A Vial of Life(55)

The minutes that followed were tense. Silence engulfed the room once again, leaving me to brood over what exactly Jeramiah was trying to accomplish by attempting to connect with his father’s ghost. And how did my cousin even get into The Shade to begin with? I moved closer to him, daring to stand just two feet away and stare down at his face, still slack and expressionless. The smoke in the room was beginning to thin now, and I could see all the way across the Dome to the other side, where the entrance was. I half expected to see the ghostly form of my uncle strolling through it, but as the minutes passed, I saw no such thing.

Ten minutes went by, at which point Amaya approached Jeramiah. She reached down and touched his forehead, making the same gentle motion with her thumbs against his skin. His eyes shot open, and he sat bolt upright.

I could tell from the dark look that took over his face that he hadn’t gotten what he wanted, and from Amaya’s expression, she had realized that too.

“Well?” she whispered.

Jeramiah shook his head slowly. “Nothing.” His voice was thick with disappointment.

“So what does it mean?”

Anger flashed in the vampire’s eyes. “It means that when my father died, despite the sudden circumstances, he did not become a spirit.”

Amaya frowned deeply. “I don’t understand how you can just draw that conclusion,” she said. “Any number of things could have gone wrong. To start with, what if his spirit simply wasn’t close enough to hear your call? What if—”

Jeramiah shook his head, causing Amaya to trail off. “No. If my father became a ghost, he would’ve been hovering near The Shade. When people become ghosts, they feel bound to return to where they most consider home. Even despite the hostile environment that my father had to endure while living here, this was his home, and the only place in the world where his soul could have found refuge. I learnt enough from my teacher to know this to be a fact. Even if my father took a break from the island, he wouldn’t have ventured far, and the call I made was powerful enough to have reverberated across the Pacific Ocean. He would not have missed it.”

Amaya paused, crossing her arms over her chest. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, as though weighing her next words.

“So what now?” She cocked her head to one side. “I think you’ve caused enough destruction to this place… You’ve replicated the sense of hostility that your father endured, both surrounding and within the island—first by using my potion to attract swarms of savage mermaids, and then burning the homes of the islands’ leaders to the ground. You also dishonored them further by destroying their thrones and using the wood to craft a memorial in honor of your father… Jeramiah.” Her voice and gaze softened. “You have done enough for your father. Wherever he might be, I’m sure that he would feel avenged. Let’s leave this place and allow his and your souls to rest in peace…” Amaya drew in closer and, feeling for Jeramiah’s arm, aimed a kiss against his jawline.

Jeramiah’s face was stony as ever, and he appeared unmoved. He remained rooted to the spot.

“Besides,” Amaya continued, “as you already reminded me yourself, Nuriya’s leniency only stretches so far. We have already extended our stay past the time you requested from her, and if you force her hand, I fear you’ll regret it.” She peeled back the end of her right sleeve and began rolling it up her arm. “I’m surprised our marks haven’t been burning unbearably already…I’m just going to remove my invisibility for a second.” After apparently removing the spell, she pushed the sleeve up high enough to reveal her right bicep. Gazing down at it, she gasped. I moved nearer to see what had surprised her, but I should have guessed… she no longer had a tattoo.

Shock registered in Jeramiah’s eyes as he rushed over to the witch and gripped her arm, staring down at her bare skin. It was completely devoid of even the slightest trace of the black cross, as though it had never been there to begin with.

“Oh, my,” the witch breathed.

Jeramiah let go of her, and, parting his robe, rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to examine his own arm. His, too, was devoid of any signs of the imposing tattoo that had once marred it.

He fell silent, his demeanor infused with thoughtfulness.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice low. “Very interesting.”

The witch still appeared to be in a state of shock and disbelief. “What could have happened?” she breathed.

“I can’t be sure,” he replied in a voice as quiet as hers. “But it doesn’t matter. We are no longer bound to them. We are free.”