Anathema - Part Two of Three
Anathema - Part
Two of Three
"I know it
signifies you're a witch," I tell her warily. I hope that's what she means, and that it wasn't just one of
those fluke questions. Hey, for all I know, she's not Nightworld at all.
"How do
you know that?"
How does she
think I know? And anyway, what difference does it make? It's not like she can
do anything about it now. Perhaps I should remind her that I'm dead and
harmless. "Because I'm a witch, too."
"You were
Nightworld?"
She seems so
surprised by this revelation. Perhaps her confusion comes from knowing Bastien
is human, perhaps she didn’t expect me to answer so candidly. Either way,
suspicion darts over her features.
Oddly, that emotion makes her look more inhuman, less like a witch and
more like a vampire. I have to wonder if she has one’s blood in her veins.
“I was.” I
smile, my shimmering eyes meeting her sapphire, and add, “And I loved every
minute of it.”
Now, don’t get
me wrong. I wasn’t one of those witches who constantly brewed love spells and
designed charms to leave boys trailing after me. I didn’t hex human girls who
annoyed me or enchant teachers into giving me grades I didn’t deserve. And I
never -- *never* -- put any spells on Bastien for any reason.
I think it was
my own sense of pride that stopped me more than anything else. If Bastien
wanted me, it was because I was *me* and not because of some spelled perfume
I’d created to draw him in. You can put spells on someone and they’ll be yours,
but you’ll never have them completely until you have them mind, body, and soul.
And did I ever
have Bastien. Damned shame now, isn’t it?
Ianthe looks
troubled. “Sebastien doesn’t know?”
I shake my
head, knowing my image fades in and out like a transparent sheet wavering in
the wind. “I never told him. After all,” I add softly, “it’s against the law.”
She doesn’t
look like she cares much about the law at this point. “Law or no, I can’t believe
you never did.”
“Why?” I draw
myself up, which puts at least an extra foot of air between the floor and me,
indignance coursing through me. “I love Bastien. I wouldn’t hurt him for
anything, especially not you. If he had known, he would be dead. Simple as
that.”
Stunned, she
holds her hands up in a warding gesture, which makes me roll my eyes and sigh.
We both know that won’t do any good, nor will it solve anything. Apparently,
the sigh reassures her, because she relaxes and lets her hands drop to the
couch.
“You looked…”
I raise an
eyebrow and wait, crossing my arms over my misty chest. “Yes?”
“You still have
power,” she whispers. “Your eyes promised--“
“Some sort of
awful retribution, I’m sure,” I interrupt. “And if I still had power, I would have
extricated myself from this half-heaven, half-hell scenario more than two years
ago.” I let that sink in for a minute. I’m getting a little impatient here, and
why not? I’ve only got two more hours before the sun comes up. “What do you
think of Bastien?”
She doesn’t
have time to answer. His footsteps pound against the stairs as he runs back to
join us. I have to wonder if he’s managed to keep any of the water in the
glass. He bursts into the room and, sure enough, half the water sloshes onto
the carpet.
“Is she okay?”
He directs the question at me, not even looking at Ianthe.
“Last time I
checked, ‘she’ had both a name and vocal cords. Why don’t you ask her
yourself?”
I think the
tone of my voice offended him, because the expression on his face is not
cooperative. He glares at me, then turns to Ianthe. At least he remembers she’s
there. “Are you okay?” His words and tone are cursory, as if he doesn’t really
care, but asks because I’m forcing him to. Really, you’d think I’m punishing
him from the way he’s acting.
Rubbing her
hand over her throat as if to soothe it, she nods, a final, delicate cough
escaping her. “I’m fine,” she murmurs. Her voice is husky, sore, and I almost
feel like commending her acting skills, or maybe nominating her for an Academy
award. I even notice the slight sheen of tears drenching her eyes, like they’d
been watering.
He holds the
water uncertainly. I don’t think he realizes he should offer it to her instead
of just holding it. But then I look closer. Something has sparked in his eyes,
something that looks suspiciously like...
Lust.
Well, that’s
unexpected. It shouldn’t be, but it is. Bastien hasn’t looked at another girl
-- that I’ve seen, anyway -- in the last three years. Not really, truly
*looked* at them like they were female. I’ve seen the wistful sighs follow him
out of the room and the coy, flirtatious glances cast his way. You’d have to be
blind not to notice them. Yet he never
seems to.
She smiles
shyly at him, extending her arm to accept the half-empty glass of water. “Thank
you.”
“You’re
welcome.”
Oh, how sweet.
They’re making progress. I think that’s what this is, at any rate. It might be
a good idea to disappear and let them have some time alone... In fact, I think
that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Now, should I just fade into the shadows
or should I give them some warning?
“Anna.”
If I were still
alive, I would have jumped. I was not expecting their attention to switch back
to me. I guess that solves my dilemma, though. Too late to simply disappear, so
I’m going to have to tell them. Though I am curious as to why they called my
name. “Yeah?” I ask.
“How did you
die?” Ianthe stares at me -- or through me, if you want to get technical -- and
raises an eyebrow. She looks far too sweet and innocent to induce this kind of
trouble. It’s a bitch that appearances can be so deceiving.
The light fades
from Bastien’s eyes. He shakes his head, probably in disgust, because he hates
when people ask stupid questions. As far as he knows, we answered this one
already, long before he left the room. Flopping on his end of the couch, he
props his feet on the battered coffee table. For some reason, he’s decided to
relax. “She already told you. A heart attack.”
An
uncomfortable silence settles over the room. I hate that she’s left it to me to
tell him instead of doing it herself. Her eyes meet mine, not accusing, simply
questioning. She knows the previous answer was a lie as surely as I do. I guess
it’s time to rock Bastien’s world, though I’d always thought I’d do it in a
different way.
“I was
poisoned,” I shrug. “Apparently, cyanide and dragon’s blood are lethal when
mixed.”
So much for
relaxation. At my resigned confession, he shoots up from that slumped position,
his dark eyes widening in disbelief. You know, I think he might be shocked.
I’ll bet you a new body that his next reaction is denial.
“Anna, what are
you talking about? You had a heart attack!” Now his feet are sitting squarely
on the floor and he’s tense, like he’s going to jump up at any moment. I don’t
know what he thinks standing will accomplish. It’s not like he can shake some
sense into me.
I tuck an
imaginary strand of hair behind my ear. Even when you’re dead, you don’t lose
your nervous habits. Playing with my hair was one of my favorites. I still
can’t believe I’m doing this. “That’s what it looked like,” I agree.
He’s having
none of this revelation. “Of course that’s what it looked like, because that’s
what it was. Would you like to see the death certificate?”
“I already
have, but thank you for the offer.” I meet his eyes directly, letting him feel
the full effect of those otherworldly orbs. It’s just not natural to have eyes
but no body, unless you’re in the middle of biology class, which we clearly
aren’t. “I accidentally got a wrong ingredient. It messed up a spell.”
“Right, and I’m
the Wizard of Oz.”
Ianthe has
seemingly had enough. “No, you’re not,
but unless you want me to turn into the Wicked Witch of the West, you’ll shut
up and listen.”
Bastien’s mouth
snaps shut.
Well, now I
know who’ll wear the pants in this relationship. “May I continue?”
I should try to
lessen the sarcasm. His jaw sets stubbornly in classic “I’m going to pretend
I’m paying attention even though I think they’re crazy” position and he nods,
but at least he did make some concession. I suppose I should be grateful.
“Please, do,”
Ianthe murmurs.
Even so, I
hesitate. Bastien hasn’t been overly receptive to my explanation and I don’t
expect him to welcome what he would deem lies. Bastien’s about as open to new
ideas as a dead bolted safe. And as for magic... Well, he may not laugh in the
face of danger, but he snickers at the thought of the supernatural. In fact,
let’s say Bastien’s acceptance is like the Pay-Per-View reception on a
television without cable. All you’re going to get is static and garbled
messages.
He’s sullen and
obviously impatient, tapping his fingers against his muscled forearm. Ianthe,
on the other hand, silently encourages me to speak.
“I was trying
to do a spell,” I say finally, sighing. “I bought what I thought was orchid
petals and essence of rose. It was supposed to be a relaxation spell, to help
me study. But I guess the bottle was marked wrong. Somehow I got a strong
poison instead of soothing extracts.”
Sympathy washes
over Ianthe’s face. “You couldn’t smell the difference in the ingredients?” she
asks softly.
I shake my
head, responding negatively to her question. If only it had been that easy,
but... “The smell was camouflaged under the scent of flowers. I thought I had
what I needed. I know it was an accident, though.”
“How?”
Her dark blue
eyes are soft and empathetic. I think she’ll be a good match for Bastien, that
maybe she has enough patience to deal with his stubbornness and enough steel
running through her veins to keep him from walking over her.
This is the
truly ironic part. “My sister sold me the ingredient. She was sick and wasn’t
even supposed to be working,” I murmur, a wry smile curving my lips.
Bastien sits
straight up when I say that, this time his eyes bulging instead of merely
widening. “Are you trying to say Melissa is a witch?”
His fine
features are skeptical. I think of all the things he’s heard tonight, this is
the one he deems the least realistic. My sister puts on a good front. It’s hard
to tell she’s a witch, or that there’s anything different about her at all. I
used to envy her for that, but now, in retrospect, I realize how sad it is that
she has to hide her true nature.
“I’m not
*trying* to say anything. I *am* saying.” I bite my lower lip to keep from
screaming, never mind that I can’t feel it. He really, truly aggravates
me. “Melissa is a witch, I’m a
witch...”
Ianthe smiles
brightly. “And so am I.”
Now Bastien’s
expression has turned incredulous. He whips around to face his soulmate, his
mouth hanging open, looking like he wants to say something, but apparently
unable to get the words out. “Anna has an excuse,” he exclaims. “She’s dead and
her brain’s gone screwy, but there’s no logical reason for you to think you’re
a witch!”
She tosses her
long gold hair over her shoulder, cerulean eyes flashing indignantly. “I am a
witch,” she states coldly. Her gaze shifts back to me, but now she’s wearing
the haughtiness of a queen, her back straight and her head tilted at a regal
angle. “Please, Anna. Finish your story.”
I feel like
telling her to turn him into something disgusting and easily squashed first,
just to prove our point. I have an awful vindictive streak, and Bastien made me
quite angry with the comment about my brain being screwy. It’s not hard to
understand Ianthe doesn’t really care how I died, other than idle curiosity.
She just wanted me to break the news to Bastien so she didn’t have to. Looking
at his reaction, it’s not difficult to see why.
“Nothing else
to tell,” I shrug. “I put the orchid petals and the rose into the mixture. When
I drank it, it increased my heartbeat until just enough oxygen got cut off from
the muscle to kill me. And I know it wasn’t Melissa’s fault.”
“You seem very
sure of that,” Ianthe comments. Her expression is completive, as though she
can’t believe my naïveté.
I stare flatly
back at her. If I knew anyone at all, it was Melissa. Probably better than even
Bastien. She was my best friend during childhood, something that didn’t change
once we slipped into our teenage years. Even though she was younger, she was my
mentor, my support, and my confident. If Ianthe thinks she’s going to incite
doubt about my sister’s innocence, I’ll help Bastien get rid of her now, and
the hell with his happiness.
Then again,
acting in anger probably isn’t the best thing for him.
So, keeping
Bastien’s future in mind instead of a few brief moments of personal
satisfaction, I manage to wrap my anger like a neat ball of yarn. I even smile
at her. Too bad it looks more like I’m baring my teeth.
“I trust
Melissa better than I trust myself,” I say, my voice that slight nuance between
freezing and simply inducing hypothermia. “My death almost destroyed her.”
Bastien chimes
in at this point, finally showing that he can be useful despite his hormones.
“She had to be sedated,” he confirms sadly. His eyes meet mine, understanding
passing between them. We’re not going to mention the months of therapy that
followed.
Silent for just
a moment longer, Ianthe looks properly chastised for implying that my sister
might be responsible for my death. It doesn’t stop her from making one last
ditch effort to prove her point. “How was the relationship between you and your
sister?”
“Wonderful.
What if Bastien promises to explain later?”
My eyes order her to agree. “I have less than two hours before the sun
comes up.”
That earns me
an evil glare from Bastien. I guess he doesn’t like that suggestion. I know
he’s hoping that I’ll disappear, and then he can send Ianthe away with very
little ceremony and no arguing on my part. Probably why he hasn’t suggested it
to her yet. He knows I’d have quite a bit to say about it. Of course, I’m going
to have something to say regardless, and if he sends her away, he’s going to be
hearing about it for so long that he’s going to hunt her down just to end the
torment.
Along with
being sarcastic and dead, persistence is one of my greatest virtues.
Both Bastien
and Ianthe reluctantly acquiesce.
“Lovely. Now
can we please get back to the original subject?”
I know I sound
like a bitch, that I’m a little too annoyed to keep irritation out of my voice,
but really, they’re wasting a lot of my time. Time I could be using to escape
this prison. I’m trying to bully them into agreeing, but it doesn’t seem to be
working.
Bastien hazards
my wrath. “Anna, what exactly *was* the original subject?”
Before I can
answer, Ianthe groans, leaning over to slap him lightly on the arm. “How
typical is that? A guy who doesn’t listen.”
She smiles sweetly at him, but it’s the saccharine sweetness that causes
cancer. “Let’s recap. We’re pretending Anna is alive, because then we can
pretend she’s told you to go to hell.” How odd that she’s echoed my earlier
sentiments, but where I decided to use tact, Ianthe waged a full frontal assault.
“Let’s not
forget the part where I’m a witch,” I add softly. For some reason, it’s
important that he believe that now.
He pauses for a
moment, his fingers twisting into the plush couch. His dark skin is drawn tight
over his cheekbones like he suffers. “I wish you would stop lying to me. I
won’t cooperate better because of it.”
Have you ever
seen a cat faced by two large, rabid dogs? A lot of bristling and hissing is
involved. Their backs arch and their claws extend. They try to look like they’re
scarier than they actually are. Give Bastien three minutes. If we continue to
shove this witch stuff down his throat, I’m sure that’s what he’ll look like.
I waft closer
to him, close enough that I look almost solid. “Right, Bastien. That pink haze
and being thrown into another person’s mind happens all the time.”
He looks at me
sharply, probably wondering how I know that. They certainly didn’t tell me.
“How did you know that?” he asks quietly. His dark eyes darken even further and
he looks suddenly tired. I know he wants to quit this game, to tell Ianthe to
go away, and to grow old and die in this room with me.
“It’s the
soulmate connection,” I shrug. “I’ve heard enough about it to know that those
two things are common.”
“This thing is
common?” He sounds really, really disturbed by that revelation. Apparently,
pink hazes are not included in his definition of “normal,” though being in love
with a ghost is perfectly sane. I can completely understand how he came to this
conclusion.
I hope it’s
evident I’m thinking sarcastically. I rarely understand anything Bastien does
anymore, whether that involves thinking, moving, acting, or sometimes, even
breathing. His mind has passed through the male realm of incomprehensible into
what appears to be final stages of alcohol psychosis.
Any doctor
would tell you it makes sense. He’s got the delusions down, withdrawal,
insomnia, restlessness -- need I go on? Now if he drank anything other than
water and the occasional orange juice, that explanation would describe him
perfectly. It’s a shame he’s so straight laced. He used to be firmly grounded
in reality, too, but I guess nothing lasts forever.
“Very,” Ianthe
affirms apologetically. “Soulmates are popping up like rabbits these
days.”
How
disturbingly true. Maybe I should have poisoned the carrots while I had the
chance. Then I wouldn’t be in this situation with these people. I wouldn’t have
to convince Bastien to let me be, because he wouldn’t be here anyway. I never
did learn to think ahead.
“Hear about it
all the time,” I agree.
Bastien doesn’t
look convinced. I’d describe his expression more along the terms of
“obstinate,” I think, if I were given the choice. “I don’t know about this --
what did you call it?” He looks at us expectantly, but getting no response,
thinks for a moment. His face brightens as he remembers the term we use. “I
don’t know about this soulmate thing.”
“What’s to
know?” I ask. “It’s a done thing.”
“It was a
fluke,” he snaps back. “Static electricity or something.”
Yeah, I’ve heard
that before. Obviously, so has Ianthe. The annoyance is back on her face in
full force. One thing I will say for Bastien, when he gets an idea in his head,
it’s easier to get a bulldog to stop attacking than change his mind. Granted,
this isn’t always a good thing, but I often manipulated him so I could benefit
from it.
I’ll admit that
now I’m suffering. Somehow I managed to capture him so securely that he doesn’t
want to let me go, regardless of what I want. Maybe once he rips my soul to
shreds -- like a bulldog rips apart a bone -- he’ll realize what he’s doing. By
then it will be too late for me to rest in peace and I can only hope to find
all the pieces.
I feel suddenly
weary. “Keep telling yourself that, Bastien, and you’ll be giving up the greatest
thing in your life.”
“No, I
won’t.” Again the stubbornness. “You’re the greatest thing in my life.”
“Bastien, I’m
dead!” I’m a little louder than I
intended to be, but I can’t help it. *Why* can he not get that into his head?
I’m not in his life anymore. Hell, he doesn’t *have* a life anymore! How can
he? He’s so *obsessed* that he doesn’t have time for anything else! “I’m akin
to a figment of your imagination. Let me go!”
I’m angry now,
and glowing once again. What fun.
“It’s got to be
hard.” Ianthe again, talking about things that have Goddess knows what
relevance. She stares at Bastien, tucking a strand of that rich blond hair
behind her ear. “Letting go.”
He merely
sulks. The pretenses gone, he’s not even going to try to cooperate. “It depends
on what you want,” he says sullenly. “I *know* what I want.”
Looking amused,
but trying not to show it, Ianthe bites her lip. I think she’s trying not to
smile, though I don’t know why. I don’t see anything funny about this
situation. She asks, “Have you thought about what Anna wants?”
He looks
surprised and shakes his head. Of course, not. I’m a ghost. My feelings and
ideas don’t matter, remember? “No,” he reiterates verbally, “I never have.”
She nods
thoughtfully, crossing one slim leg over the other, angled toward her soulmate.
It’s supposed to be a sign you’re attracted to someone when you do that. At
least, I think it is. Maybe I read it in one of those teen magazines when I was
alive, a thought which seriously makes me reconsider the credibility of the
interpretation.
Smoothing one
hand over her hair, flipping the long strands over her shoulder, she says, “You
say you love him.”
Damn her. Of
all the times to bring that up, she has to do it before I’m successfully gone.
I know she’s directed the comment to me, because of pronoun choice and the way
Bastien’s face reflects shock. My glowing, once again, abruptly stops.
“I don’t see
what that has to do with anything,” I reply coldly.
He stands,
moving around the coffee table and inching his way toward me. I have to stop
myself from floating back. “You love
me, Anna?”
“Like a
brother.” If I still had a body, I’d be tense and fidgeting, but instead I play
with the ghostly strands of my hair like Ianthe earlier played with her
pendant. “I’ve known you long enough that you might as well be.”
He appears
hurt. “I thought we were lovers.”
“You need a
body for that,” I point out grimly. My hands drop from my hair, instead
reaching toward him. But then I stop that, too. I can’t touch him anyway, and
the illusion will just be chilling and unfulfilling. “That ended two years and
sixty four days, eight hours and forty-one minutes ago.”
“She’s not
yours anymore,” Ianthe concurs gently. They stare at each other for a moment,
brown and blue clashing in emotions I remember so well, but can no longer
participate in.
I want to tell
him that I’ll always love him, that I’ll always be here when he thinks of me,
that I’ll never forget him. But all those things would be trite, and rather
like a consolation prize. And knowing that probably wouldn’t prompt him into
letting go anyway.
Now isn’t the
time for that anyway, even if I really do hate hurting him. Even if I know
that’s exactly what I’m doing.
He turns to
look at me, those dark eyes pained. “Anna, what do you want from me?”
Solemnly, I
stare back, meeting his brown eyes with my own green, the color like oak leaves
drenched in sunlight. He looks so hopeful, as if I can give him the moon and
the stars and the universe, cupped gently between my hands.
“I want you to
hear you say it.”