Lyse

Stay busy, so you don’t have to think.

This phrase repeated itself on a loop inside her head, her lips mindlessly reconstituting the hard consonants over and over again until the words ceased to have any meaning and only the intent of their message remained.

This was how she’d ended up in Eleanora’s garden, elbow deep in soil, her black dress covered in mud. As the dusk had settled into night, she’d been forced to turn on all the outdoor lights to continue her work—and even when the moon had risen to its zenith, she was still out there in the dirt, lost in the thrill of physical labor.

Pausing for a moment to rub the gritty soil in between her fingers, she took a deep breath and pushed away any conscious thought before it could absorb her. She was in the middle of repotting some mint she’d found on Eleanora’s deck. The springy green plant had outgrown its original clay pot, and Lyse had decided to place it into a larger container.

She held the plant’s body in her hands, feeling its lifeblood—the soil—thick under her nails, the veinlike roots delicate and fragile between her fingers. If she dropped the plant or potted it incorrectly, it would die of shock, something her experience working in plant nurseries had taught her to avoid.

After a few minutes, mint plant tucked safely into its new home, she brushed a loose strand of black hair from her cheek and, ignoring the smudge of dirt on her nose, sat back on her heels. She rolled her neck in circles, the small motion releasing the tension in her shoulders built up after long hours of hunching over the dirt.

Hands still covered in humus, she stood up and stretched, exhaustion curling like a weed inside her. Her brain had been right. Going back to the earth had been exactly what she needed. She yawned and wished she were already in bed, covers up to her chin, a warm glass of milk on the side table—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft thwack of something firm slamming into the base of her skull. She fell forward onto her knees, pain blossoming in her head. Without her even having to shut her eyes, a growing blackness stretched out before her, and she skipped off into inky black oblivion.

*   *   *

Wake up, I said. Wake up now.

The sound was like a sawmill chipping away at her skull. She realized the voice had been goading her awake for a while now, pushing her back to consciousness with the persistence of its words. She tried to open her eyes—and realized they were already open. There was just nothing to see because she was somewhere dark.

Get up, Lyse. Push at the door with your back. It’s time to get yourself out of here.

The voice was insistent—would not take no for an answer, even when she nodded her head and the motion jarred her brain, causing her to gasp out in pain.

“Leave me alone,” she said, as nausea roiled her stomach in waves. “I don’t wanna.”

Get the hell up, or you’re going to die.

The panic in the voice brought Lyse around, and she swallowed hard, her mouth sandpaper dry. She lifted her arms—or tried to lift them, rather—and unwittingly discovered how narrow her prison was.

Coffin narrow, she thought as fat teardrops coursed down her cheeks, slipping off the slope of her chin and pooling in the dip of her collarbone. At least she knew she was standing upright, or the tears would’ve been switchbacking toward her ears—

Tears . . . ? Her conscious brain had finally processed the fact she was crying—and not just tears, but sobs that came from deep in her belly, shaking her body like earthquakes.

Why am I crying? she asked herself.

She had no ready answer. Her head hurt, a dark ache that throbbed with every pulse of her heart, but it was more than just physical pain. Something had sliced through the flesh and sinew of her chest to pierce the quick of her heart.

The voice.

It couldn’t be real. It was a figment of her distressed mind, an old-school survival instinct from her primitive lizard brain.

Get out, Lyse. Save yourself.

She knew Eleanora’s voice like she knew her own. She wasn’t sure how it was possible, but somehow Eleanora was speaking to her from beyond the grave.

“Eleanora?” Lyse whispered.

No time for chitchat, Eleanora said. Time is slipping away from us. You have to hurry.

It was like a punch to her solar plexus.

“Where are you? Are you alive or dead? Eleanora . . . ?” The words came out in a rush.

They went unanswered.

Instead, it felt as though a blanket of calming warmth settled across the top of her skull, its arrival extinguishing the pain in her head. But the warmth didn’t stop there. It trickled down to the rest of her body, enveloping Lyse and giving her back energy she hadn’t realized she’d lost.

Time to go.

The voice was inside her head now, a part of her.

She raised her hands to her waist and gently turned them over, so her palms were pressing against the cold metal in front of her.

Push.

She did as the voice asked, taking all her new energy and channeling it toward escape. She pushed with her hands, pressing her back against the other side, using the wall in front of her for leverage. She strained, gritting her teeth, and heard a faint pop as the metal behind her gave way. She fell backward, arms pinwheeling as she tried to keep her balance. She did not succeed. Her head slammed into the concrete, stars blooming like daisies in front of her eyes.

She rolled over, hands scrabbling at the chilly cement floor as she raised herself onto her knees. She gave thanks for the ice-blue emergency light above the door in front of her—otherwise, she would’ve been entirely in darkness—and looked around the room, her eyes adjusting to the low light.

The room was small and square, no bigger than the interior of a car. There were three rusted metal lockers on the wall behind her, and up until a few seconds earlier, she’d been trapped inside the middle one. There was only one exit: the riveted metal door sitting below the emergency light.

“I’m gonna try the door,” Lyse said out loud—even though she had no idea if Eleanora was really there or just a figment of her imagination.

She dragged herself to her feet, her head beginning to throb again. The original warmth she’d felt inside the locker was dissipating fast. She grasped the door handle and pulled, the heavy door gliding silently on its tracks, and she shivered, her black sheath dress providing zero protection from the cold.

She stepped through the doorway, the stink of dank rot filling her nostrils, and found herself in the middle of a long, abandoned tunnel. Up ahead, she could see another door, and she headed toward it, moving quickly to fight off the cold.

Hurry, he’s coming.

The voice again, but this time it was not inside her head.

“Eleanora?” Lyse said.

Just hurry!

It was darker at this end of the tunnel, away from the blue light spilling out of the tiny room, and it took Lyse a few seconds of frantic search for her hands to find the door handle.

Go, Lyse. Go!

She pulled on the handle, throwing all her strength into the action, and the door slid back with a creak. A burst of fresh air hit her in the face, and she was outside in the middle of a stand of trees, scrambling up an incline leading away from the door.

She hit the top of the hill and began to run—though she had no idea where she was going—the urgency in Eleanora’s voice driving her forward. She cut through a dense swath of trees, the moon lighting her way, but came to an abrupt stop just before she stepped off the edge of a short cliff, one that would’ve dropped her out onto a massive freeway. Out of breath, she stood there uncertainly, listening to the rush of cars speeding below her.

She didn’t know where she was or where she was supposed to go. She stared down at the cars, her nose itching from the stench of car exhaust, and was amazed that even at this late hour, so many travelers were making their way through Los Angeles. At least, she hoped she was still in Los Angeles.

“Shit,” she said, beginning to feel overwhelmed—and then, like a beacon in the night, she saw a forest-green road sign sitting high above the 101 freeway, an arrow pointing down to the Echo Park exit ramp.

She relaxed when she realized she was less than a ten-minute walk from Eleanora’s house.

Leaving the roar of the freeway behind her, she headed back the way she’d come, jogging through the trees. She passed the door she’d just escaped through and paused. From the abandoned air of the place, she doubted anyone—not even the highway maintenance crews—used the tunnel anymore, and unless you knew to look for it, it was so well hidden within the underbrush that once closed, it would be almost invisible to the human eye.

No one would’ve ever found my body, she realized. Not once whoever put me there came back to finish the job.

Hurry, hurry, the voice—Eleanora’s voice—cried.

Lyse took off running again. It didn’t take her long to hit the chin-high chain-link fence that separated the sidewalk of Bellevue Avenue from the wooded area bordering the freeway. She grabbed the metal top rail and pulled herself over the fence, adrenaline coursing through her body as she hit the sidewalk and kept going.

The street was empty. She could still hear the freeway traffic behind her, but it was getting fainter. Up ahead, she could see the bright lights of Echo Park Lake. She crossed the street, ignoring the Don’t Walk sign, and jogged toward the park. From there, it would be a straight shot up Echo Park Avenue to Eleanora’s bungalow.

Maybe I shouldn’t go home, she thought. Whoever had kidnapped her was bold. They’d plucked her right out of Eleanora’s front yard, so maybe going to Dev’s place, where there’d be lots of people, would be the better choice. Besides, it was close to the lake and would be easiest to get to.

Run, Lyse!

Eleanora’s voice cut through her thoughts—and Lyse looked up just in time to see a figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt walking determinedly in her direction. She froze, not sure which way to turn. The figure was getting closer, speeding up now that it realized she was aware of it.

Go to the Lady of the Lake!

Lyse did as she was told, veering off the sidewalk and cutting across the grassy slope leading down to the water. Picking up speed, she circumvented a garbage can that was in her way, but before she could commend herself on her fast reaction time, the thick grass under her feet abruptly gave way to asphalt, and she almost went flying. Luckily, she managed to stay upright, and without missing a beat, she turned toward the path that would take her to the Lady of the Lake, the art deco statue that held court over the east end of Echo Park Lake.

She followed the curve of the walking path, able to run much faster now that she was on level ground. She glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to discover that the hooded figure was not following her. She eased up on her speed, slowing down to a jog in order to catch her breath.

To her left, she passed the darkened boathouse. Adorable in daylight, the little squat building with the red-tiled roof gave off an eerie vibe now that it was empty for the night. She increased her speed again, not wanting to linger in its shadow.

Lyse!

Eleanora’s anguished voice filled her head, but not before she felt two gloved hands wrap themselves around her neck.

“No!” Lyse cried as her legs were kicked out from underneath her, and she collapsed onto her knees in the middle of the walking path.

In the darkness, she couldn’t see the man’s face, but she knew it was the hooded figure she’d seen up on the sidewalk—and there was something familiar about him, too. A smell, a feeling, a sense . . . She wasn’t sure what gave him away, but she knew she’d met him before.

Not wanting to get trapped here under his control, she did the only thing she could think of that might set her free. She balled her left hand into a fist and punched her attacker in the crotch as hard as she could manage.

Bull’s-eye. The man howled, enraged, and released her. Lyse didn’t squander the opportunity. She crawled to her feet and took off, racing into the darkness. Pushing aside the mortal pain she’d inflicted on him, the man went charging after her.

He was faster than Lyse, and she had to zigzag back toward the east end of the lake to steer clear of his grasp. But he was dogged, matching her every move until, finally, he was close enough to shove her from the side and knock her to the ground. She rolled out of his reach and belly-crawled away, but he got hold of her ankle and yanked her back toward him.

“Leave me alone,” Lyse cried, kicking out at his face with her other foot.

Luck was with her, and she heard a crunch as her shoe connected with the soft cartilage of her attacker’s nose. He yelped but didn’t release her.

“What do you want?” Lyse asked, kicking at his face again.

But this time he knew what she going to do, and grabbed her other ankle, stopping her from making contact with his face.

“I don’t understand,” she added, struggling to free her legs. “Why are you doing this?”

The man’s grip was like iron, and she knew she wouldn’t get away from him this time if he got his fingers around her throat.

Go to the Lady.

Eleanora’s voice was more than a whisper in her ear—Lyse could actually feel hot breath fluttering against her cheek. She turned her head, expecting to find Eleanora there beside her, but she was alone. Only empty space—and the man in the hoodie, whose hands were moving slowly, inexorably toward her throat.

“No!” Lyse screamed, a shot of adrenaline ratcheting through her body.

She wasn’t going to die like this—not here in Echo Park Lake, murdered by someone she knew but could not see.

“Who the hell are you!?” she cried. Then she reached down and yanked the man’s hood away from his face.

Shock rendered her unable to speak. She knew the identity of her attacker, but she didn’t want to believe it.

“Surprise,” the man said, grinning up at her, the moonlight casting strange shadows across his face.

“But . . . but . . . why?” Lyse murmured when she could finally manage to speak again.

Her uncle David laughed—and she understood now that she’d unmasked him, he wasn’t as eager to end her. Not because he didn’t want to kill her—oh, she had no doubts that this was his endgame—but because he wanted to share something with her. Wanted to tell her why she was going to die, wanted her to understand.

“It’s nothing personal,” he said, grabbing Lyse’s arm and pulling her into his lap, his gloved fingers gently running along the hollow at her throat. “The Flood is coming and we have to clear the path.”

Lyse nodded, encouraging him to keep talking.

“The Flood,” she said. “What is it exactly?”

Her uncle laughed in her ear, and she wished she could see his face, but he’d turned her away from him, his arm trapping her against him.

“I longed to tell you about it under different circumstances,” he said. “I’d hoped you’d come with me willingly, but that wasn’t to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Lyse said, stalling for more time in the hopes that some late-night dog walker or jogger would pass by to interrupt their messed-up little family reunion. “But tell me now. Explain it to me.”

He thought about her request, mulling it over in his mind.

“Get up,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to see us and call the police.”

She did as he said, allowing him to help her to her feet—and that was when she saw the knife in his hand. Though she got the sense he’d rather strangle than stab, one puncture from the long, thin blade he was holding and that would be the end of her.

“Will you tell me?” Lyse asked again, letting him guide her away from the boathouse. “What does it mean when you say that you need to clear the path?”

To her surprise, she realized her uncle wasn’t heading out of the park but was continuing around the path, toward the east end of the lake where the Lady resided.

Where Eleanora wants me to go, she thought. I just need to keep him talking.

“Uncle David?” she asked, after her last question received no answer.

“I was just thinking what a shame it was not to get to really know you, Lyse,” he said. “Especially because you’re the only family I have left now.”

Lyse went with this train of thought.

“I wish you’d known my mom. She was magical. And Eleanora, too—”

“Oh, I met Mother. Only for a few moments, but I was there with her at the end.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Lyse asked, confused, and then she felt the tip of the blade pressing into her side. It seemed as though just the mention of Eleanora’s name was enough to put him on edge.

“I was there,” he whispered in her ear. “I helped her out. She wanted me to.”

This statement froze the blood in Lyse’s veins—and now she didn’t want to know any more.

“But don’t you want me to tell you what it was like?” he asked, his breath hot and foul against the side of her cheek. “What it felt like to put my hand over her mouth and nose. To watch the life flicker out of her eyes—all at my own personal whim.”

Lyse began to cry. She tried to hold it in, to do what she could to not give her uncle cause to kill her, but she couldn’t help herself. The image of Eleanora alone with this man—her own flesh and blood—as he smothered the life out of her made Lyse sick to her stomach.

“How?” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “How could you do that?”

He shrugged, still easing her down the path toward the Lady, the knife pressed against her side, making her wince as its tip dug into her skin through the flimsy material of her dress.

“I never knew the woman. She was nothing to me.”

“Am I nothing to you?” Lyse asked.

He stopped walking, holding her in place. She didn’t think he was going to answer her, but finally he spoke:

“She gave me away, Lyse. She did the same to your mother, and to you, even. She never wanted any of us. She was cold as ice.”

Lyse shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s true. I know she had reasons for what she did—”

He shook her roughly.

“Shut up, or I’ll stick this blade into you,” he growled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lyse kept her mouth shut, taking him at his word.

“Start walking,” he said. “My car is just across the way. You’re going to be a good girl and get inside without a word—and then we’ll go somewhere a little more private. Where we can conclude our business in peace.”

Lyse could imagine where he would take her. Probably back to the abandoned tunnel. He could strangle her there at his leisure and no one would ever be the wiser.

You’re almost there.

Eleanora sounded as though she were standing beside them. Lyse crooked her neck, trying to see if her uncle had heard the voice, too, but his rugged face was like granite, impassive in the moonlight.

“I’ll go with you,” Lyse said. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hold that knife so close to my side.”

He laughed and let the blade drift away from her skin.

“Your wish is my command.”

Run, Lyse!

Lyse did as Eleanora said, breaking free from her uncle’s grasp. She heard him inhale sharply, felt his anger reaching out for her, but she didn’t look back, just ran as fast as she could toward the Lady of the Lake.

“Help me!” she cried.

Where there had only been calm skies above her, now a flash of lightning shot across the inky night. She could feel her uncle gaining on her, the blade of his knife itching to find the softness of her belly.

Thunder boomed, shaking the ground. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, the atmosphere thrumming with electricity.

“Eleanora!” Lyse yelled. “Help me, please!”

Lyse reached the statue the very moment the third and final bolt of lightning raced across the heavens and embedded itself into the base of the statue. The stone exploded with an earsplitting crack, and the Lady of the Lake toppled forward. Lyse watched in horror as it fell on top of her uncle, crushing him into the ground.

“Oh my God,” Lyse whispered, falling to her knees, eyes glued to the ghostly white hand protruding from underneath the Lady of the Lake.

“Lyse?”

Lyse dragged her gaze away from the ghastly sight of her uncle’s body and stared at the ghostly young woman who stood before her.

“Eleanora?” she whispered, incredulous.

The young Eleanora looked so much like the image on the Saint Anne candle that the woman in the bodega had given her that Lyse could hardly believe it.

“You’re so beautiful,” Lyse said. “So young.”

“I’m here, Lyse,” she said, smiling as she knelt beside her granddaughter. “I’ll be with you whenever you need me.”

“I miss you,” Lyse said, trying not to cry.

“Don’t,” Eleanora said—but Lyse couldn’t help it. It’d been an overwhelming night, and she was beaten.

She covered her face with her hands, wanting to curl into a ball and sob herself to sleep, but Eleanora’s next few words washed over her like a tidal wave.

“The Flood is coming, Lyse. Prepare yourself.”

The silence that followed Eleanora’s last words was long and unbroken. When Lyse finally found the courage to open her eyes again, her grandmother’s ghost was gone.

“Eleanora?” Lyse whispered—but there was no reply.

Finally Lyse crawled to her feet, her body aching with exhaustion. With an unsteady gait, she began the long, lonely walk back to the empty bungalow on Curran Street.

*   *   *

Lyse sat up in bed, her entire body drenched in sweat. She looked around the room, frantic. She wasn’t sure where she was and it scared her. But slowly, the darkness bled away, and the space came into focus. She was in Eleanora’s house, tucked away in her childhood bed.

Alone.

Outside the bedroom windows, the wind whistled and skittered like buckshot. Lyse lay in her bed thinking as she listened to the outdoor sounds.

Was it a dream? Her aching body and stiff limbs told her it was not. The Lady of the Lake was gone—and she and Eleanora had murdered a man. Albeit one who would have killed her had she not gotten him first.

She put away the image of her uncle’s ruined body, filing it in a part of her brain she naïvely hoped she would never have to access again. It was all just too much to process—though she knew it was only the beginning. That, like a tidal wave, Eleanora’s secret life was about to swallow her up.

After what seemed like ages, Lyse threw off the blankets and got up. She realized she was still in the black sheath dress from the memorial, and she yanked at its hem, ripping and tearing it as she pulled the fabric over her head, then threw it on the floor. In her bra and panties, she ran to the closest window and opened it wide, daring the storm outside to spirit her away. When this didn’t happen—and she got tired of the rain lashing at her face—she sat in the middle of the bedroom floor and wrapped her arms around her naked knees. Her fingers played with the bandage on her calf, yanking at the gauze until she’d torn it away from her skin.

I am alone in Eleanora’s house, she thought—and she started to cry.

She thought about Eleanora and the twin babies she’d given up, thought about her uncle crushed underneath the stone Lady of the Lake, thought about where she, Lyse, fit into the unfolding story. She sat within the feathery tendrils of the wind as it blew in through the windows, reaching out for her with grasping fingers. She sat in darkness, rocking back and forth, hands clutching at her ankles.

It wasn’t until close to dawn that she finally fell asleep, curled in the fetal position on the rag rug, the rain singing against the roof of the house as it lulled her into unconsciousness—her decision finally made.

Sitting on the side table next to her bed, the Saint Anne candle flared to life, its flame flickering like a signal fire in the night.

Eleanora was pleased her granddaughter had decided to stay in Echo Park.