Verum (The Nocte Trilogy, #2)(44)

“Wait. I want to show you something.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You need to see it.”

Confused, intrigued, and a bit scared, I follow him through the halls of the East wing, along back corridors and up old stairs to the attic. As we walk, I swear I can hear whispers… all around, coming from the floors and the nooks and the crannies.

Secrets.

Secrets.

Secretsssssssssss.

But of course there are no voices.

I’m imagining it all.

The problem is, as each day goes by, I’m not sure what I’m imagining anymore and what’s real.

Once we’re standing in the dark room, I take a deep breath and look around.

Old furniture, boxes, crates, and picture frames are stacked as far as I can see. It’s clearly an old storage place, and not even maids come up here. There’s a thick layer of dust everywhere.

Dare turns on a light, and leads me through the clutter.

He takes me to a back corner, where a massive desk sits amid a makeshift office space.

“Yours?” I raise my eyebrow. “I can’t picture you up here.”

He rolls eyes and shakes his head. “No, it’s not mine.

The floor creaks beneath my feet, and when I look down, I find a stack of framed pictures… of Dare, of Eleanor, of my grandfather, of Dare’s mother. The glass on each one is shattered.

Who did that?

“Why did you bring me here?” I whisper, and I suddenly am on edge. Something is here, something huge, something I need to know.

Dare looks away, his expression troubled.

“Look at the bottom of that pile, Calla.” He motions to a stack of envelopes on the desk. It’s a thick stack, held together with a rubber band.

With hesitant fingers, I sift through the paper.

I’m startled to find letters to my father that I’ve written over the past couple of weeks, unopened, unstamped, unsent. My appalled gaze meets Dare’s.

“If my letters haven’t been mailed, then how does my father know I’m ok?” I ask slowly, trying to imagine why Sabine wouldn’t have mailed them.

“He doesn’t,” Dare nods. “That’s the thing.”

“I… I don’t know what is happening,” I say in a broken whisper, and I look away, around the room, my gaze coming to a stop on the chair behind the desk.

A gray hoodie hangs there, its cuffs dragging on the floor.

I’ve seen that hoodie before, on the man no one can see but me.

My heart pounds.

My mind races.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I admit aloud. I want to be home, I want to be safe, I want to be away from all of this.

“Then go,” Dare’s words are soft, and his eyes are softer, liquid black, like a starry night.

And in this moment, I know I can’t leave him.

“I would never leave you,” I tell him, and I mean every word.

Dare’s head snaps back and he gets to his feet, circling the desk and standing in front of me. I breathe in his scent and his uncertainty and I match his gaze.

“This isn’t about me, Calla,” he answers, his hand on my arm. “If you need to leave, you should go.”

“I won’t leave you alone.”

In my head, I remember the little boy he used to be, the little boy in the picture, and the pain that used to live in his eyes. He was so small, so vulnerable, so very alone. He’s learned to hide it all now, but that makes me even sadder.

His smile is grim. “I’m always alone, Calla. I’m used to it.”

And somehow, I believe it. Regardless of who he surrounds himself with, he’s alone because he hasn’t let anyone in.

“You don’t have to be,” I offer. “I can help.”

Save me, and I’ll save you.

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes and he bends, his lips touching my neck as he murmurs into my ear.

“Run, little mouse. The hawk is coming, and you’re going to get eaten.”

My breath comes in spurts as he leaves me amid the chaos of the attic. I listen for his steps on the stairs, and only when I can’t hear him anymore do I feel comfortable leaving myself. I tuck my father’s letters into my pocket and creep down the stairs, hiding them in my room before dinner.





Chapter 21





I have Jones drive me back to the church before dinner, and to my relief, Father Thomas is there, kneeling at the feet of Jesus.

When I come in, he gets to his feet, his robes heavy around his ankles.

“Calla,” he greets me warmly, and he is sincerely happy to see me.

“Do you know what happened at Whitley?” I ask him without preamble.

He hesitates and looks away, but finally he answers.

“Yes,” he acknowledges. “It was terrible.”

We walk together, he and I, toward the front where we sit on a pew. My back is as stiff as Eleanor’s, my breath hesitant as I wait.

“Can you tell me?” I ask and he looks up at God.

“I think,” he replies slowly. “That some things are left unsaid, and perhaps actions are your true answers.”

I’m confused and I tell him that and he nods.

“You wonder what happened to Adair. But to be honest, the only thing that matters is who Adair is today. You know who he is, and that’s what’s important.”