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Chapter 1
Igradually catch my breath and soak up my first impressions of this strange room. I still can’t believe that Frida’s paintings brought me here. To this hidden room that my great aunt must have created.
I step up to the wall and study the photo of Chloe. She’s standing with a shopping bag over her shoulder, glancing to her right, about to cross a street. The photographer must have used a powerful zoom because her features are very clear. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes look so cold it makes me shiver. I remember Chloe’s voice saying, “Watch, watch very closely.” And I do. I gaze at the wall of photos, newspaper clippings, and memos. Why did her words pop into my head just now? Surely Chloe can’t have known about all this? I touch the photos of her and try to make sense of everything. Did Chloe know Frida was watching her? And how did she attract Frida’s attention in the first place? I let my gaze wander along the wall, following the threads that connect Chloe’s picture to four others. Three of them are women, and one is a man. Could he be Chiara’s father? There’s a memo attached to his photo with the word “relationship” on it.
Under the photos of the three women are their names and comments like “friend” or “colleague.” I skim read a newspaper article below Chloe’s picture. It’s about a grant received by San Francisco General Hospital. The money was used to expand the emergency surgery ward and acquire several new devices. But the black-and-white photo accompanying the article is much more interesting. It shows the emergency surgery team and the nursing staff. When I look closely, I recognize Chloe standing behind a tall man. I reread the article headline and the date: April 28, 2018. This tells me that Frida last used this room no more than two and a half years ago – long after she quit being a hunter and began working in the school office.
I let my eyes and my fingers wander over individual memos, articles, and other texts. One of the memos is crumpled. When I flatten it out, I see the words “goddess of destiny” on it. I step back from the wall and look at the arrangement as a whole.
Is that what my great aunt was searching for? Did she refuse to give up hunting for goddesses of destiny even after she left the hunters’ ranks? It certainly looks that way. And judging by the way she set up this room and its contents, I guess it was important to her that nobody found out about her research, which is understandable because she was no longer a hunter, so this mission was outside of her jurisdiction. But she evidently couldn’t let it go. Is this what Mr. Brian meant when he said that my aunt refused to listen to reason? That she endangered others with her recklessness and never knew when to let things be?
I turn and go to a small set of shelves against the wall to my left. I find a stack of newspapers, all dusty and slightly yellowed. I wipe off some of the dust to read the headlines and the dates but see nothing of immediate interest. I put them down and turn my attention to three framed photos standing on the top shelf. One of them is of Frida, aged about fifty, with a large brown dog. I assume it’s her key spirit – although not in its true form. I’mcurious to know what kind of animal her spirit was. They look as if they were very close. The dog is leaning against Frida, looking up at her. She has her arm around it, and she’s smiling heartily at the camera. It’s a really nice photo.
I put it back, and my eyes wander to the next one. I catch my breath for a moment, then quickly reach for it and take a closer look. Frida is sitting on some steps beside a man with black hair. He’s slender, with brown eyes and an enchanting smile. The overall impression is of a lively, cheerful man. Frida’s looking at him from the side. But what really grabs my attention is the man behind them. Mr. Brian. He’s a few years younger in the photo, but I instantly recognize him. He too is looking at the other man and kind of rolling his eyes with a wry smile. He looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Where’s that aloofness, that righteousness that he always radiates? I look at the scene as a whole and wonder what the occasion was. I know that Frida and Mr. Brian were both hunters for a time, and it’s likely that they went out on deployment together. Is this photo from back then? And who’s the man Frida’s looking at? I assume he was a hunter too.
When I look at the third photo, I’m even more surprised. It’s a portrait of the black-haired man. He’s standing at a balustrade with the foaming sea behind him. The wind is whipping his hair, and his eyes look warm and friendly.
Why did Frida keep this picture? And why here in this hidden room? I look back and forth between the two photos. The way she looks at him. This man clearly meant something to her. Was he a friend? Or maybe more than that? Some instinct compels me to find the answer because there must be a reason Frida kept these photos here.
I decide to take the last photo with me. It shouldn’t be hard to find out whether he was a hunter.
I glance around the room one last time and try to soak it allin and make sense of it. There’s so much here that escapes my understanding. Did the Tempes ever find out that Frida was still hunting the goddesses? I can’t answer this – at least not yet.
I slowly walk toward the door and take a deep breath. I’m not sure where I’ll wind up when I open it. What other place might be hidden behind it? I instinctively brace myself for a fall, then I open the door, and my eyes widen in astonishment. I’m in a corridor, a very familiar one – leading off it are the doors to my old room and my mother’s bedroom. I step out and turn around. The door doesn’t disappear; it’s still there, as plain as day. It’s not until I close it that it fades into the wall, merging with it and becoming invisible again. I feel for it with my hands. When my hand passes the place where the door handle was, it appears again out of nowhere. I no longer need a hex, or blood, to enter the room. The spell that kept this place hidden is obviously broken now, and all you need to do to get into the room is find the door. I suppose Frida hoped the right person would discover it. And to be sure, she didn’t make it easy. She only wanted to share her secrets with her successor. I’m not worried about someone else finding this room. It’s too well concealed.
Before I leave, I pause for a moment and listen out, but I hear nothing. My mother must be at work, so I don’t need to invent some excuse for why I’m suddenly here.
I make my way back to school with Yoru, wondering what it was exactly that Frida was trying to hide and whether I’ll ever find out the whole truth.
I use this time to organize my thoughts, and I wonder how I might be able to identify the man in the photo. It’s possible that he could tell me more about Frida and help me understand why she used that room. Why did she secretly hunt goddesses of destiny? And did she ever identify one of them? How did she know Chloe? So many questions...
The man in the photos could actually be the first step in theright direction. If he’s a hunter, I should be able to find him in the hunters’ wing. Except that it’s so big and I can’t simply stand around in the corridor and wait for him to walk past me. My thoughts wander to Ty. He would have helped me. My throat tightens. I miss him so much, and I’m reminded once again of how important he was to me as a friend.
I turn into the corridor where my room is located, and my eyes wander to Ayden’s door. I could ask him, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The last time we spoke, he opened himself up to me, told me everything. He wanted to give us a chance. But for me, it was too late. Too much had already happened between us. So we agreed to try and stay out of each other’s way. And now, I’m standing here, about to ask him of all people for help? He said he would always be here for me, but I never intended to take him up on that. Then again, it would be stupid to waste time when all it takes is a conversation with Ayden.
So, I go to his door and knock. Part of me hopes he won’t open it, which is pretty stupid because it would mean I have to come back later. But I don’t know if I’m ready to see him again. Lately, we’ve only seen each other in passing. In class, I try to concentrate on everything except him. I can’t let him dominate my thoughts anymore. What will happen when I see him again, standing directly across from me, feel his eyes on me, hear his voice, and feel his closeness? I don’t want to find out.
At that moment, the door opens. Ayden looks surprised, maybe even a little uneasy.
“Teresa? What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to ask you something,” I say quickly. “It’s about one of the hunters.”
I take out the photo and show it to him. Get this over with as fast as possible, I think. Don’t spend any more time with him than absolutely necessary.
I realize that I can’t just keep staring at his feet, so I look upnervously. His green eyes penetrate me. He’s leaning casually in the doorway looking as sexy as a damn model at a photo shoot. My pulse races when he looks me in the eye. It feels like an eternity since we were last this close, and I hoped he would no longer have this effect on me.
He frowns, turns around, and says, “Come in.”
I hesitate for a moment and then feel angry with myself. Why is it such a big deal to go into his room? Can’t I just have a normal conversation with him? I take a deep breath and follow him. His room looks the same as ever. I immediately notice the large bed and try to keep my thoughts in check. Instead, I look at the sofa, but that reminds me of the night I slept on it. That memory’s not helpful either...
“Show me the photo again,” he says, coming a little closer. His scent immediately envelops me, calling to me sweetly and tenderly. I hand him the photo without a word. He studies it for a moment and then gives it back.
“Why do you want to know who that is, and where did you get the photo?”
“I found it in my great aunt’s things, and I want to know why she had it. I figured it could be a hunter and that maybe you could help me find out who he is.”
I see a reproachful look in his eyes, warning me not to get myself into trouble again. But he answers me anyway. “He’s a hunter, has been for a long time. His name is Charles Ackles. He lives here in San Francisco and visits the hunters’ wing regularly. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
