“I’m seeing some specialists.”
“Specialists?” I let my hand fall to my side. “What do they specialize in?”
“Supernatural ailments.”
“You found specialists in supernatural ailments?”
He nods.
“How?”
“I reached out to the retired professor from Ohio.”
“The curse expert.” He was texting her before he left for Seattle. He tried hiding it from me. At the time, I misunderstood. I thought he was worried about me. But he wasn’t worried about me. He was worried about this. And then, it hits me with astounding clarity. “Your grandfather isn’t sick.”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
“Do you even have a grandfather?”
“Selah…”
I take a step back, feeling nauseous. “Yourroommate from boarding school wasn’t here in the states, either.”
My words seem to cause him physical pain.
Then I think of another set of words.
Mistress Bramble’s words at Dante’s tomb.
What has its claws in you, boy?
He acted like he didn’t know what she was talking about.
“How long have you been lying to me?”
“I haven’t been lying.”
“Yes, Jude. You have. It’s the textbook definition, in fact.”
He shoves his hands into his hair. “I just—with everything going on, I didn’t want to worry you. It’s a mark, Selah. That’s all. I don’t feel sick. My health is fine.”
I don’t believe him.
He’s been lying to me and his health doesn’t seem fine. Not if the shadows beneath his eyes have anything to say about it.
“It’s probably nothing but a cool battle scar,” he says.
I stare at the tendrils. Those horribly, wretched tendrils. “Battle scars don’t go away and then come back.”
“Supernatural ones might.” He smiles a broken smile. “I shouldn’t have lied. I’m sorry for that. But you don’t have to worry about this.” He stepstoward me and takes my hand—mydirtyhand—and stops. He turns it over to find dried blood and a cut on my palm. Then he looks at me,reallylooks at me, and the furrow in his brow deepens. “What happened to you?”
“I went into the well.”
His face goes a bit white. “You wentintothe well?”
“What did they say?” I ask.
He blinks. “Who?”
