Hearing her approach, the man shot her a startled glance. In that moment, Nora saw that he wasn’t a man, but a teenage boy. She had just enough time to notice the shadow on his upper lip, the constellation of acne on his chin, and the hate in his eyes before he turned and ran.
“Stop!” Nora shouted. “I know who you are!”
She didn’t bother chasing him. He was far too fast, and the empty threat she’d hurled at him had been ineffective.
Wishing that she really did know the boy’s name, Nora examined his handiwork. He’d written SATAN’S in crooked block letters. Below this word, he’d started to write a second word beginning with W.
Nora stared at the lava-red paint. If her anger had a color, it would be lava red.
“It’ll wash off!” she shouted. “A little paint won’t make her leave! She’s staying! I’m staying! This is our town!”
Shifting the bakery box to one hand, Nora pulled on the door. It swung open with a creak of hinges.
She stepped inside, already planning her call to the sheriff’s department. But the moment the door shut behind her and she was alone in the cold and empty foyer, the space above her pinkie knuckle tingled.
“Oh, no.”
Gripping the bakery box, Nora bolted up the stairs to Celeste’s apartment. The door was cracked, but no sounds escaped from inside.
Nora dropped the box and pushed the door all the way open. “Celeste?”
When no one replied, Nora hurried into the kitchen. She froze on the threshold, shocked by the chaos within. Her eyes scanned the broken crockery, scattered soil, trampled plants, cracked eggs, shattered jars, globs of jam, and a flattened carton of milk.
“No, no, no no,” Nora muttered as she snapped out of her stupor and picked her way over chunks of glass and glossy rivers of olive oil and blackberry wine.
In the living room, she skirted around the toppled bookshelf and jumped over a mound of gutted pillows before running to the bedroom.
Celeste was lying on the floor, curled in the fetal position. Her face was contorted in agony. Her eyes were closed.
Nora pressed the emergency button on her phone and dropped to her knees next to Celeste. As soon as she heard a voice on the other end, she shouted that she needed an ambulance and gave the address to the apartment above Soothe. When the dispatcher asked for clarification as to the nature of the medical emergency, Nora put the phone on speaker mode.
“I don’t know,” she said in a shaky voice as her gaze moved down Celeste’s body. “There’s no blood, but she’s in terrible pain. She’s really pale, and I don’t think she can move. Her cheeks are bruised. Celeste? Can you hear me? Where does it hurt?”
Celeste opened her eyes. They rolled in their sockets as if she couldn’t control them. Nora thought she heard a sound escape through Celeste’s parted lips.
Lowering herself until her face was next to Celeste’s face, Nora repeated her question. Celeste’s reply was a strangled gurgle. A death rattle.
“Is she breathing?” asked the dispatcher.
Celeste’s breaths were shallow, liquid sighs. Each weak exhalation had a putrid smell. There was vomit in her hair and a line of spittle dripped from her mouth onto the floor.
Swallowing the terror rising in her throat, Nora squeezed Celeste’s hand. “Help is coming. Just hold on.”
Celeste struggled to fix her eyes on Nora. Her pupils were tiny pinpricks, and the blue irises shimmered with pain.
“Too late.” Her words came out as a wet lisp.
“No, they’ll be here any second. You’re a Juliana. You can do this.” Nora’s voice broke. “You’re so strong.”
Nora used her sweater to wipe away her tears. She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to be calm and comforting. But she didn’t know how. Not when she was lying next to a woman caught between two worlds. As still and pale as the marble she used to carve, she already looked like a ghost.
Nora pushed Celeste’s damp hair off her forehead and caressed her cheek, avoiding the purple bruises that darkened the skin on both sides of her face. The bruises were shaped like fingertips. “What happened to you?”
Celeste’s eyes pleaded with her. “Don’t let him . . . get book . . . he sells . . . lies.”
The words had taken the last of her strength, and Celeste’s chest deflated once she’d pushed them out. But they weren’t enough. They didn’t explain why she was dying. Or why Bren had died.
Nora stroked Celeste’s face. “A man did this to you? The same man who hurt Bren? He wants your book of spells?” When Celeste didn’t respond, Nora cupped the back of Celeste’s sweat-soaked neck and begged, “Please. Don’t let him get away with this.”