The night is still young, so I concoct a side quest adventure—one that involvesa handsaw from the maintenance shed and a box of forgotten ornaments from the storage room on the third floor. Outside, we find a scraggly Virginia Pine not even five feet tall—Jude’s very own Christmas tree. No professionals allowed. Jude cuts it down, and while we’re hanging the ornaments, I can’t help but notice the shadows under his eyes. I ask him about the mark on his chest, but he diverts the conversation, and while he did make me a pinky promise, I have a hard time pressing the issue with the night’s agenda before me.
He looks tired, though. Wiped. Like something is slowly draining him. Which makes my stomach twist tighter.
I watch as he starts a fire in the hearth.
Then we crawl into bed and cap off the evening withThe Christmas Carol. The 1984 version with George C. Scott, who also starred inThe Changeling, a movie Jude watched with his roommate in boarding school.
The fire crackles.
The Charlie Brown Christmas tree glows in the corner of his room.
I lay with my head on Jude’s chest, his arm heavy over my shoulder, his heart beating steadily against my ear, when Scrooge is taken to Bob Cratchit’s home.
“Which ghost do you think—?” I stop.
Jude is asleep.
His long, dark lashes cast shadows along his cheeks. The circles under his eyes look like purple bruises. I’m tempted, so tempted, to peek under his shirt, to see if the mark has changed. But there’s no way to do that without waking him. So I kiss his cheek ever-so-softly and carefully untangle myself from his arms. At home, I say goodnight to Dad. I shut myself in my bedroom. Then gasp at the sight of the plant—twinkling in my window.
Like it knows.
Like it’s ready.
Like it wants to help.
Half past eleven, when I can hear Dad softly snoring down the hallway, I take the plant, snag his keys, and sneak out to his Bronco. I don’t turn on the headlights until I’m outside the gate.
At the cemetery, fog clings to the ground and swirls around the tombstones. Clouds drift in front of the moon. With the plant clutched in one hand, I make my way to the ruins of St. Fortuna’s. I step over fallen beams and toppled stones and set it on what’s left of the altar.
An owl hoots in the trees.
A rodent scampers across a beam.
I blow hot air into my palms and rub my hands together, waiting for midnight. When thetime on my phone flips to 12 a.m., I release a shaky breath.
“Here goes nothing.”
The second I touch a leaf, the air begins to hum.
Warmth spreads through my hand and tingles up my arm. At first, it’s a pleasant feeling. But then the warmth starts to burn—too hot to hold. With a hiss, I let go. But the blood-red, capillary-like vines snake around my finger.
I try to shake them off, but they stick like glue.
The air crackles and splits.
Wind rustles through the trees, kicking up debris.
My forearm is on fire, searing with pain as the vines turn black. I watch in horror as they spread. As they grow. Crawling into the rift. Digging into my skin.
Burning.
Scalding.
Infesting.
A fist slams onto the dining table. “She is not fit.”
“But I love her!”
