Adelaide Upset Read online

  The house belonged to Ben. I was just renting it from him, and for cheap. If Stephen and Missy ever found out about the deal he’d been giving me for years, they would certainly be surprised. I turned off my miserable excuse for a car and went inside, dropping my shoes as I made my way into the kitchen.

  Lucas was home. Through the large bay window I could see the lights on at his place. I wanted to run over first thing because I was pathetically obsessed with him, having reverted to where my life left off in the ninth grade. But I wouldn’t, not just yet. I had something to do first.

  Slipping into the closet under my stairs, I squeezed past the upright washer and dryer, taking care not to step on the mop and broom, before opening the gray metal fuse box. Inside was Demidov’s diary, the thin leather volume stowed away, fitting perfectly beside a row of black switches.

  I sank to the floor amid a swirl of dust bunnies, ignoring them as I hurriedly opened the pages. The golden string was wedged into the book’s crease, helping me find the passage where I’d left off.

  I was not always conscious of the other realm. My childhood was untroubled, my life up to the age of thirteen relatively normal. But then the demons came. Not those creatures I would later come to know, but demons in human skin. They wore the faces of my kinsman, Russians, whom like my father and mother, had immigrated to Canada, creating little communities among Toronto. I’d been at a boxing lesson the day they appeared. My mother was waiting for me when it ended, she had taken her car to the shop earlier, and by chance thought to walk me home. She smiled when I came out, but I was too humiliated to answer, barely bringing myself to look her in the face. When my peers spilled out from the building behind me I rushed us off, hoping they wouldn’t make much of it. We did not speak, and even still I don’t know if she realized that her presence had embarrassed me when I was meant to appear my toughest. I was brooding when they slipped from the shadows, two men, one large, one slight. My mother grabbed my arm tight, painfully so, pulling me close as she pinned me to her side. When they demanded her purse she didn’t hesitate to throw it to them. But it wasn’t enough. The large one dragged her off, around a corner, the bricks swallowing her shadow in the looming sunset. The other held me, and though small, he knew just how to keep me from thrashing. But the noises drove me to madness, the sound of pounded flesh I knew well from boxing, her struggle until a new sound issued forth. How I wish I could forget it. How I wish she’d screamed to mask it. But she’d been quiet throughout, and when they finally lumbered off with her money, throwing me aside as an afterthought, I knew why. He’d strangled her, the bruises already blooming. She was dead. I yanked her skirt down, scraping her hat off the pavement from where it had fallen, prepared to hand it to her. But she was dead. It took so long for me to really grasp that. I had a father and an older brother, and though they never outright said so, I knew they blamed me, especially my brother. I could see it in his eyes; ‘I would have saved her’ they seemed to say to me. A woman adds so much to the household, without her we crumbled, pieces chipped apart. I have been so blessed in Agata, my brother’s daughter, our relationship precious to me. But even she couldn’t stave off the nightmares. The demons came that day, and a new demon every day after, the other realm making itself manifest from that moment on.

  I could read no more for now. Pulling the string across the page I marked my place, carefully hiding it back in the fuse box. It was safe there. I knew because Raina Thompson hadn’t thought to open it when she’d searched my house for the diary. Merely having it in my possession when Reed Wallace and his enemy Lars Hurst were after it, willing to kill for it, was dangerous. But even so, even seeing how Demidov had been horrified by his demon dealing from beyond the grave, I could not stop reading, and not because I hungered for its secrets. I cared nothing for Demidov’s gift, but I longed to hear his story, the story of someone like me.

  This new passage put me in mind of something Reed had once said. According to him only those with the power of divination were born with their gift. Others, like me, gained ours through life experience. His theory held true, because Demidov was certainly convinced that the demons from the street, those men who had mugged, raped and murdered his mother would follow him, demons to match his guilt, demons to harass him through this life and into the next.

  My story paled in comparison. Truly, that was the heart of why I couldn’t stop reading. It comforted me to know someone had it worse. Terrible of me to say, sure, but true.

  I had fallen into a well, the near-death experience drawing out a range of emotion that continued for days. My empathy began then, an echo of the experience that would follow me from the depths of the dirt. Even after I was rescued I was never truly saved. The well was still there in part; my life an insular experience, keeping me apart, keeping me an emotional mess as I struggled to survive.

  Demidov’s story was making me face my own. But like I said, it was comforting to know, in a selfish sort of way, that someone had suffered worse. I’d like to say that if Demidov could survive, then so could I. But he hadn’t. He’d died, and his afterlife had been hell.

  I was just shutting the closet door when Lucas knocked. Unlike me, he typically waited until I let him in. I did so, eager to put Demidov’s disturbing revelations to the back of my mind. It wasn’t hard with Lucas around, seeing him framed over the threshold hitched my mood up quite a bit.

  I knew it was human nature to be attracted to one’s significant other, even if in reality they weren’t the least bit appealing. But Lucas Finch was good-looking in the general sense, having all the marks of masculine beauty. He had broad shoulders and a tight, tapering waist. His muscles were obvious but not bulky, and no matter how tattered the T-shirt or how grease stained the jeans, they would look good on him because he had a body that was easily flattered. His face was a combination of rounded, even features, though the hooded eyes gave him a pensive air. I watched him shut the door softly, intrigued when he didn’t bother with a perfunctory hello. He fascinated me a great deal, the one man, the only person, who I could not feel. His emotions, if there were any, were walled off and unavailable.

  I reached for him, no longer sheepish to initiate a kiss. He responded, his body expressive where his emotions and words were not. His hands wrapped around my waist, lifting me onto the table where I pulled him forward, wanting him close, standing between my thighs. The kiss was never-ending. We pivoted around it, escalated by it, hands busy and roving. I touched his chest and arms, reassuring myself of that which I refused to ask, that my possessiveness was founded, that in this way he was mine. His hands were not so restrained, snaking up my shirt, pushing hems and fabric aside when it suited him. I relaxed, letting my head tip back as he kissed me, buttons coming undone, my shirt parting open. I willed myself to get caught up, lost in the sensations, swearing that this time I wouldn’t say no. But when the button on my jeans came free and the zipper slid down I reacted, my hand latching onto his wrist, stopping his progress.

  After weeks of the same, he was familiar with the drill, pulling away, stepping back, and a few deep breaths from both of us. Francesca said I was being a tease. I didn’t mean to, there just always came a point when I sort of froze, a little anxious, though that moment came a little later every time. Things were progressing, just slowly. Too slowly. It was time to jump-start things.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, my head down as I buttoned up my shirt. “Maybe we should just do it. Have sex.”

  “You stopped before third base,” he replied. “What makes you think you’re ready?” His voice wasn’t unkind, but rather flat. I couldn’t help but wonder why he bothered asking questions if he wasn’t curious to begin with.

  “I’m twenty-four years old and you’re the only person that’s made me want to. Isn’t that reason enough?” I asked, slipping off the table. “I’m still adjusting, but I’ll do it.”

  He reached down, closing my jeans as deftly as he’d opened them. “It’s a commonly held belief to wait for so
meone special the first time.”

  He didn’t say anything after that and neither did I. His voice was deep and sexy, but without a hint of inflection, so I had no idea how to take his comment. Was he implying that our relationship wasn’t special, that I should wait for someone else? Of course the question I was dying to ask, Francesca had forbidden me from uttering. She said men were turned off by women that grilled them about their pasts, so I suppressed the urge to ask him about his first time.

  The fact that he was emotionally closed off was, well, honestly, refreshing, but it could also be annoying as hell. I was used to having the upper hand, always knowing, for better or worse, what lurked beneath a person’s words. But with Lucas I knew nothing, was always uncertain. So in frustration, desperate to fill the gaping silence, I blurted, “Don’t you want to?”

  “I’m a man, it goes without saying.”

  “I’m not asking if you want to have sex in general,” I huffed. “I’m asking if you want it with me, in particular, exclusively.”

  “I’m not interested in anyone else,” he answered bluntly.

  “Okay then, that’s settled. I’ll go on birth control and you get some condoms.”

  For a second there he looked a bit skeptical, like he thought I was all bluster, but it must have been my imagination because the next instant it was gone. “Alright,” he agreed, “if you’re sure.”

  And I was... or would be. I was lagging in some ways, a bit stunted emotionally and inexperienced with the male persuasion, but none of that mattered because my mind was made up. I was going to have sex with Lucas Finch and nothing, not even myself, would stop me.

  Chapter 3

  “Sterling’s Motel, how may I help you?”

  “I met someone,” Francesca announced through the phone. “And he’s got a trust fund.”

  “Jackpot.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic. He’s got other good qualities,” she defended. “Besides, it’s summer and the island’s full of people, I get pick of the litter, you’ll know he’s just that once you meet him.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked for no real reason.

  “Conner. He’s taking me to the festival and I want you to come along.”

  “Uhh—”

  Francesca plowed on, not waiting for me to think up an excuse. “You should bring Lucas, it’s time I meet him.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been seeing him for weeks, no more putting it off. I’m meeting him,” she argued with iron in her voice. “And besides, you’ve convinced me he’s gay.”

  “He’s not gay!”

  “Well, why else haven’t you done it then?”

  “Because I wasn’t ready, but I am now, or I will be soon, and I’m going to do his brains out.”

  “Well I hope you both enjoy that, but not before I meet him. Get your schedule straightened out, because I expect to see you at the festival Saturday morning.” There was a click and she was gone, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.

  “Effing festival,” I muttered, shoving the phone back into its cradle.

  Stephen, who’d been avidly listening to my half of the conversation, perked up. “Did Francesca invite you? Can I come along?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  * * *

  St. Simons was a little island off the coast of Georgia. For some it was a vacation destination, a bit touristy in parts, but it didn’t have that chintzy feel so common in holiday hot-spots. It was chock-full of retired politicians, professional golfers and the wealthy who could afford a second summer home, not to mention Reed Wallace who owned substantial real estate around the Golden Isles.

  The Graves family had visited once, my parents dragging their brood to the coast for some quality time, bike rides, etc. Some aspect of that trip must have made a mark, perhaps the giant oaks, maybe the lighthouse, the sea, or possibly something not altogether physical, like the sleepy stillness that sinks beneath the skin, how quiet the island can be, even when it’s full of visitors. So when it came time to leave home, finding myself desperate to escape without so much as a goodbye, I crept back here.

  I’ve been trying to control the empathy ever since, exposing myself to the outside world at intervals, attempting to deal with the unwanted flow of emotion that so often overwhelmed my own feelings. The festival never helped, though I continued to let Francesca drag me back every year. It was difficult to say no to her, more so if you had a penis. She channeled sex appeal with her sultry, dark features, making the most of her curves with visiting playboys like Conner. That was the reason I didn’t want her to meet Lucas. Having felt her skepticism every time I insisted he was handsome, I knew she’d be surprised when she saw him. But it was his reaction I was worried about. I was nothing compared to her, just a slender washed-out girl with lots of strawberry-blonde hair. Though in my defense, anyone would seem plain standing next to Francesca. I just didn’t want to see his face when he realized that he wasn’t dating the pretty one. Some might think I was being overly dramatic, but don’t forget, I feel what people feel, know their failings and foibles, can sense their shallow shortcomings. It wouldn’t be the first time that a man was disappointed with his partner. And if I could have put the moment off, I would have. But as I said, Francesca always got her way, and so, that was how I ended up in the passenger seat of Lucas’ old Ford Bronco, on our way to the blasted event.

  One of the local churches always held a festival during the summer months, a three day function with rides and live music. Stephen was stoked, though I could tell he was restraining himself in the back seat, a little intimidated by Lucas who hadn’t bothered to say much more than a brisk hello in greeting. Predictably, Stephen’s mother hadn’t approved of his ‘riding off with that hoyden and her cohorts’ when we’d stopped to pick him up, but she’d let him go, ringing her hands from the doorway as we departed. Smith had come along too, never one to miss an opportunity to haunt both me and Stephen at the same time. He sat next to his son, a twist of white smoke hovering over the bench seat. I was very unsettled by the whole affair, sort of wishing the floorboard would swallow me up. I reached for Luke’s hand, peeling it from the steering wheel to hold in my lap. It was awkward, but it made me feel better and I smiled. He smiled too, only slightly, but it was there, the corners of his mouth turned up. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him do that.

  Maybe the festival wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  * * *

  Francesca found me straightaway as I lolled around the pretzel stand. She knew me well, it was the first place I’d gone to after paying the entrance fee.

  “So where is he?” she asked, her eyes scanning the crowd.

  The ‘he’ in question happened to be standing not two yards away, waiting in line to buy me a snack. Stephen had wandered off down the line of vendors hoping to buy a funnel cake. It was just Francesca, me, and the dreaded moment, not to be put off any longer. With a sigh of defeat I pointed in Lucas’ direction.

  Francesca’s mouth dropped open.

  “I know right?”

  He came over shortly after, delivering a hot and salty twist of German dough. He hadn’t noticed Francesca, but I knew it wouldn’t be long. Wanting to rip off the band-aid I said, “Luke, this is Francesca. Francesca, Lucas.”

  He nodded briefly, his eyes barely sweeping over her as he pulled off a piece of my pretzel to eat.

  Francesca wasn’t used to being ignored and took it as some sort of challenge. Pulling her shoulders back, she effectively hoisted her cleavage up so the split of her breasts were plainly visible in the silky scoop-neck sundress. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s good to finally meet Adelaide’s other friend.”

  “She calls me her boyfriend,” he answered.

  “And are you?” Francesca challenged.

  Uninterested in semantics, he shrugged, as if to say: Sure, if she says so.

  I had been watching, waiting, but Lucas was aloof as ever. His eyes never dipped down, nor lingered too long on Frances
ca. I could have kissed him then, but Francesca wasn’t done. She was feeling a bit miffed by his behavior, experiencing, for the first time, an attractive man that didn’t seem to notice her in turn.

  It was lucky Conner showed up before she could do something rash. Sidling up beside her, he settled an arm around her waist and a kiss against her cheek. “Parking was a nightmare,” he said, though he was smiling and it didn’t sound like a complaint. He turned his attention outward, toward me and Lucas, thrusting out a hand. “You must be Adelaide. Francesca speaks as though you’re the most interesting person on the island.”

  “Not interesting,” Francesca corrected, sending me a wink. “I said original.”

  Conner reminded me of Reed Wallace. Both men were moneyed, and in my experience that meant they had polished social skills. Rich people knew how to keep up a conversation, always ready with quick wit or a well-timed joke. Although Lucas was something of a challenge for Conner, as he was uninterested in being drawn out or engaged by any topic. Conner’s appearance was another tip-off, his clothing perfectly fitted, though a bit preppy in my opinion. His face disconcerted me though, similar in shape and coloring to Reed’s. The same sharp, intense lines and marble-smooth complexion, though being pale didn’t work for men from the waist down. Conner was smart to have worn pants, because pasty man-leg didn’t look good on anyone.

  Stephen jogged up. I could feel him coming, his youthful enthusiasm waving like an emotional flag in my face.

  “Hi, Stephen,” Francesca said with a smile. “Adelaide didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  Her recognition triggered his lust, and flushing ever so slightly, he managed to muster up a reply. He and Conner were both attracted to Francesca, though it was interesting to feel the difference. Stephen adored her with young love, not pure per se, but sincere. Conner’s feelings were less poignant, and not the least bit hopeful, which was typically a bad sign. Couples that were hopeful and anticipatory were often looking ahead, planning together, with a shared existence in mind. Conner, like most of Francesca’s men, had no such feelings. His were transient and self-centered. Her smiles and affection only fueled his image, making him feel... I don’t know, manly I guess. I’d like to condemn him for this, but, unfortunately, I knew it only to be human nature. Selfless love was something I had yet to truly encounter.