Beautiful Chaos(33)

“I call cleaning.”

Marian gave me a look, handing me another book. “You’re calling the shots in my library now?”

“No, ma’am. That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly.” I looked down at the title. “Oh, come on.” Edgar Allan Poe. He was so dark he’d make the other two look cheerful in comparison. “Whatever he has to say, I don’t want to know.”

“Open it.”

“ ‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing / Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before…’ ”

I snapped the book shut. “I get it. I’m losing it. I’m going crazy. This whole town is cracked. The universe is one big nuthouse.”

“You know what Leonard Cohen says about cracks, Ethan?”

“No, I don’t. But I get the feeling I could open a few more books in this library and tell you.”

“ ‘There is a crack in everything.’ ”

“That’s helpful.”

“It is, actually.” She put her hands on my shoulders. “ ‘There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.’ ”

She was pretty much exactly right—or at least the Leonard Cohen guy was. I felt happy and sad at the same time, and I didn’t know what to say. So I dropped to my knees on the carpet and started stacking books.

“Better get going on this mess.”

Marian understood. “Never thought I’d hear you say that, EW.” She was right. The universe really must be cracked, and me right along with it.

I hoped somehow the light was finding a way in.





9.19





The Devil You Know


I was dreaming. Not in a dream—so real I could feel the wind as I fell, or smell the metallic stench of blood in the Santee—but actually dreaming. I watched as whole scenes played out in my mind, only something was wrong. The dream felt wrong—or didn’t, because I couldn’t feel anything. I might as well have been sitting on the curb watching everything as it passed by….

The night Sarafine had called the Seventeenth Moon.

The moon splitting in the sky above Lena, its two halves forming the wings of a butterfly—one green, one gold.

John Breed on his Harley, Lena’s arms wrapped around him.

Macon’s empty grave in the cemetery.

Ridley holding a black bundle, light escaping from beneath the fabric.

The Arclight resting on the muddy ground.

A single silver button, lost in the front seat of the Beater, one night in the rain.

The images floated on the periphery of my mind, just out of reach. The dream was soothing. Maybe my every subconscious thought wasn’t a prophecy, a warped piece of the puzzle that would form my destiny as a Wayward. Maybe that was the dream. I relaxed into the gentle tug-of-war as I drifted on the edge of sleep and wakefulness. My mind groped for more concrete thoughts, trying to sift through the haze the way Amma sifted flour for a cake. Again and again, I kept coming back to the image of the Arclight.

The Arclight in my hands.

The Arclight in the grave.

The Arclight and Macon, in the sea cave at the Great Barrier.

Macon turning to look at me. “Ethan, this isn’t a dream. Wake up. Now!”

Then Macon caught fire and my mind seized up and I couldn’t see anything, because the pain was so intense I couldn’t think or dream anymore.

A shrill sound cut through the rhythmic buzz of the lubbers outside my window. I bolted upright, and the sound intensified as I fought myself awake.

It was Lucille. She was on my bed hissing, the hair on her arched back standing up in a stiff line. Her ears were flattened against her head, and for a second I thought she was hissing at me. I followed her eyes across my room, through the darkness. There was someone standing at the foot of my bed. The polished handle of his cane caught the light.

My mind hadn’t been groping for concrete thoughts.

Abraham Ravenwood had.

“Holy crap!”

I scrambled backward, slamming into the wooden headboard behind me. There was nowhere to go, but all I wanted to do was get away. Instinct took over—fight or flight. And there was no way I was going to try to fight Abraham Ravenwood.

“Get out. Now.” I pressed my hands against my temples, as if he could still reach me through the dull ache in my head.

He watched me intently, measuring my reactions. “Evening, boy. I see, like my grandson, you haven’t learned your place yet.” Abraham shook his head. “Little Macon Ravenwood. Always such a disappointing child.” Involuntarily, my hands slid into fists. Abraham looked amused and flicked his finger.

I dropped to the floor in front of him, gasping. My face smashed against rough floorboards, and all I could see were his cracked leather boots. I struggled to raise my head.

“That’s better.” Abraham smiled, his white beard framing even whiter canines. He looked different from the last time I’d seen him, at the Great Barrier. His white Sunday suit was gone, replaced by a darker, more imposing one, his signature black string tie fastened neatly under his shirt collar. The illusion of the friendly Southern gentleman was gone. This thing standing in front of me was nothing like a man, and even less like Macon. Abraham Ravenwood, father of every Ravenwood Incubus who came after, was a monster.