Strega (Strega Series) (7 page)

As I held the blade in my hands, I thought of Mr. Baker. The more I studied it, the more familiar it seemed. I tried to remember where I might have come across something like it, and naturally I thought of his class. He'd discussed the topic of ancient weaponry and even brought several items into class.

I traced the inlaid stone down the center of the blade. When I reached the sharp tip, I lightly touched it. Any more pressure and I would have drawn blood. As I stared into the blade's shimmering silver surface, I noticed my reflection. Something about it was strange, different somehow. I adjusted the blade, bringing it closer to see my face more clearly. But the face I saw was not my own.

I whipped the blade across the room and shot up off the bed. I spun around, expecting to see someone peering over my shoulder, but nobody was there. I searched my entire room—under the bed, in the closet, behind the desk. But there was not another soul. I was alone.

I stared at the blade on the floor, afraid to touch it. Slowly, I made my way across the room and reluctantly crouched down to pick it up. I held it at arm's length at first and slowly brought it closer. As I tipped the blade toward me, the same strange face I'd seen before stared back at me. I whipped my head around again, but I was still alone. Through squinted, terrified eyes, I looked again and saw that this strange face stared back at me with familiar confusion. Waves of soft brown hair flowed across her sorrowful face. Her eyes were heavy from shedding tears. Her lips were parted slightly, and blood from her bottom lip stained her chin. I looked into the mirror hanging on the wall to see my own face. My hair was pulled back and my eyes, although tired and heavy, were dry. I touched my lip and my chin but there was no blood. I looked into her eyes again, and what seemed like a stranger's eyes at first suddenly softened into something hauntingly familiar.

"Who are you?" I whispered involuntarily. The strange reflection whispered these same words back to me.

I'm going crazy
. I wrapped the blade in the red fabric and shoved it in my bag. I pulled off my clothes and took a quick shower. I slid on my jeans and pulled on my white sweater, and grabbed my bag and ran down the stairs.

"Wait, where are you going?" Rena shouted from the dining room as I thrust my feet into my boots. I didn't have time to explain to her what had just happened. Even if I did, I knew she wouldn't believe me. She would definitely think that I'd officially lost it. I pulled my damp hair out from beneath my coat and flew out the front door.

"I'll be back in a few," I said as I quickly closed the door behind me. I dashed down the front steps to my car and pulled out my phone.

"Hi Mr. Baker. It's Jay," I said as I turned the key in the ignition. "I'm hoping you're in today. I'm on my way over right now. I have a strange question for you. Hopefully we can meet today at some point to talk...."

I was only seven when Mom and Dad died in a horrible accident. An explosive fire caused by faulty wiring in our house. My nightmares started before they died, but after, when I moved in with Gram, they only got worse. Each was more terrifying than the last. Gram asked questions just as Mom had, as if within the details of these terrible dreams hid the key to their end. But my memories were never clear enough. She'd mumble under her breath, frustrated, desperate for answers that I couldn't give her. Many bad nights ended with me crawling into her bed. Now there was no bigger, safer bed to crawl into. Strange things were happening to me
—inexplicable things—and I had to deal with it all on my own.

As I drove by the houses on our street, I passed people tending to their lawns and hauling out their trash bins as if it was just another day. Like everything was normal. But it wasn't.

As crazy as it all seemed, I knew that if Gram was still alive, I could tell her everything and she wouldn't dismiss it. As I drove past our old house, my chest tightened with grief. That house held so many precious memories for me. Memories of the years she and I lived together. And memories of us before that, all together when Mom and Dad were still alive. When I still felt whole. Back then, we came up to visit Gram often. Sometimes we stayed over. I loved our sleepovers in Newburyport—going to the toy shop downtown, having breakfast by the water and feeding the birds, snuggling in Gram's big bed, and getting to squeeze lots of chocolate syrup into my milk.

After Mom and Dad died, Gram wrapped all her love and comfort around me in that house. It was my sanctuary. The place where I could sit in the chair Dad used to sit in, or drink from the coffee mug Mom always used when we visited. That house was once so warm, so comforting, so safe. Now it sat vacant and quiet, with grief and heartache around every corner. Gram left it to me. It was all mine, and it was as empty as I was.

Along with most of her neighbors on the old carriage route through town, her house dated back hundreds of years. It was the only sage green house with white trim. Her front yard, enclosed by a white picket fence, had a little cobblestone walkway that led to the front door. Her flower garden blossomed into a rainbow of color in the spring and summer. Inside the house, the original wide plank hardwood floors and brick fireplaces, as well as the original wooden ceiling beams, preserved its historical integrity. But in every room, a splash of modern color kept it fresh and alive. She always knew how to pick the perfect piece of art or cozy piece of furniture to complete a room.

I loved snuggling up with Gram on the big soft sofa, tucked under her cozy white blanket on cold New England winter afternoons. Soon after Mom and Dad died, she and I were sitting on that big soft sofa when she pulled over her head the simple silver chain with the unique pendant dangling from it. She'd never taken it off before that day. She placed it around my neck. It was big for me. The chain was long and the pendant was large
—shaped like an upside down tree with three twisted branches that sprouted into even more branches. At the end of each branch was a different charm—a fish, a key, a full moon with a snake coiled around it, a flower blossom, and a rooster. The back was a mirror image of the front, except for the fish. In its place was a double-edged blade.

The pendant was so unusual, but I never thought to ask if its charms had any special significance. Gram told me it would protect me from the darkness in my dreams. If ever I was afraid, she said, I was to close my eyes and hold it tightly. I wore it every day and every night until the dreams stopped. When they did, I proudly returned it to her as if I'd defeated my fears and had no need for it anymore. She put it back on and never took it off again. The night she was killed, I found it under a wicker chair on the other side of the room, covered in blood. It had been torn from her neck.

I once wore this pendant, for protection. This thought resonated with me as I looked at the blade wrapped up in my bag on the passenger seat. Then suddenly a voice I hadn't heard in ages, Mom's voice, resounded in my ear as if she was right beside me.

An evil as old as the universe haunts the world. You must learn to protect yourself from it.

I quickly turned my head, half expecting to see her face. But my eyes settled upon the empty space beside me and my fluttering heart sank back down in my chest.

My high school campus was beautiful in any season, but especially in autumn. Soon trees would begin to shed their leaves, which would scatter around the brick buildings and across the grassy landscape. In just a week, students would take over the campus. I took a moment to enjoy the serenity while I had the chance.

This year in particular, I dreaded going back to school. It was not my classes or the work that I minded. Those were actually the only things I liked. I spent all summer reading books and watching history and science TV shows. Ruth and Jack's house was the ultimate knowledge conduit, abound with books on all subjects. My friends teased me for my nerdiness. They'd chuckle as they hiked their pants up and walked with a hunch, while pretending to push an invisible pair of duct-taped glasses up the bridge of their nose.

"Knowledge is power," I'd retort proudly as I adjusted my invisible glasses and snorted.

The thing I dreaded about going back to school was the sea of patronizing faces that would inevitably surround me, especially that first day. Everybody knew I lost my grandmother. It was a small town. Besides my friends, a ton of students came to her funeral, either because they knew me or because their parents knew Gram. I appreciated their condolences, I just couldn't stand being doused with their pity. Or observing their whispers every time I walked into a room. I didn't need the constant reminder that I'd lost her.

I walked up the steps to the main entrance and through the doors for the first time since early June, when my heart was not so heavy and my mind not so burdened. I made my way to Mr. Baker's office on the third floor. The waiting area outside the faculty offices was quiet and empty since school was not back in session yet, but teachers were already trickling back in. As I turned the corner, I saw the administrator sitting at her desk talking on the phone. Mr. Baker's door was closed and through the small panel of glass at the top, I could see that the lights were off. Impatiently, I waited for the administrator to wrap up her call.

"Do you know if Mr. Baker will be in today?" I blurted out the moment she hung up. She took a moment to transition, and slowly responded as if it thrilled her to withhold the answer.

"There is a staff meeting today at 10:15. He should be here soon."

I was relieved to hear this. I wasn't sure if he'd be in at all. It was 9:30. I settled into the chair outside his door and waited. I sent Rena a quick text letting her know I was turning my ringer off. She'd already called seven times.

As I waited, a younger student walked in and stopped at the administrator's desk. I guessed him to be a freshman. I didn't recognize him. He mumbled something to her, and then came and sat down two chairs away from me. He pushed in his earphones, and suddenly I heard the muffled tune of a familiar song. The same song I played every morning, tormenting myself with memories of Vince singing it. I'd already decided I was going to stop that self-destructive routine. Rena was right. Staying hung up on him served no purpose.

A moment later, the administrator craned toward the freshman.

"Vince," she called sharply. I flinched as if she'd just thrown her stapler at me. The freshman quickly stood up and eagerly hopped over to her desk. She handed him a pile of papers and he sat back down to fill them out. I stared at him obtrusively, as if by his shared name he embodied the real thing. I was trying to forget Vince, but my efforts were futile. The universe was working against me.

I heard someone in the hallway, about to round the corner. I moved to the edge of my seat, hoping that it was Mr. Baker. Then a familiar cough brought great reassurance. As soon as he saw my face, his eyes opened wide and his mouth fell open in surprise.

"What are you doing here, Jay?" His hands were full of folders and papers, a lunch bag, and a water bottle. His laptop case was slung over his shoulder.

"Hi, Mr. Baker!"

Mr. Baker was about fifty, I guessed. But he treated us like his peers—not like kids. His shiny black shoes and pressed dress shirts defined him. I never saw him in anything else. As we stepped into his office, I quickly closed the door behind me. When he heard the click, he turned and looked at me and his face sunk with worry.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, as if sensing my agitation. I was itching to get down to business. As I sat down, he handed me a tissue.

"What happened?"

He pointed to my bottom lip. I touched it and felt the wetness soak my fingertips. It was bleeding.

"I don't know," I said, blotting it with the tissue, recalling the reflection in the blade.
This is crazy
. I tried to focus. I just needed to find out what he might know about the blade. I unwrapped it and placed it on his desk.

"Have you ever seen a blade like this...or these symbols before?" I asked.

He leaned in close, adjusting his glasses and tilting his head as he analyzed it. He didn't say anything at first. I couldn't stop fidgeting as I waited for his response.

"Hmmm," he mumbled. "Fascinating."

"What?" The word burst out of my mouth as I stood up in anticipation, still holding the tissue against my lip.

"Well," he said, furrowing his brow as his mind churned. "The craftsmanship is outstanding. The design and materials are reminiscent of much older blades, yet it's in spectacular shape. Looks brand new. Where did you get this?"

"Uh...I found it," I said with unintended exuberance. "Last night. In my aunt's basement."

I was nervous. There were way too many details I didn't want to share with him, and I was afraid he would see right through me.

"Do you recognize those symbols?" I asked, hoping my previous answer satisfied him and he was ready to move on.

"I'm almost certain they are ancient European," he said, picking up the blade and continuing to study it. "But they are a bit different than anything I've seen before. Daggers that date back to the Roman Republic...their design is similar to this. But these symbols are not Roman."

He paused for a moment, and I hoped that he was about to reveal a critical piece of information.