A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(17)

I’m standing on a sidewalk in London, the street bustling around me. People walk past, not seeing me, and I realize I’m in a vision—but it’s not my own. I see the woman from the rooftop and remember her—Onika. She’s strolling past, beautiful as ever. Her wrist is looped through the arm of a handsome young guy. He’s distinguished looking—blond hair, tan sports coat, and loafers. They look absolutely in love.

I wonder what happened to her since her time with Rodney, when he turned her skin gray. He welcomed her to the Shadows, but I don’t understand what that means. She seems fine now, content. Just then, Onika flinches and darts a look toward the bus-stop bench.

I follow her line of sight, spotting the man sitting there, his hair a mess, his clothes wrinkled. Onika’s eyes narrow on him as she passes, her teeth gritted as if she’s fighting back a pain.

My heart skips a beat when I see a fine crack appear in her skin, racing over her cheek. She reaches up to touch it, shooting an alarmed glance at her boyfriend. But he doesn’t notice. He’s talking and holding her as if all is well.

“Give me a minute, lover,” she says to him, her voice silky and warm. She untangles herself, turning quickly before he can see her face. Her hair flutters in the wind as she spins, walking back to where the man sits at the bus stop.

Her boyfriend stays where she left him, staring into a store window at the jewelry, his mouth pulled into a soft smile. Onika’s boots clack on the pavement until she reaches the man on the bench. She slides in next to him, tilting her head in his direction.

“Poor, sweet Charles,” she whispers, drawing his gaze. “I’m so sorry to hear about your wife.”

A flash of pain crosses the man’s face. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Shh . . .” She puts a gloved finger to his lips. “I am no one. But you, darling,” she murmurs, fresh cracks rippling through her flesh. “You should go home, find the gun that’s hidden on the upper shelf of your closet. And then, Charles, you should teach that wife of yours a lesson, yes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right. You’ll show her. You’ll show them all.”

“I’ll show them all,” he repeats, a sense of bravery in his voice.

Onika smiles, inhaling deeply as if relieved. And then her face is beautiful once again, flawless. And when the man on the bench gets up, rushing away, Onika stands and goes back to meet her love on the sidewalk.

I wake up with a start, the dream staying with me—or at least partly. The woman, Onika, is a haunting vision. And like my memories of a life that’s not mine, she feels real. As if she’s not just a figment of my imagination.

Unsettled, I wander out to the kitchen to get some juice and find my father sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a stack of papers. When he sees me stumbling half-asleep from the hallway, he offers a weary smile. “Hey, kid. How was the doctor’s?”

“Vitamin deficiency,” I offer, the ridiculousness of the diagnosis clear now. I pour a glass of orange juice and sit next to my dad, peeking over at his papers. “What have you got there?” I ask, pushing one aside to see a black-and-white photo underneath. “Who’s this?”

My father picks it up, studying it closely. “This girl,” he says. “She disappeared a while ago, the daughter of a member of the church.”

“A missing person?”

“Maybe. I’ve had this picture on my desk since the day I started, her mother asking me to say prayers that she’ll return.”

“That’s so tragic,” I murmur. She can’t be more than fifteen. When he’s quiet for a long moment, I lower my eyes. “Dad,” I ask. “Do you believe in past lives?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Just thinking about it. If it’s possible.”

“That doesn’t really go along with our faith, Elise.” He pauses. “But I suppose there are other views out there—who’s to say what’s right anymore?”

Surprised by his answer, I turn to my dad to find his eyes welling up as he looks over the picture of the missing girl. His heart breaks for this family he hardly knows, always putting the problems of others above his own. I lean to put my head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” I say.

“Is that a real ‘I love you’?” he asks. “Or an ‘I want something’ ‘I love you’?”

“The real one.”

“Then I love you, too, kid.”

When I straighten, he sets down the picture of the girl, sniffling back what was the start of tears. I decide then not to tell him about my encounter with Paul or the memory of being in bed with a boy I couldn’t see. I don’t even tell him about the dream of a woman with a broken face. Even though I’ve always been honest with my father, I’m afraid that these episodes will only worry him more—taking him away from others who need him. And I don’t think I can be that selfish.

It occurs to me then to ask someone who may have a better idea of what is going on, even though I’d have to be absolutely out of my mind to follow through. But something happened the other night. I felt it. She felt it too. So I decide that in the morning, I’m going to track down the old lady from the parking lot.

And hope she doesn’t really want to gobble me up.