The Dark Divine(57)

“Jude didn’t break his promise,” I choked out. “I was the one who told on your father. I’m the one who turned you into the wolf.”

I wrenched the door open and ran up the stairs to the minivan. I drove aimlessly for at least an hour and somehow ended up at home in my bed.

I had no thoughts in my head. No feeling in my skin. There was nothing in me at all.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Book of Secrets





MONDAY




I woke the next morning, tangled in the bedsheets. My shirt clung to my chest, sticky with cold sweat. My head throbbed. It felt like someone was drilling a hole in the base of my skull, the pain radiating up behind my eyes. I squinted at the alarm clock. It was much later than I thought. I pushed myself out of bed and into the shower.

I stood in the stream of hot water and let the heat prick at the numbness under my skin, washing away the shock. That’s when the tears came.

I never cried. Not since I was a baby, according to my mother. I didn’t get the point. Crying never fixed anything. But as the tears started to roll down my face, mingling with the rain from the showerhead, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I sobbed into the steam, hoping no one could hear me over the somber buzz of the bathroom fan. It was like I finally let out every tear I’d ever held back. I cried for the time Don Mooney held his silver knife to my father’s throat. I cried for the times I overheard Daniel’s father ripping into him. For the time his mother took him away from us. For when Charity and I were sent to our grandparents for three weeks without any explanation. I cried for Maryanne’s death, for James going missing, for Jude.

But mostly I sobbed for what I now knew about myself.

I felt like such a fraud. My father told me my name meant mercy, help, and guidance. But he was wrong. All Grace Divine meant was blundering, meddling, disappointment. Everything I touched—everything I tried to help—fell apart and slipped through my fingers.

Why did I have to press the issue, refuse to stay ignorant? Why couldn’t I go back and stop myself from creating this mess?

If I had just stayed out of things, if I had just minded my own business for all these years, would everything be the way it used to? Would Daniel still be the blond-haired boy next door if I had kept my mouth shut about his father? Would Daniel and Jude still be the best of friends? Would my brother be undamaged? Would Daniel be human?

But how could I have not done anything? Daniel would still be living a life of abuse and torture—he might not even be living at all. And how could I have not helped him when he came back?

He still meant so much to me, even now after I knew the truth.

But I couldn’t believe I put my need for Daniel over my own brother. I saw the pain in Jude’s face the first time I mentioned Daniel’s name at dinner. I looked Jude right in the eyes and promised I would leave it alone, that I would keep out of his secrets, but instead I went and dragged the only person who ever hurt him back into our lives. My feelings for Daniel caused the pain, the fear, and the anger that were slowly taking over my brother.

“I hate you,” I said into the water. I pounded my wet fist on the shower wall. “I hate you, hate you, hate you,” I said as if speaking to Daniel.

But the problem was—I didn’t. I didn’t hate Daniel at all, and I knew I should.

I had betrayed my brother once again.


I stood in the shower until it turned cold. And then I stood longer, letting the icy water cut paths across my skin, just to feel something other than my guilt. I stumbled out of the shower, shivering and clutching my stomach. I made it to the toilet and heaved out what little liquid was left in my body. I felt withered, drained, and I crawled back into bed, still wrapped in my wet robe.

The house was quiet. Everyone else must have left for the day. The silence pressed in on me, making my head pound even more. I closed my burning eyes and let the silence envelop my body. I slept off and on, trying to make up for too many sleepless nights. But each time my eyes drifted closed and then open, I felt more drained than before.

I stayed in bed for two days.





WEDNESDAY




My family left me alone. I was shocked—but grateful—that Mom didn’t try to make me go to school. Every once in a while she sent Charity up with food. Charity would leave it just inside my door, staring at me like I had the plague as she retrieved the untouched plates she’d left hours before. I wondered if my family really thought I was sick, but I feared that they knew what I had done—that they were just as ashamed of me as I was of myself. How could I face my brother again, knowing the pain I’d caused him? How could I show my face to anyone?

It was midafternoon on Wednesday when I heard my father in his study below me. I wondered what he was doing home. Wednesday was one of his busiest days at the parish, and Jude would be there for his independent study. I thought about Dad surrounded by his books, how he’d seemed lost in them for weeks. What was he doing?

But then I knew. It suddenly clicked. I wasn’t the only one to blame in all of this.





DOWN IN THE STUDY




“You knew,” I said from the doorway.

Dad looked up from his book.

I thundered into the room, right up to his desk. “You knew what he was, and you still brought him here!” I grabbed one of his books. Loup-Garou. “That’s what these books are for. You’re helping him.”