Eternal (8 page)

I shook my head. “That is so weird. Cool, but weird.”

“Tell me about it. I wish there was a way to go private. You know, flip some internal switch and go incognito. That way, I could search the headmistress’s office without having to worry.”

I stiffened in my seat, fear making my heart race as I glanced out the window. Last week’s storm had dumped nearly a foot of fresh snow on the ground. We were still in the danger zone, as far as my vision went. “You promised me you wouldn’t, Cee. The vision. Remember?”

“I know.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “But c’mon, you really think they’d expel me?”

“Yes! How could you possibly explain what you were doing there? It’s not like you could tell Dr. Ackerman the truth. She’d have to expel you.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighed resignedly. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you request a weekend pass, just to get away? I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you here, but you were just talking about that new temporary exhibit at the museum—you know, that one about vampires and werewolves and zombies. You should go.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said, glancing up at the calendar again. “I think it opened last week. They’ve got a bunch of artifacts and old texts on display—you never know what I might come across.”

“Exactly. And hey, Sophie was just complaining about all the Valentine’s Day hoopla and saying how she was dreading it too. You should see if she wants to go with you.”

“You’re a genius,” I said, reaching for my cell. All it took was a quick text conversation, and the plan was set. Sophie’s parents were going out of town for the weekend, so she’d stay with me at Patsy’s. We’d check out the museum exhibit, eat a lot of takeout, and escape the pink hearts and cupid cutouts that would take over campus for a few days. All we needed was Dr. Ackerman’s permission.

I rose, plugging my phone back into its charger. “Okay, Sophie’s meeting me in the lounge and then we’re walking over to Ackerman’s office together. Want me to get you something from the vending machines?”

“Yes! Skittles, please. Two bags and I’ll be your friend for life.”

“Wow, if I’d known you were
that
easy, I could have saved myself a lot of trouble.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. “Ha-ha. Now go,” she said, making a shooing gesture in my direction. “You’ll feel much better when this is all settled.”

“Okay, wish us luck.” We were going to need it, since the administration frowned on last-minute weekend pass requests. Somehow we’d have to couch this as an educational opportunity, highlighting our plan to visit the museum.

“You got it, girlfriend,” Cece said with a grin.

I beat Sophie to the lounge. I’d already bought three bags of Skittles—two for Cece, one for me—when she arrived, out of breath and sporting a thin sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

“What’d you do, run? Where were you?”

“Over at the chem lab,” she huffed and puffed. “With Tyler and Dr. Byrne.”

“So, you really
are
doing it? Working on Aidan’s serum?”

She nodded. “We really are. It’s pretty cool too.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Right back at you,” she said with a smile, then pointed to the colorful bags I was clutching in one hand. “What’s with all the Skittles?”

“Cece has a sweet tooth. So, how is it working out with Tyler? I can yell at him if he’s being obnoxious.”

Oddly enough, Sophie’s cheeks reddened. She bent down, fiddling with her shoelaces. “No, it’s . . . he’s fine.”

“Um, okay.” I refused to allow myself to read anything into her reaction.

“Just let me check my mail, and then let’s go,” Sophie said, smoothly changing the subject. “I think Ackerman’s office hours end in fifteen minutes and we don’t want to miss her.”

I nodded, following Sophie over to the mail cubbies. I almost never checked mine, since I rarely got anything. Except . . . there was a small padded envelope sitting there in my box. Maybe something from Lupe? She’d sent me the delicate silver crucifix necklace last year, which I still wore tucked under my shirt every day—a link to home and to the people I loved there.

I reached for the envelope, turning it over in my hands. It was addressed to me in an unfamiliar hand, with no return address.

“What’s that?” Sophie asked, peering over my shoulder.

“I have no idea. I’m almost afraid to open it.” My hands were shaking, I realized. Something about this felt . . .
off.

The postmark was dated January sixth. Had it really been that long since I’d checked my mailbox?

Ignoring the feeling of unease, I ripped open the seal and reached inside, pulling out the packet’s contents with a frown. It was a small, cream-colored square card with a key taped to it. Beneath the key, there were four numbers—a security code, maybe?—and a single word scrawled in script.
Trevors.

Aidan’s butler, Trevors, had sent me a key. A key to
what
?

“Okay, that’s weird.” Sophie examined it, then lifted her gaze to meet mine. “It looks like a house key, right?”

“Maybe,” I said, my heart accelerating as I considered the possibilities. A key . . . to a house. Aidan’s house? If so, what did that mean? Was it some sort of sign from Trevors, a hint that maybe Aidan was somehow back in Manhattan? My stomach did a little flip-flop, my mind racing dangerously fast as I processed the thought. Was it possible, or just wishful thinking?

Only one way to find out, and that meant obtaining the necessary weekend pass.

“We’ve got to get to Dr. Ackerman’s office,” I said, glancing down at my watch. “Now!”

*  *  *

“You’re sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Sophie asked, her hazel eyes troubled. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, a soda in one hand. Our weekend pass had been successfully acquired, and we’d taken the afternoon train into Manhattan and stopped for takeout burgers and fries before heading over to Patsy’s. Now that we were done eating, I was eager to get over to Aidan’s and test the key.

“I really think I need to do this alone. Whatever I find”—I swallowed hard, imagining the possibilities—“or don’t find, I can handle it.”

“You’ve got your stake?”

I pointed to my black messenger bag. “Got it.”

“Maybe you should call Dr. Byrne.” Sophie was wringing her hands now.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Clearly Trevors wants me to go over there, and I trust him. Patsy’s staying over at Paul’s, so you’ve got the place to yourself. I won’t be gone long. I promise. I’m just going to go check things out.”

“Okay,” she conceded. “Just . . . text me when you get there. And when you’re on your way back.”

“Deal,” I said.

It was a quick, easy walk from Patsy’s to Aidan’s town house, but I took a cab anyway, tipping the driver generously. My heart
was banging around in my chest as I stepped out of the cab and made my way up the stairs to the black-lacquered door.

The snow had mostly melted in the city by now—still, it was obvious that someone had recently shoveled Aidan’s walkway. It was clean and dry, without a trace of the dirty, melting slush that remained on the edges of the sidewalk. That was a good sign, I decided. It hinted at recent occupation.

I tried the brass lion’s-head knocker first with no response and then paused to search my instincts. Was he here? He had to be, I decided. Why else would Trevors have sent me the key? And yet . . . I didn’t sense his presence. I didn’t sense Trevors’s, either.

Please let him be here. Please, please, please.

I repeated the words in my head like a prayer, over and over again as I took the key from my bag and attempted to fit it into the lock. My hands were shaking so badly that it took several tries, but eventually it slid into place.

Holding my breath, I turned the key and pushed open the door. I was greeted by the high-pitched beeping of a security alarm. I reached blindly for the switch and flipped on the foyer light and stepped inside, quickly punching in the code on the alarm’s keypad, silencing it. Before I forgot, I retrieved my cell phone from my bag and texted Sophie—
I’m here!
—then stuffed
my cell into my back pocket. My sneakers squeaked noisily against the marble-tiled floor as I took off my coat and hung it on the umbrella stand by the door with my bag, then turned to survey my surroundings.

The house was eerily silent, the air slightly musty and stale. Drapes were drawn shut, furniture covered by canvas cloths. It was immediately obvious that no one was home. Disappointment washing over me, I moved farther inside, past the staircase into the living room, then the dining room, flipping on lights as I went. I continued my trek through the kitchen, the TV room, down the hallway that led back to the foyer and the curving marble stairs illuminated by an enormous crystal chandelier.

One hand trailing along the mahogany banister, I made my way up the stairs, my footfalls echoing loudly in the heavy silence. There were only two bedrooms on the second floor—the enormous master suite and the “rose room,” aptly named for its decor. I entered the rose room first, allowing the memories to rush back. I’d stayed here once, slept in the big antique bed hung with pale pink drapes. It seemed like forever ago—a different lifetime. That night, I’d thought that learning Aidan was a vampire was the craziest, most outlandish truth I’d ever encounter. How wrong I’d been.

I scanned the room—it looked pristine, untouched. Bed,
dresser, washstand, all exactly as I’d remembered it, all accented with rosebuds and cream-colored lace. The door on the far side of the room led to the attached bath; the door on my right opened directly into Aidan’s bedroom. I walked toward it hesitantly, heart pounding and palms dampening.

The rational part of my mind warned me that, just like the rest of the house, the room was empty, that Aidan wasn’t here. If he were, I would have felt his presence by now, heard his voice in my head. And yet . . . I couldn’t help but hope, couldn’t help but imagine him there on the other side of door, waiting for me.

I approached the arched door and paused, wiping my hands on my jeans. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my nerves, but it was no use. When I reached for the cut-glass doorknob, my hand was trembling wildly. Twice, my fingers slipped off. On the third try, I managed to grasp the knob and turn it.

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and flipped on the light. Immediately, my breath caught in my throat. I had to reach for the doorjamb with both hands to steady myself as I took in the sight—and scent—that greeted me.

T
here were orange blossoms everywhere—floating in a round crystal dish by the bed, in a vase on the table in the center of the room, scattered across the deep blue velvet duvet. The scent filled the air, sweet and citrusy and achingly familiar.

Eternal love.

I took a few steps forward, my legs feeling wooden and stiff. Slowly, I made my way toward the table—what Gran called a piecrust table—and the arrangement there. The vase was tall, nearly a foot high and rectangular in shape. The milky white blossoms were still attached to their stems, nestled between the sturdy green leaves. They were fresh, not yet wilted and still full of scent.
They could only be hothouse flowers this time of year. But how did they get here?

Mystified, I glanced over at the flower-strewn bed, noticing now that what I’d originally thought was a white throw pillow amidst the pile of blue and gold tasseled ones was actually paper—a sheaf of papers with an envelope on top. My heart was in my throat as I hurried over to the side of the bed and reached across the duvet, sliding the papers closer. My name was scrawled on the envelope in a familiar hand—Aidan’s. I ripped open the seal and took out the slip of heavy, cream-colored paper. Unfolding it with shaking hands, I began to read.

Violet,

I haven’t much time, so this will be regrettably brief. I’ve deeded this house and all of its contents to you, held in trust for you until your eighteenth birthday. Additionally, I’ve made provisions for taxes and upkeep. Trevors will have taken care of the paperwork, which you will find accompanying this letter. As soon as you receive this, contact my attorney here in New York—you’ll find his contact information with the paperwork—and he’ll go over the specifics with you regarding the housekeeping schedule, gardener, security, etc.

I wish I had more time to tell you what you’ve meant to
me, what joy and light and happiness you’ve brought into my life. Suffice it to say that I will never forget you, not as long as I walk this earth.

Eternally yours,

Aidan

Tears burned behind my eyelids as I refolded the page and returned it to the envelope. I took a deep breath, digesting his words in silence, trying to make sense of it all. He’d deeded the house to me? The house and all of its contents? I glanced around the room in wonderment. What was I supposed to do with it all?

I took the sheaf of papers and removed the clip, leafing through them without understanding much of what I was reading. It was paragraph after paragraph of legalese, occasionally interrupted by lines with signatures, Aidan’s and someone else’s—the attorney’s, I supposed.

I swallowed hard, completely overwhelmed. The town house itself was worth millions—a plum piece of Manhattan real estate. Add in the antique furnishings, the artwork . . .

Thanks to my art history class, I now recognized several of the gilt-framed paintings throughout the house as originals, some by masters. I was pretty sure that the pretty landscape above the fireplace was a Seurat, the portrait by the staircase a Gainsborough.

But I didn’t want any of it, Aidan’s possessions. I wanted
him
. Here with me. Now.

I dropped the sheaf of papers to the bed and rose, hurrying over to the chest of drawers in the room’s corner. I opened one drawer, then another. There were jeans, T-shirts, all familiar and folded neatly inside, abandoned. I picked up a shirt—a worn, black tee—and lifted it to my nose. It smelled clean, like fabric softener, not a trace of Aidan’s scent remaining. There must be something, some hint of him somewhere.