Fallen

CHAPTER 12. INTO DUST

In the hazy dusk over the cemetery, a vulture circled. Two days had passed since Todd's death, and Luce hadn't been able to eat or sleep. She was standing in a sleeveless black dress in the basin of the graveyard, where the whole of Sword & Cross had gathered to pay its respects to Todd. As if one unenthusiastic hourlong ceremony were enough. Especially since the campus's only chapel had been turned into the natatorium, and the ceremony had to be held in the grim swampland of the cemetery.

Since the accident, the school had been on lockdown, and the faculty had been the definition of tight-lipped. Luce had spent the past two days avoiding the stares of the other students, who all eyed her with varying degrees of suspicion. The ones she didn't know very well seemed to look at her with a faint hint of fear. Others, like Roland and Molly, ogled her in a different, much more shameless manner, as if there were something darkly fascinating about her survival. She endured the probing eyes as best she could during class, and was glad at night when Penn dropped by to bring her a steaming mug of ginger tea, or Arriane slipped a dirty Mad Libs under her door.

She was desperate for anything to take her mind off that uneasy, waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop feeling. Because she knew it was coming. In the form of a second visit either from the police, or from the shadows—or both.

That morning, a PA announcement had informed them that the evening's Social would be canceled out of respect for Todd's passing, and that classes would be dismissed an hour early so the students could have time to change and arrive at the cemetery at three o'clock. As if the whole school weren't already dressed for a funeral all the time.

Luce had never seen so many people congregating in one place on the campus. Randy was parked at the center of the group in a calf-length pleated gray skirt and thick, rubber-soled black shoes. A misty-eyed Miss Sophia and a handkerchief-wielding Mr. Cole stood behind her in mourning clothes. Ms. Tross and Coach Diante stood in a black-clad cluster with a group of other faculty and administrators Luce had never seen before.

The students were seated in alphabetic rows. At the front, Luce could see Joel Bland, the kid who'd won the swimming race last week, blowing his nose into a dirty handkerchief. Luce was in the nowhere land of P's, but she could see Daniel, annoyingly positioned in the G's right next to Gabbe, two rows ahead. He was dressed impeccably in a fitted black pinstriped blazer, but his head seemed to hang lower than everyone's around him. Even from the back, Daniel managed to look devastatingly somber.

Luce thought about the white peonies he'd brought her. Randy hadn't let her take the vase with her when she left the infirmary, so Luce had carried the flowers up to her room and gotten pretty inventive, cutting off the top of a plastic water bottle with a pair of manicure scissors.

The blooms were fragrant and soothing, but the message they offered was unclear. Usually when a guy brought you flowers, you didn't have to second-guess his feelings. But with Daniel, those kinds of assumptions were always a bad idea. It was so much safer to assume he'd brought them to her because that was what you did when someone went through a trauma.

But still: He'd brought her flowers! If she leaned forward now in her folding chair and looked up at the dorm, through the metal bars on the third window from the left, she could almost make them out.

"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread," a pay-by-the-hour minister warbled from the front of the crowd. "Till thou return unto the ground. For out of it wast thou taken, for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."

He was a thin man about seventy, lost in a big black jacket. His beat-up athletic shoes were fraying at the laces; his face was lumpy and sunburned. He spoke into a microphone attached to an old plastic boom box that looked like it was from the eighties. The sound that came out was staticky and distorted and hardly carried across the crowd.

Everything about this service was inadequate and completely wrong.

No one was paying Todd any respect by being here. The whole memorial seemed more like an attempt to teach the students how unfair life could be. That Todd's body wasn't even present said so much about the school's relationship—or utter lack thereof—with the departed boy. None of them had known him; none of them ever would. There was something false about standing here today in this crowd, something made worse by the few people who were crying. It made Luce feel like Todd was even more of a stranger to her than he actually had been.

Let Todd rest in peace. Let the rest of them just move on.

A white horned owl crooned in the high branch of the oak tree over their heads. Luce knew there was a nest somewhere nearby with a clan of new baby owls. She'd been hearing the mother's fearful chant each night this week, followed by the frantic beating of the father's wings on the descent from his nightly hunt.

And then it was over. Luce stood up from her chair, feeling weak with the unfairness of it all. Todd had been as innocent as she was guilty, though of what she didn't know.

As she followed the other students in single file toward the so-called reception, an arm looped around her waist and pulled her back.

Daniel?

But no, it was Cam.

His green eyes searched hers and seemed to pick up her disappointment, which only made her feel worse. She bit her lip to keep from dissolving into a sob. Seeing Cam shouldn't make her cry—she was just so emotionally drained, teetering on the brink of a collapse. She bit so hard she tasted blood, then wiped her mouth on her hand.

"Hey," Cam said, smoothing the back of her hair. She winced. She still had a bump back there from where she'd hit her head on the steps. "Do you want to go somewhere and talk?"

They'd been walking with the others across the grass toward the reception under the shade of one of the oak trees. A cluster of chairs had been set up practically one on top of the other. A nearby folding card table was strewn with stacks of stale-looking cookies, pulled from their generic boxes but still sitting in their inner plastic shells. A cheap plastic punch bowl had been filled with syrupy red liquid and had attracted several flies, the way a corpse might do. It was such a pathetic reception, few of the other students even bothered with it. Luce spotted Penn in a black skirt suit, shaking hands with the minister. Daniel was looking away from them all, whispering something to Gabbe.

When Luce turned back to Cam, his finger dragged lightly across her collarbone, then lingered in the hollow of her neck. She inhaled and felt goose bumps rise on her skin.

"If you don't like the necklace," he said, leaning into her, "I can get you something else."

His lips were so close to brushing her neck that Luce pressed a hand to his shoulder and stepped back.

"I do like it," she said, thinking of the box lying on her desk. It had ended up right next to Daniel's flowers, and she'd spent half the night before looking back and forth between them, weighing the gifts and the intentions behind them. Cam was so much clearer, easier to figure out. Like he was algebra and Daniel was calculus. And she had always loved calculus, the way it sometimes took an hour to figure out a single proof.

"I think the necklace is great," she told Cam. "I just haven't had a chance to wear it yet."

"I'm sorry," he said, pursing his lips. "I shouldn't press you."

His dark hair was slicked back and showed more of his face than usual. It made him look older, more mature. And the way he looked at her was so intense, his big green eyes probing into her, like he approved of everything she held inside.

"Miss Sophia kept saying to give you space these last couple of days. I know she's right, you've been through so much. But you should know how much I thought about you. All the time. I wanted to see you."

He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and Luce felt tears welling up. She had been through so much. And she felt terrible that here she was, about to cry, not over Todd—whose death did matter, and should have mattered more—but for selfish reasons. Because the past two days brought back too much past pain about Trevor and her life before Sword & Cross, things she thought she'd dealt with and could never explain, not to anyone. More shadows to push away.

It was like Cam sensed this, or at least part of this, because he folded her into his arms, pressed her head against his strong, broad chest, and rocked her from side to side.

"It's okay," he said. "It's going to be okay."

And maybe she didn't have to explain anything to him. It was like the more deranged she felt inside, the more available Cam became. What if it was enough just to stand here in the arms of someone who cared about her, to let his simple affection steady her for a little while?

It felt so good just to be held.

Luce didn't know how to pull away from Cam. He had always been so nice. And she did like him, and yet, for reasons that made her feel guilty, he was kind of beginning to annoy her. He was so perfect, and helpful, and exactly what she should have needed right now. It was just… he wasn't Daniel.

An angel food cupcake appeared over her shoulder. Luce recognized the manicured hand holding it. "There's punch over there that needs drinking," Gabbe said, handing Cam a cupcake, too. He glared at its frosted top. "You okay?" Gabbe asked Luce.

Luce nodded. For the first time, Gabbe had popped up exactly when Luce wanted saving. They smiled at each other and Luce raised her cupcake in thanks. She took a small, sweet bite.

"Punch sounds great," Cam said through gritted teeth. "Why don't you go get us a few glasses, Gabbe?"

Gabbe rolled her eyes at Luce. "Do a man one favor and he'll start treating you like a slave."

Luce laughed. Cam was a little out of line, but it was obvious to Luce what he was trying to do.

"I'll go get the drinks," Luce said, ready for a breath of air. She headed for the card table and the punch bowl. She was skimming a fly from the surface of the punch when someone whispered in her ear.

"You want to get out of here?"

Luce turned around, ready to invent some excuse for Cam that no, she couldn't duck out—not now, and not with him. But it wasn't Cam who reached out and touched the base of her wrist with his thumb.

It was Daniel.

She melted a little. Her Wednesday phone slot was in ten minutes and she desperately wanted to hear Callie's voice, or her parents' voices. To talk about something going on outside these wrought iron gates, other than the bleakness of her last two days.

But get out of here? With Daniel? She found herself nodding.

Cam was going to hate her if he saw her leave, and he would see. He would be watching her. She could almost feel his green eyes on the back of her head. But of course she had to go. She slipped her hand inside Daniel's. "Please."

All the other times they'd touched, either it had been an accident, or one of them had jerked away—usually Daniel—before the bolt of warmth Luce always felt could evolve into a rising crescendo of heat. Not this time. Luce looked down at Daniel's hand, holding fast to hers, and her whole body wanted more. More of the heat, more of the tingling, more of Daniel. It was almost—not quite—as good as she'd felt in her dream. She could hardly feel her feet moving below her, just the flow of his touch taking over.

It was as if she only blinked, and they had ascended to the gates of the cemetery. Below them, far away, the rest of the memorial service wobbled out of focus as the two of them left it all behind.

Daniel stopped suddenly and, without warning, dropped her hand. She shivered, cold again.

"You and Cam," he said, letting the words hang in the air like a question. "You spend a lot of time together?"

"Sounds like you're not very fond of that idea," she said, feeling instantly stupid for playing coy. She'd only wanted to tease him for sounding a little jealous, but his face and his tone were so serious.

"He's not—" Daniel started to say. He watched a red-tailed hawk land in an oak tree over their heads. "He's not good enough for you."

Luce had heard people say that line a thousand times before. It was what everyone always said. Not good enough. But when the words passed Daniel's lips, they sounded important, even somehow true and relevant, not vague and dismissive the way the phrase had always sounded to her in the past.

"Well, then," she said in a quiet voice, "who is?"

Daniel put his hands on his hips. He laughed to himself for a long time. "I don't know," he said finally. "That's a terrific question."

Not exactly the answer Luce was looking for. "It's not like it's that hard," she said, stuffing her hands into her pockets because she wanted to reach out to him. "To be good enough for me."

Daniel's eyes looked like they were falling, all the violet that had been in them a moment before turned a deep, dark gray. "Yes," he said. "Yes, it is."

He rubbed his forehead, and when he did, his hair flipped back for just a second. Long enough. Luce saw the scab on his forehead. It was healing, but Luce could tell that it was new.

"What happened to your forehead?" she asked, reaching for him.

"I don't know," he snapped, pushing her hand away, hard enough that she stumbled back. "I don't know where it came from."

He seemed more unsettled by it than Luce was, which surprised her. It was just a small scrape.

Footsteps on the gravel behind them. Both of them spun around.

"I told you, I haven't seen her," Molly was saying, shrugging off Cam's hand as they ascended the graveyard's hill.

"Let's go," Daniel said, sensing everything she felt—she was almost certain that he could—even before she shot him a nervous look.

She knew where they were going as soon as she began to follow him. Behind the church-gymnasium and into the woods. Just like she'd expected his jump rope posture before she ever saw him working out. Just like she'd known about that cut before she saw it.

They walked at just the same pace, with steps just the same length. Their feet hit the grass at the same time, every time, until they reached the forest.

"If you come to a place more than once with the same person," Daniel said, almost to himself, "I guess it isn't yours alone anymore."

Luce smiled, honored as she realized what Daniel was saying: that he'd never been to the lake before with anyone else. Only her.

As they trekked through the woods, she felt the coolness of the shade beneath the trees on her bare shoulders. It smelled the same as ever, as most coastal Georgian forests did: an oaky mulch scent that Luce used to associate with the shadows, but that she now connected to Daniel. She shouldn't feel safe anywhere after what had just happened to Todd, but next to Daniel, Luce felt like she was breathing easy for the first time in days.

She had to believe he was bringing her back here because of the way he'd skipped out on her so suddenly the last time. Like they needed a second try to get it right. What had started out feeling like their first kind of almost-date had turned into Luce feeling pitifully stood up. Daniel must have known that and felt bad about his stormy exit.

They reached the magnolia tree that marked the lookout point on the lake. The sun left a golden trail on the water as it edged over the forest to the west. Everything looked so different in the evening. The whole world seemed to glow.

Daniel leaned up against the tree and watched her watch the water. She moved to stand beside him under the waxy leaves and the flowers, which should have been dead and gone by this time of year, but looked as pure and fresh as spring blooms. Luce breathed in the musky scent, and felt closer to Daniel than she had any reason to—and loved that the feeling seemed to come from out of nowhere.

"We're not exactly dressed for a swim this time," he said, pointing at Luce's black dress.

She fingered the delicate eyelet hem at her knees, imagining her mom's shock if she ruined a good dress because she and a boy wanted to dive into a lake. "Maybe we could just stick our feet in?"

Daniel motioned toward the steep red rock path that led down to the water. They climbed over thick, tawny reeds and lake grass and used the twisted stumps of live oak trees to keep their balance. Here, the shore of the lake turned to pebbles. The water looked so still, she felt she almost could have walked on it.

Luce kicked off her black ballet flats and skimmed the lily-padded surface with her toes. The water was cooler than it had been the other day. Daniel picked a strand of lake grass and started braiding its thick stem.

He looked at her. "You ever think about getting out of here—"

"All the time," she said with a groan, assuming he meant that he did, too. Of course, she wanted to get as far away from Sword & Cross as possible. Anyone would. But she tried at least to keep her mind from whirling out of control, toward fantasies of her and Daniel plotting an escape.

"No," Daniel said, "I mean, have you really considered going somewhere else? Asking your parents for a transfer? It's just… Sword & Cross doesn't seem like the best fit for you."

Luce took a seat on a rock opposite Daniel and hugged her knees. If he was suggesting that she was a reject among a student body full of rejects, she couldn't help feeling a little insulted.

She cleared her throat. "I can't afford the luxury of seriously considering someplace else. Sword & Cross is" — she paused—"pretty much a last-ditch effort for me."

"Come on," Daniel said.

"You wouldn't know—"

"I would." He sighed. "There's always another stop, Luce."

"That's very prophetic, Daniel," she said. She could feel her voice rising. "But if you're so interested in getting rid of me, what are we doing? No one asked you to drag me out here with you."

"No," he said. "You're right. I meant that you're not like people here. There's got to be a better place for you."

Luce's heart was beating quickly, which it usually did around Daniel. But this was different. This whole scene was making her sweat.

"When I came here," she said, "I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't tell anyone about my past, or what I'd done to land myself at this place."

Daniel dropped his head into his hands. "What I'm talking about has nothing to do with what happened with that guy—"

"You know about him?" Luce's face crumpled. No. How could Daniel know? "Whatever Molly told you…"

But she knew it was too late. Daniel had been the one to find her with Todd. If Molly had told him anything about how Luce had also been implicated in another mysterious fiery death, she couldn't begin to imagine explaining it.

"Listen," he said, gripping her hands. "What I'm saying, it has nothing to do with that part of your past."

She found that hard to believe. "Then does it have to do with Todd?"

He shook his head. "It has to do with this place. It has to do with things…"

Daniel's touch jostled something in her mind. She started thinking about the wild shadows she'd seen that night. The way they'd changed so much since she'd arrived at this school—from a sneaky, unsettling threat to now almost-ubiquitous, full-blown terrors.

She was crazy—that must be what Daniel sensed about her. Maybe he thought she was pretty, but he knew deep down she was seriously disturbed. That was why he wanted her to leave, so he wouldn't be tempted to get involved with someone like her. If that was what Daniel thought, he didn't know the half of it.

"Maybe it has to do with the weird black shadows I saw the night Todd died?" she said, hoping to shock him. But as soon as she'd said the words, she knew her intent was not to freak Daniel out even more… it was to finally tell someone. It wasn't like she had much more to lose.

"What did you say?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, you know," she said, shrugging now, trying to downplay what she'd just said. "Once a day or so, I get these visits from these dark things I call the shadows."

"Don't be cute," Daniel said curtly. And even though his tone stung, she knew he was right. She hated how falsely nonchalant she sounded, when really she was all wound up. But should she tell him? Could she? He was nodding for her to go on. His eyes seemed to reach out and pull the words from inside her.

"It's gone on for the last twelve years," she admitted finally, with a deep shudder. "It used to just be at night, when I was near water or trees, but now…" Her hands were shaking. "It's practically nonstop."

"What do they do?"

She would have thought he was just humoring her, or trying to get her to go on so he could crack a joke at her expense, except his voice had gone hoarse and his face was drained of color.

"Usually, they start out by hovering right about here." She reached around to the back of Daniel's neck and tickled him to demonstrate. For once, she wasn't just trying to get physically close to him—this really was the only way she knew how to explain. Especially since the shadows had begun to infringe on her body in such a palpable, physical way.

Daniel didn't flinch, so she continued. "Then sometimes they get really bold," she said, moving to her knees and placing her hands on his chest. "And they shove right up against me." Now she was right in his face. Her lip quivered and she couldn't believe she was actually opening up to anyone—let alone Daniel—about the horrible things she saw. Her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, "Recently, they don't seem satisfied until they've" — she swallowed—"taken someone's life and knocked me flat on my back."

She gave his shoulders the tiniest push, not intending to affect him at all, but the lightest touch of her fingertips was enough to knock Daniel over.

His fall took her so much by surprise, she accidentally lost her own balance and landed in a tangled heap on top of him. Daniel was flat on his back, looking at her with wide eyes.

She should not have told him that. Here she was, on top of him, and she'd just divulged her deepest secret, the thing that really defined her as a lunatic.

How could she still want to kiss him so badly at a time like this?

Her heart was pounding impossibly fast. Then she realized: She was feeling both of their hearts, racing each other. A kind of desperate conversation, one they couldn't have with words.

"You really see them?" he whispered.

"Yes," she whispered, wanting to pick herself up and take it all back. And yet she was unable to move off Daniel's chest. She tried to read his thoughts—what any normal person would think about an admission like hers. "Let me guess," she said glumly. "Now you're certain I need a transfer. To a psychiatric ward."

He pushed himself out from under her, leaving her lying practically face-first on the rock. Her eyes moved up his feet, to his legs, to his torso, to his face. He was staring up at the forest.

"That's never happened before," he said.

Luce got to her feet. It was humiliating, lying there alone. Plus, it was like he hadn't even heard what she said.

"What's never happened? Before what?"

He turned to her and cupped her cheeks in his hands. She held her breath. He was so close. His lips were so close to hers. Luce gave her thigh a pinch to make sure this time she wasn't dreaming. She was wide awake.

Then he almost forcibly pulled himself away. He stood before her, breathing quickly, his arms stiff at his sides.

"Tell me again what you saw."

Luce turned away to face the lake. The clear blue water lapped softly at the bank, and she considered diving in. That was what Daniel had done the last time things had gotten too intense for him. Why couldn't she do it, too?

"It may surprise you to know this," she said. "But it's no thrill for me to sit here and talk about how thoroughly insane I am." Especially to you.

Daniel didn't answer, but she could feel his eyes on her. When she finally got the courage to glance at him, he was giving her a strange, disturbing, mournful look—one in which his eyes turned down at the corners and their particular gray was the saddest thing Luce had ever seen. She felt as if she'd let him down somehow. But this was her awful confession. Why should Daniel be the one to look so shattered?

He stepped toward her and leaned down until his eyes were gazing directly into hers. Luce almost couldn't take it. But she couldn't make herself budge, either. Whatever happened to break this trance would have to be up to Daniel—who was moving closer still, tilting his head toward hers and closing his eyes. His lips parted. Luce's breath caught in her throat.

She closed her eyes, too. She tilted her head toward his, too. She parted her lips, too.

And waited.

The kiss she had been dying for didn't come. She opened her eyes because nothing had happened, except for the rustling sound of a tree branch. Daniel was gone. She sighed, crestfallen but not surprised.

What was strange was that she could almost see the path he'd taken back through the forest. As if she were some kind of hunter who could pinpoint the rotation of a leaf and let it lead her back to Daniel. Except she was nothing of the sort, and the kind of trail that Daniel left in his wake was somehow bigger, clearer, and at the same time, even more elusive. It was as if a violet glow illuminated his path back through the forest.

Like the violet glow she'd seen during the library fire. She was seeing things. She steadied herself on the rock and looked away for a moment, rubbing her eyes. But when she looked back, it was just the same: In just one plane of her vision—as if she were looking through bi focals with a wild prescription—the live oaks, and the mulch beneath them, and even the songs of the birds in the branches—all of it seemed to wobble out of focus. And it didn't just wobble, bathed in that faintest purple light, but seemed to emit a barely audible low-pitched hum.

She spun back around, terrified to face it, terrified of what it meant. Something was happening to her, and she could tell no one about it. She tried to focus on the lake, but even it was growing darker and difficult to see.