Lightning Struck (Brothers Maledetti Book 3), page 23
“The appearance of the scars seems haphazard,” he said. “But what if it’s a one-two punch of the two of us—cursed D’Angelos and cursed Jack—being thrown together?”
“How so? The scars have only appeared in the last couple weeks.”
“And you’ve been around for over a year, Jack.”
“Precisely. But the one thing that has changed recently is my ability to make myself corporeal. When I push part of myself into this realm, the pain is excruciating. It feels like I’m dragging myself through the fires of Hell. I think that the scars and my ability to push myself corporeal have to be connected. The scar here”—he waved a hand toward the china cabinet—“didn’t appear until I pushed my finger into corporeality.”
“You’re making cuts in the fabric of the universe every time you push yourself one way or the other.” Branwell whistled.
“Exactly. The cuts are just there until one of you uses your GUT, causing invisible energy to flow through it, making it larger. The cut seals again, but not perfectly, leaving a misaligned, visible scar. The two other places I’ve seen scars, Villa Maledetti and Branwell’s apartment, are also places where I pushed my finger into physicality. I bet if I were to return to my own villa, I would find scars there now. I didn’t really put it all together until yesterday, when all of the events occurred within seconds of each other.”
I had a thought. “But how can these scars be a new thing? If they’re powering the D’Angelo Sight, then they have to have been around since time immemorial.”
“Brilliant.” Jack shot me a proud grin. “Very intelligent observation. Perhaps I can only see the scars I myself have created? So other scars caused by other means are invisible to me, but your GUTs would use any available scar. This would explain why I only recently began to see the scars, but you have all clearly been drawing power from the shadow world your entire lives.”
“Okay. So let’s say Jack is creating scars in the fabric of our reality, and we’re drawing power through these scars. Why, then, does the power flow harmlessly sometimes and other times spit out Chucky-slime?” Branwell frowned, obviously puzzled.
Jack paused. “I don’t know. The Chucky-slime could be part of the membrane between the two worlds.”
“Or a force that inhabits the supernatural world that is trying to break free or cause problems.” Tennyson offered.
We discussed the idea back and forth. Dante wanted a closer moment-by-moment replay of my experience the night before. We all wanted a clearer understanding of what he and Branwell had seen with Cesare il Pompaso. But all the talking got us nowhere.
“We still haven’t answered our original question,” Dante said after a while, lacing his fingers behind his head. “How does all this relate to Chiara and her possibly having a GUT of her own?”
“Well, that’s obvious.” Jack smiled at me. “If you are the descendants of Tages, then your GUTs are truly genetic. No gypsy curse needed. Which means that Chiara, as someone who shares your genetics, has a GUT, too. The scars flutter open for her just as they open for you. It confirms my theories about the origins of your gifts.”
“But does it?” Branwell sounded skeptical. “I’m not convinced we should simply abandon the gypsy connection to our GUTs. It’s such a prevalent part of our family’s oral history, it seems impossible that it was all simply a hoax.”
Jack shrugged. “I think there are other compelling reasons to believe the connection to Etruscan oracles.”
“Explain.”
“The oracles of Tages generally chose to use one of three things when making their predictions.” Jack held up three fingers.
“They used the entrails of sacrificed animals.” Jack ticked off one finger. “We obviously haven’t had any interaction with that.”
Thank goodness.
“The second thing Etruscans could use.” Jack ticked another finger. “Birds and bird flight patterns. Well, we don’t have much to go on with that either.”
The chill started at the base of my spine. How many times had I observed birds and just known what they meant? My throat was too tight to say anything.
“And last . . .”
I knew it, before he could even say a word.
“Lightning,” I breathed.
Jack’s eyes swung to mine. “Yes. Lightning.”
A thousand thoughts scattered through my brain. I knew why lightning had such a powerful emotional hold over me, but did I see meaning in it, too? Was that why Babbo had focused on it so much?
“Entrails. Birds. Lightning.” Dante repeated the three items.
“Yes.” Jack moved away, walking toward the large doors onto the balcony. “I think that the lightning, in particular, is related to one last item we haven’t explored yet.”
“Which is?”
“Chiara’s odd sleepwalking.” Jack turned back to us. “If you are descendants of Tages, then you are oracles, including Chiara. This encompasses speaking for and to the dead. It’s entirely possible that the dead are trying to talk to us through her. Chiara could be acting as a medium.”
“The dead?” Branwell repeated.
“Like who?” Dante went straight to the most critical question.
Jack hesitated, throwing a look back toward me. But I knew the answer before he said the words.
The truth of them already lodged soul-deep.
“Cesare. Your father.”
TWENTY
Jack
Stunned.
Silence.
Well, from the triplets at least.
Chiara didn’t look too surprised by my announcement. She simply gazed out the window, eyes unfocused. I think part of her had known.
The brothers, however? Slack-jawed. Their shock palpable.
After a few minutes of mouths hanging open, Dante let out a long hissing breath. “Didn’t see this conversation landing with our father, to be honest. So you’re saying Chiara is a medium who is channeling messages from Cesare? I’m not sure I’m buying it.”
“And are we convinced Chiara has a GUT? The evidence we have is circumstantial at best.” Tennyson shot a glance at her. “Sorry, sis.”
I expected Chiara to smirk and make a cheeky remark. Instead, she continued to stare out the window.
“I see meaning in the patterns of birds.” Her voice soft. “I’ve always considered myself superstitious, but as I’ve thought about it, I’ve realized that my superstitions have almost always been right.”
Quiet.
“And the lightning?” Dante asked.
Chiara gasped, walking toward the window, still staring out. Sea gulls darted over the water.
“Change comes,” she murmured. “We must find power for the lightning.”
The scar in the corner flickered, edges fluttering open.
“That was a prediction,” I said. Every head swung my way. “The scar opened.”
“Power flowing from the shadow world.” Branwell let out a slow breath.
“Lightning? Again, why lightning?” Dante muttered. “I haven’t heard this much talk about lightning since Babbo died.”
“That might just be the point,” I muttered.
Chiara turned back to us, her eyes automatically seeking mine. Her expression so lost, so haunted.
“What?” Dante said, looking between us. “What was that look? Is this about Dad?”
“Do they know? About your father’s death?” I forced her to hold my gaze.
“No,” said so softly.
“They deserve to know.”
“Why? It . . . it’s old news.”
“If it’s still affecting the present—and possibly the future based on what you keep predicting—then it’s not.”
“Spill, you two.” Dante motioned with his fingers. “No secrets with this.”
“Tell them, Chiara.” My eyes held a promise—I would be there to catch her should she fall.
She swallowed and bit her lip, eyes blinking rapidly. She turned away from us all, staring at the Frozen poster.
“Chiara—” Tennyson began.
“Please don’t tease me.” She whipped around and jabbed a finger at each of her brothers in turn. “This is hard and painful, and I don’t need you guys making it more difficult.”
Dante . . . crumpled. His shoulders sagged and his eyes went so soft. He moved quickly and wrapped Chiara in an enormous, suffocating hug, his large body completely engulfing her.
“Chiara, sweetheart.” His voice gruff. “I know we tease, but we love you. Trust us with this.”
Tentatively, Chiara relaxed, finally hugging Dante back. He led her to the couch, sitting her down.
“Tell us,” he said. “Obviously Dad’s death wasn’t as straightforward as we thought.”
“Yeah.” Branwell joined them on the couch. “We knew you were in the villa at the time, but we all thought you were asleep or something when lightning hit the tower.”
Chiara shook her head, hiccupping. “N-no . . . I s-saw it.”
Absolute silence.
“I s-saw Babbo die.” She broke down after that.
The brothers instantly gathered around her on the couch, holding and sustaining each other.
Through sobs and hiccups, Chiara told the story of their father’s death from her perspective. Of the jagged lightning. Of her horror as Cesare stared straight at her . . . and still went ahead with his plan, calling lightning down from the sky.
All four D’Angelo siblings were on the couch, cuddled together at this point. Chiara’s crying had subsided, but each of the brothers wiped the occasional tear away.
“Damn, Chiara.” Dante ran a hand over the back of his neck.
Another long pause.
“Why did you never tell us, sis?” Tennyson whispered into the silence.
“You didn’t know?” she asked him.
“I knew you hurt, but I didn’t know why. Of course, our father had died, so I didn’t assume your emotions were more than that. Why not talk about it?”
She sniffed again, swiping at her cheeks. “I guess I felt like it was my fault. If I had been more—more lovable, more loved—Babbo wouldn’t have left us.”
“Oh, Chiara.”
“I failed us all,” she continued. “I couldn’t bear you being angry or upset at me for not stopping him.”
Tennyson pulled his sister closer to his chest. “Babbo had his own demons, Chiara. Never blame yourself for his actions. I know not one of us ever would.”
Her lip quivered and she buried her face in his chest.
Branwell leaned back and scrubbed both gloved hands over his face. “Wow. Did not expect us to land in this dark place today.”
Tennyson snorted. “Speak for yourself.”
“What? You saw this?”
Tennyson half-shrugged. “I sensed that something emotionally heavy was going to go down . . . so, yeah.”
“Why not warn us?” Dante asked.
“He never warns us,” Branwell grunted.
“Stop, you guys.” Chiara pushed Dante’s shoulder. “Tenn doesn’t have to tell us everything.”
“Says the woman who has been keeping major secrets,” Dante said.
“Moving on.” Branwell slapped his thighs. “So Chiara might be an oracle, and Dad is trying to use her as a medium to communicate something?”
“Not that we can prove that.” Dante cocked his head in my direction. “Can we?”
Actually . . .
“Chiara could try to deliberately act as an oracle,” I said.
That got her attention. She raised her head from Tennyson’s shoulder. “So seek it out, instead of simply allowing the insights to come to me?”
“Exactly.”
We all exchanged a look.
“How would I do that exactly?” Chiara finally asked.
Tennyson stood up, nodding his head. “When I was in Afghanistan, I often felt like an oracle when trying to predict the next attack.”
“Did it go down like last week?” Dante asked, referencing our testing of the rifts back in Florence.
“Yeah. I’ll be honest, when I use my GUT like that—going into a sort of trance and someone asking me a question—I don’t feel as fractured. It feels good.” Tennyson paused. “It feels right.”
Silence.
“That’s an answer, I suppose.” Chiara sat forward on the couch. “Obviously, whatever has been happening, it’s when my mind is detached in sleep. Perhaps I can recreate that state without actually falling asleep.”
“It’s worth a try. I can walk you through it, sis.” Tennyson turned back to her.
Chiara crossed her legs on the couch, leaning her head against a pillow and closing her eyes. “Is this good, do you think?”
“Yeah. You want to try to empty your mind, like you do during yoga.”
“Okay. Wait—” She opened one eye. “What about Jack?”
“What about me?”
Her look was all don’t-be-daft. “The ghost-grabbing gooey sludge, remember?”
Ah. True.
“Like I said earlier, the Chucky-slime has never come through when any of you have deliberately activated your GUTs,” I said. “I’m willing to risk it.”
Chiara frowned, as if she wanted to say something.
“I will be all right, Chiara.”
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Empty my mind. I can do this.”
Head tilted back, she closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed.
Just as Tennyson had the previous week, Chiara intoned, “What is it you seek? Ask me a question and I will answer.”
“I seek my father, Cesare D’Angelo.” Tennyson’s voice rang clear in the room. “I wish to speak with him.”
I kept half an eye on the scar in the corner, it flickered every now and again.
Suddenly, it fluttered open.
“Something’s happening,” I murmured.
“The scar?” Branwell asked, darting a look to the corner where he assumed it was.
“Yeah. It opened.”
“Fascinating.” Tennyson kept his eyes riveted on his sister.
Abruptly, the scar flared wider, rifting open. The edges turned golden and fluttered as if in some unseen breeze, just as it did when one of the triplets deliberately activated their GUTs.
Chiara’s head snapped to attention, eyes opening.
Chiara’s gaze but . . . not.
She looked around the room.
Dante. Branwell. Tennyson.
“Cesare?” Dante asked. “Babbo? Can you hear me?”
Chiara stared at him. Eyes unblinking.
“Trova il potere,” she said in the same creepy low voice she used when sleepwalking. “Chiude il lampo.”
Find the power. End the lightning.
More of the same. Words she had said before while sleepwalking.
“I think Babbo said those same words in his suicide note.” Branwell murmured. “Find the power. End the lightning.”
“But what do they mean?” Tennyson asked.
Chiara frowned, gaze confused.
I suddenly realized that she was shaking. Goosebumps pebbled her skin despite the summer heat.
“It all went wrong when the lightning began,” she said, her voice that same creepy monotone. “You must go back to that. Lightning is the answer.”
“What must we go back to?” Tennyson again. “When did the lightning begin?”
Chiara rotated fully toward him.
“What must we go back to?” Tennyson repeated.
“The beginning,” Chiara’s voice vibrated.
Alright.
“What beginning? What went wrong?” Tennyson asked.
But the atmosphere had changed. Chiara’s trembling reached a fevered pitch.
Chiara turned in my direction, eyes huge, snagging my gaze with earnest intent. She then deliberately turned and pointed to the flapping rift.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “It comes now.”
“Pardon?”
“It comes.” Eyes black. “RUN!”
I felt it then, surging forward. The black, soul-sucking sludge. The Chucky-slime.
It was hungry for me.
I ran.
I dashed through the front door and threw myself down the stairs.
Could I outrun the oozing goo? What was its range? At what distance would I be safe?
Turns out, I couldn’t run away fast enough.
The rushing slime chased me down the stairwell. An angry monster, nipping at my heels. It wrapped around me, lassoing my arms, tangling my legs. Mercilessly, it pulled me back up the stairs. It was more powerful this time, even more present. Nearly sentient in its intent.
I pushed, trying to turn a hand corporeal so I could grab on to the stair railing, anything to hold myself in the present.
Nothing.
It was like trying to move a mountain with one finger. I pushed and pushed but nothing budged. Either my body was still spent from the night before, or something about the Chucky-slime blocked me.
The oily sludge sucked me upward. Through floors and the wooden door. I undulated and twisted, trying to break free.
Nothing stopped it. Relentless.
I whooshed into the apartment, scrambling frantically to avoid being sucked down. The scar loomed—a black, malevolent maw.
Shapes roiled inside it.
“HELP!”
Branwell and Dante were already on it. Branwell slapped Chiara, trying to bring her out of her trance.
I was fighting with everything I had. Swimming desperate strokes. Getting sucked inside the rift would be bad. I could sense it in my ghost bones.
My clothes pulled against my body. One boot worked its way free, popping off my left foot and flowing into the open scar. My right boot soon followed.
I couldn’t remove my clothing myself, but for some reason, I was fully physical to the Chucky-slime. It made no sense.
And still I struggled to break free.
My body felt stretched, as if on the edge of a black hole. The event horizon.
“Chiara!” Tennyson yelled.
He lifted his sister’s body, placing her between me and the scar.
I wanted to hold her.
I wanted to tell her I loved her.
I wanted to be the man who could propose to her. Create a life together. Grow old with her.
Instead, I slid through her.
Bones. Flesh. Blood.
