Secret Keeper (My Myth Trilogy - Book 2): Young Adult Fantasy Novel Read online

  Nancy talks about it like it’s no big deal, but she wasn’t there. Parts of being an Ovate are nice, but other parts are scary as Hell. On the one hand, I miss having beyond-gorgeous stained-glass cicada wings. I miss Blaze strumming through me, filling me with life. I miss Keen crackling in the air around me. I miss living with Magic and Power.

  But I’m also afraid I’ll get lost, that I won’t be able to find my way back.

  Maybe Nancy’s right, though. Maybe going there with honest intention without using substances will be different. I only ever Traveled to the First Realms as a little girl when one of the Fae—disguised in insect form—opened a portal for me (before they were banished to the Second Realm and lost their abilities to Channel). And of course, I Traveled to the Third Realm a week and a half ago after taking a bunch of sleeping pills and chasing a childhood memory. But that was an accident. I didn’t know what I was doing. I almost didn’t make it back.

  I shiver like someone’s dropped ice cubes of dread down the back of my stifling church dress. The memory of Drake’s toxic shadow world, the Third Realm—of Xander slamming into the invisible barrier when she came to guide me home—haunts me.

  I miss Xander. I miss Jacob.

  Contemplating the empty space on the other side of Aidan where Jacob should be, I realize it’s a no brainer. Even if there’s only a slight chance I’ll be able to find the Champion Nancy spoke about who can help me figure this mess out, I’ll try. Because no matter how terrifying returning to the First Realm might be, sitting here without Jacob is far worse.

  The speaker finally finishes his talk about God knows what…I didn’t hear a word. I reach over Claire, who’s stretched out across my lap, for the green hymnal and turn to page 86: How Great Thou Art.

  I may not have the best voice, but I love to sing. I like the way the four-part harmony of hymns blends together: alto, soprano, tenor, bass. I haven’t attended church in a few years, but we used to go every Sunday. The singing was always the part I actually enjoyed. I haven’t forgotten the songs and even though it’s been years since I had a piano lesson, I can still read music well enough to pick out the alto part, especially if someone nearby with a strong voice is singing it.

  “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds

  Thy hands have made. I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,

  Thy power throughout the Universe displayed…”

  The lyrics are eerily reminiscent of what Nancy was saying about the Realms inside my head, though I’m fairly certain they won’t be teaching inter-dimensional travel and astral projection in Sunday School today.

  As the strains of the last chorus end and the chorister takes her seat, I place the hymnal back in it’s holder in front of us, bow my head for the benediction, and begin reviewing the things Nancy told me about self-hypnosis, making a bullet-pointed list on my mind’s whiteboard, using vibrant green marker.

  Hypnosis is a heightened state of suggestibility and focus

  You are not asleep during hypnosis. You are awake and aware and in control the whole time

  Self-hypnosis is like a deep meditative state. You can freely explore, or you can have a specific script/agenda

  You can come out of hypnosis whenever you want

  According to Nancy, (and verified by my insomniac Google session last night) hypnosis works by bypassing the mechanism called the Critical Factor, which is the part of your conscious mind that blocks and/or permits the flow of information from your subconscious. When you bypass the Critical Factor, you can interact directly with your subconscious.

  Nancy thinks the Gray Man is my Critical Factor. He patrolled the borders between my conscious and subconscious with his Remington rifle. He shielded me from the mangy lions stalking the perimeter in my subconscious while also shielding my waking mind from the ugly truth about my molestation by silencing Hannah and Margaret.

  This both fascinates and frightens me.

  Theoretically, through self-hypnosis, I can bypass the Gray Man. I can discover ways I’m already brave and reinforce dialogue and experiences that will help me become more confident. Nancy says it’s like writing a story in which I’m the heroine and the only limit to my strength is my imagination.

  “One goal of self-hypnosis is to provide a safe place to work through your problems,” she added.

  Safe? HA. When have my interior worlds ever been safe?

  What if I end up in some unknown Realm convinced I’m a cat, and then come out of my trance only to spend hours chasing dust motes and meowing at shadows on the wall?

  Hmmm… Actually, that doesn’t sound like such a bad scenario right about now.

  But Nancy was emphatically serious. “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid, Emily, as long as you don’t let fear make your decisions for you,” she instructed. “There are endless Realms within you, endless worlds between Realms, and endless planes and dimensions within each world. In every single one of them you are YOU. You can’t become lost when you are true to yourself.”

  “AMEN!”

  I’m yanked from contemplation of theoretical Realms to wooden pews and benediction. The congregation rises to their feet, engulfing the chapel in a squall of greetings and neighborly chitchat.

  Kaillen’s casual warning sounds in my ears: Everyone knows everybody’s business. Yikes. My business is a mess. I’m pretty sure if the ‘lovely young ladies’ Meg wants me to befriend knew anything about my issues they’d run for the hills.

  A sudden mudslide of loneliness engulfs me with a buried-alive reminder: I don’t have any friends.

  I’ve been holding thoughts of Sophie and our squad from school at bay by sheer force of will. I even deleted Instagram, Facebook, and Snapchat from my phone because stalking my ex-best friend was doing more than giving me FOMO; it was making me obsessed, which was making me even more miserable.

  Nancy said when I start to get stuck in negative behaviors like this I should do two things: First, be kind to myself. Second, create distance. I was definitely beginning to creep myself out, and I did feel better not being a lurking-lurker. But now my will is gone and I’m trapped in the hole I created by digging my friends out of my life, weighed down by the enormity of being utterly alone. I no longer have an intact family or the certainty of my ability to be a responsible big sister to fill the void.

  I want to get out of this church and away from all these normal happy people with their normal happy lives. I’m tempted to grab Aidan and Claire and bolt for the van, but there are logistical obstacles: Both ends of our pew are still blocked by chatty relatives who are in no hurry to move along. I’m getting anxious and fidgety and my breathing starts to quicken. I inhale deep and slow and remind myself that this isn’t all about me; it’s also about Aunt Meg and what she needs right now as her husband fights for his life in the ICU.

  So, I make myself stay put and observe the procession of worshipers sweeping by. If I can’t be free, at least I can get in some interesting people watching.

  A gorgeous black girl with striking henna snaking up her arms steals my gaze. She tosses a thick coil of chalk-white dreads over her shoulder and breezes through the crowd. She’s dressed in a retro black-and-red checkered sheath with a string of fat white pearls around her slender neck. A tattoo of a scantily clad pin-up girl peeks above one of her high top sneakers.

  Whoa. Instant girl crush. Also, dang. I wish I had the guts to wear something so badass to church, not that I even own anything that cute.

  She catches me staring and flashes a brilliant smile in my direction, then continues toward the exit.

  “Emily.” Meg taps me on the shoulder, beckoning me to stand. “I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Pantha and her daughter, who is about your age.”

  Aw, yes. The famous Minali Pantha. The girl Kaillen was supposedly so ‘fond’ of.

  I’m beset by sudden nerves. This is the first time I’ve met another girl my age since…since I don’t know when. And she isn’t just some
random girl, either. She’s Kaillen’s ex. I can’t even look at her straight on (she’s perfect, I can sense it). Fortunately she’s busy on her phone. I focus on her mother instead.

  Mrs. Pantha exudes vitality. I can’t believe she’s old enough to have a daughter my age. Her olive skin is completely free of wrinkles, and she radiates an electric, youthful energy. In four-inch heels she towers over a meek older man who stands starched and pressed at her shoulder, his hands clasped behind his back. We lock eyes and he nods at me politely.

  Mrs. Pantha leans in to shake my hand, her salon-perfect hair cascading over her shoulders. “Such a pleasure to meet you, darling Emily,” she says. “We’d heard rumors Meg and Ian were hiding a sweet young thing up on that vineyard of theirs.”

  She has an accent I can’t quite place…something posh and eastern seaboard. She raves on about how she loves the Vineyard and my relatives. Her throaty laugh and vivacious smile dazzle me. But just as I’m starting to smile along with her infectious warmth, I’m struck by a sudden vision of Mom—pale and whisper-thin in worn cotton pajamas. Mom never smiles anymore because she’s embarrassed of her teeth. She spends all her time in the back bedroom of Aunt Meg’s house with the curtains drawn and the door shut watching reruns on HGTV.

  Mom may be in recovery, and I’m glad she didn’t die, but in almost every way other than actual geography, she seems further away than ever. The contrast between Mom and Mrs. Pantha is like a slap in the face. It’s just one more thing that’s wrong with me. How many other girls my age have a mom who tried to commit suicide? A mom who’s taking back the guy that treated her like crap and violated her own child? While Mrs. Pantha sings their praises, I cower inside from the shameful truth of my lunatic family, and from guilt for thinking badly of Mom. I know her addiction isn’t something she chose to hurt me. I know she did the best she could.

  Mrs. Pantha turns her perfectly lined, bronze-shadowed eyes from me to Meg. “I am sorry to hear about poor Ian’s stroke. You simply must let me bring in a meal. Henry would love to whip up a pan of lasagna or something, wouldn’t you, Love?”

  Henry nods obediently, still perched behind her.

  “I can’t believe school starts in a week and a half,” Mrs. Pantha gushes. The light from the windows highlights the perfection of her contoured cheekbones. “Where did the summer go? I’m sure you’ve heard I’m heading up the parent organization this year. Busy, busy, busy! Minali, put that phone away for five seconds, please.” She pauses but doesn’t take a breath—which is fine, because I’m already breathing for both of us. “You and Emily must go for an espresso sometime this week, maybe to that cozy little coffee shop in Mt. Hermans? Or take her to the Boardwalk with you and your friends, or I know, down to the beach house! Emily would adore some company her own age, wouldn’t you, Darling?”

  I can’t avoid looking at Minali any longer. She puts her phone away in a smart little clutch and contemplates me like I’m a slug, and she can’t decide whether or not it would be worth her time to squash me for the sake of ridding the world of my inconsequential amount of slime.

  She’s the yin to her mother’s yang. I can definitely understand why Kaillen would have been into her. She’s breathtakingly pretty and exudes icy cool confidence. Her long ombre hair probably air-dried in those loose, beachy waves without her having to do a damn thing. It complements her darkly ringed eyes, killer lashes, and flawlessly sculpted brows. Such exquisite beauty must be painfully dull: her posture is the consummate ‘S’ curve of boredom.

  “Sure, Mommy.” She curls her lustrous hair around her immaculately manicured fingers.

  “Hey!” A tousle-haired jock appears by her side. “Ready?” he asks Minali, then notices me. “Oh hello,” he says in the accent that always accompanies the opposite sex giving you the once-over. “You’re new. My name’s Brady. You must be the one staying at the Vineyard this summer.”

  “Yes.” I blush. Alas, he’s really, really hot. “Ian and Meg are my great aunt and uncle…on my mom’s side,” I mumble. “I’m Emily. Emily Alvey. Nice to meet you.”

  I extend my hand to shake his and immediately regret it. Instead of shaking it he lifts it to his mouth, grazing my knuckles with his lips. “The pleasure is all mine,” he says with a charming Colgate smile.

  Minali titters, but her eyes narrow at me menacingly.

  I snatch my hand away and resist the urge to wipe it on the side of my dress, worried about appearing rude.

  “Hey, is that a dragonfly?” A sporty blonde bounces over, joining what feels like a growing crowd of mockers. She points at the fading Sharpie portrait of Xander on my wrist.

  “Oh, yeah.” I clasp my hands at my waist to prevent further inspection. “Just Sharpie. Not like, a real tattoo or anything…” I trail off lamely.

  “Dragonflies are wicked cool.” She nods in admiration. “Did you know they can see in like, forty-three different color combinations? The human eye does four, tops. I’m Chloe, by the way.”

  She reaches for my hand. Is she going to kiss it, too?

  “Come on, Chloe.” Minali rolls her eyes and takes Brady’s arm possessively. “Nobody cares about stupid dragonflies.”

  “Bye, Emily,” Chloe says over her shoulder as they walk away. “Nice meeting you!”

  I’m murmuring some clumsy goodbye they probably can’t even hear when yet another stranger assails me.

  “Emily, so nice to see you again!”

  His voice is behind me—hearty, masculine, commanding attention. Before I can turn around, his sweaty hand is on my shoulder. I spin around to find the clean-cut man who was sitting up on the stand during service.

  Instinctively I step back but he pulls me closer and squeezes my shoulder.

  “She’s the spitting image of Sandra,” he says to Aunt Meg without shifting his gaze from me. “Lovely.” There’s an intimate glint in his eyes. “You’ve grown up quite nicely.”

  I’ve never met this man in my life. Have I? I think I would remember the automatic response of revulsion he triggers in me, but I can’t find his face anywhere in my memory.

  “Emily, this is Pastor Baker,” Aunt Meg beams.

  “She remembers me, don’t you, Bright Eyes?” he asks me. “I used to change your diapers.”

  Bright Eyes was my nickname when I was a toddler. No one’s called me that in well over a decade.

  In a strange slow-motion trance I shake my head.

  Pastor Baker lets go of my arm, but he doesn’t release me, only rearranges his grip. Now he drapes his other arm across my back, tugging me in. “I remember one time I was babysitting this little gal at your place,” he tells Aunt Meg while hugging me close. I can smell the pungent musk of his cologne. “And she took off. Just vanished! Couldn’t have been more than three or four years old.” He looks down at me now, sizing me up. I suddenly feel half-naked and hug my arms around my chest. “One minute you were sitting on a pillow next to me watching the big game and the next…poof! You were gone: halfway to the goat shed before I caught up with you. Quite the escape artist!”

  He chuckles and gives me a tickling squeeze.

  Aunt Meg is smiling somewhat woodenly and nodding at his genial recollections. I’m desperate to have his arm off me, his musk out of my nose. But I don’t know how to get away without making it obvious.

  “Pardon, ladies.” Another clean-cut man has appeared. “I need to borrow the Pastor for a few minutes.”

  “Excuse me, Meg, Emily.” Finally Pastor Baker releases me and shakes the newcomers hand enthusiastically. “Meg,” he says, his countenance suddenly grave. “I’d like to come over and discuss what the ward family can do to help out while Ian recovers. Would this evening be all right? Say 7:00?”

  “Of course, Pastor.” Meg nods.

  “Great. I’m so, so sorry for what you’re going through,” he adds. “Does Kaillen need any help with the harvest?”

  “I think we’re managing, thank you,” she replies.

  “Well, don’t hesitat
e to ask for anything at all. We’re here to help.”

  “Thank you, Pastor.”

  He turns to me again. “And you, young lady.” He winks at me and looks me up and down. “I’ll be seeing more of you later.”

  Not if I can help it. But I nod dutifully and duck my eyes, like a good girl.

  “Meg!” Yet another unfamiliar voice beckons. But I’m officially DONE. No more polite chit-chat, no more awkward introductions, no more creepy clean-cut men with appraising smiles. I’ve even stopped caring about upsetting Meg at this point. I’ve got to get out. I practically pummel Uncle Jack as I dart past him for the door, then stumble over the cane of the little old lady he’s talking to. “Sorry, sorry,” I murmur, not looking back. I grab Aidan and Claire, and lead us outside, practically gasping with relief as we get to the parking lot. I close my eyes to catch my breath, relishing the warmth of the sun on my face.

  “That was SO boring,” Aidan grumbles.

  “At least you didn’t have to wear a stupid dress.” Claire twirls so her pleats swirls out around her like a dream-come-true.

  “Oh please.” Aidan rolls his eyes. “You love dressing up. Besides, Emily tickled your arm and your back the entire time.”

  “Whatever. At least I don’t have to wear a tie, like you.” Claire sticks out her tongue. “And so what if I like church? It’s relaxing, right, Emma?”

  “I’d rather burn in Hell than ever go back there again,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

  Neither of them says anything, but I can feel them worrying about me. I’ve got to stay calm—or at least act like I’m calm—for their sakes. But, wow. It’s a struggle to even catch my breath.

  We wait in the hot van for ages. As soon as Nancy gets in I tell her I have a headache and ask if it would be okay to take a little rest when we get back to the house. She eyes me in the rearview mirror and gives a concerned but knowing nod.