” Jack’s voice took on a pleading edge. I refused to look up at him, knowing one glimpse of his concerned, caring eyes and oh-so-kissable mouth would have me spilling all my secrets.
Part of me hated that I liked him. That he made me feel comfortable with myself, which in turn, made me more vulnerable and emotionally open.
That didn’t make his words any less true, however. Jack was right. I did need to talk about this. Babbo’s death might be related, or at the very least, provide some insight.
I brushed some sand off the pillow. Waves lapped out the open window. The hum of voices. The far off buzz of a motorcycle.
Jack waited me out.
I could do this. I could talk about it.
I sucked in a deep breath. Where to start?
“My mother named the boys.” I stared at the pillow as I spoke, tracing the word dreams with my index finger. “She had this thing for Victorian artists—Tennyson, Dante, Branwell, you’ll have to ask her to explain it. Anyway, after the boys were born, my parents figured the damage was done. The family curse would carry on. So why not have more children?
“When Mom got pregnant with me, my dad insisted on naming me. Mom had gotten the boys. Now it was his turn. He chose Chiara.”
“It’s a venerated name,” Jack inserted, “related to Clara in English. Santa Chiara or St. Clare of Assisi is one example.”
“Yeah. My name means light or clear. Dad always said I was his bolt of light. His chiarezza. His clarity.”
Memories of Dad flooded in.
His features and build so like Tennyson, wiry and supple, only with darker eyes and hair like me. He laughed easily. He would swing me onto his shoulders, whispering that I could climb anything I wished, be anything I wanted.
He would be my foundation.
“I was twelve when he died. He had kept the madness back for so long, a lot longer than any other D’Angelo in recent history. He was older than most when he . . .” My voice drifted off.
Silence hung.
I couldn’t force more words past the tightness in my throat.
Jack intervened, tone gentle. “As I said, my father died when I was twenty-two. It’s never easy to lose a parent.”
“No, it’s not. You took over all your father’s duties too, didn’t you?”
Jack nodded. “Yes. I became the next Baron Knight. It’s an old title, which meant I had to take my seat in Parliament, in addition to suddenly having the management of several estates and sprawling financial interests. Even though I had been prepared for the task since birth, it was still overwhelming.”
I could almost see him in my mind’s eye. Reeling from emotional loss and laden with the burden of caring for his family and tenants. Valiantly working himself to the bone to care for them all, heedless of how it hurt him. Pushing until he reached burnout.
That was the Jack I knew.
“But you left it all to come excavate in Tuscany?”
Jack looked away. “I’m not sure if I left it or ran away in avoidance. My reasoning was muddled even then.”
Hmmm. Interesting. Burnout.
“Your father’s death is still raw for you.” Jack said the words softly.
I flinched. “Yes.”
It was so much more than that. Jack didn’t know. No one did. I had never told anyone.
I stared at the floor, unable to move, to even think.
“Ah.” Jack’s voice cut through the room.
It was a deep exhale. As if he suddenly understood. As if all the pieces of a puzzle suddenly slotted into place.
“You witnessed it. You saw your father’s death.”
My panicked inhalation was all the confirmation Jack needed.
No one knew. Not my brothers. Not my mother. It had been my crushing burden to bear. The horrible memory of watching my father die.
Wet drops hit my hand.
Stupid tears.
I scrubbed my face. But it did no good.
More tears followed.
I bit my lip, but a sob still escaped.
I buried my face in the Cinderella pillow, unable to endure the sympathy in Jack’s eyes without cracking into brittle shards. The man practically vibrated with pity and concern.
Ugh.
I hated crying. I hated being the weak one. The pipsqueak that everyone else had to watch out for.
Careful of Chiara. She’s so little. She breaks easily.
You’re too small, Chiara. How can you help?
Turns out they were right . . . in every way.
I couldn’t save the person who mattered most. My love for Babbo wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.
The quiet tears became a torrent.
A thousand images crowded in. Scenes I had long ago cast out. Or avoided thinking about.
Babbo sneaking away with me to buy pastries, because I was, ‘too sweet not to have some.’
Babbo holding me after stupid Marco Benito broke up with me in second grade. Dad cuddling me close and telling me that I would always be his girl.
It all came out. Messy. Ugly.
Years of mourning and sorrow crashing over the dam.
Like my father would have, Jack let me cry. He didn’t tell me to buck up or feed me dumb platitudes like, ‘It’s going to be alright.’
It wasn’t alright.
It would never be alright.
My dad was gone and the aching hole he left would never be filled. His absence would always hurt.
The memory of his death never left me.
That fateful day, I had spent the afternoon melting in the sweltering summer heat. Storm clouds threatened. Which given the warmth seemed like a good thing. But summers in Tuscany aren’t like summers in Oregon. In Italy, rain is usually as warm as the sun and just makes the humidity that much worse.
Rain doesn’t bring relief.
But this day, a breeze ran before the storm clouds. Cooler air that promised respite from the oppressive heat.
I rode down from Florence with Mom to check on Dad. She worried constantly about him being alone in Villa Maledetti, the place Tennyson now lived. Babbo lived there for the same reasons as my brother—it was a welcome hideaway from the rest of humanity and their vision-inducing emotions.
