I told the truth. "I'm really glad to see you."
"You don't know how much I needed to hear that." He sighed deep enough to match mine.
"Where to?"
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"Home for my harp first. And my friggin' blue cardigan set.
"Brought you a present," Luke said. Without looking away from the road, he reached into his pocket and dropped Granna's ring into my hand.
"You got it out of the sink?!" I slid it back onto my finger; now that I knew how useful it was, it wasn't nearly as ugly. Still running my finger absently along its edge, I looked out at the rain.
Wind buffeted the car. Light filled it, brief and brilliant, and I cringed a second before the thunder boomed. "Great night for a party."
Luke glanced in the rearview mirror, though there was nothing behind us but a wall of gray. "It'll be over in time for the party. All this lightning, though." His face darkened. "Puts a lot of energy in the atmosphere."
I guessed what he was thinking. "Like the sort Eleanor could use to pull another vanishing act?"
"It's not the vanishing I'm worried about," he said ruefully. "It's the appearing."
Was that why he kept glancing in the rearview mirror? The thought kept me glancing in the passenger-door mirror the entire way to the house, though there was nothing to see but the spray from the tires.
We pulled into the driveway. "Do you want to wait out here while I get the harp and change?"
Luke peered over my shoulder at the empty house, barely visible through the sheet of rain. "I don't want you to be by yourself. I'll come with."
We jumped out of the car and ran to the back door,
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where I fumbled with keys, rain pouring over my fingers, and got us inside as quickly as possible. Sliding into the kitchen, I looked over at Luke and groaned.
He looked down at his soaked shirt and said, his voice mild, "Well, you did take three years to unlock the door, so what did you expect? Where's the dryer? I'll throw it in while you get changed."
The idea of him shirtless stuck my tongue to the bottom of my mouth, so I just pointed toward the laundry room and retreated to my room, where I rejected the frumpy blue cardigan Mom would have worn in favor of a fitted white button-down and a khaki skirt. I liked to think it was an outfit that said professional but sexy. As opposed to Mom's blue cardigan set, which said something more like frigid puritan music geek.
I returned downstairs, picking my way carefully in the rain-gray darkness. It was weird to be home without the rest of my family. Without the hum of the TV, or Delia's loud voice, or the constant whir of Mom's standing mixer, the house seemed very still and empty; the only sound of life was the slow, rhythmic pulsing of the dryer in the kitchen. I thought of Luke standing down there, waiting for me, and the same thrill of nerves I got before playing in public trembled down my arms.
I didn't trust myself with him.
I moved into the dim kitchen and picked out Luke's pale form. He was leaning his hands on the counter, looking out the window. Without his shirt, I could see how his body truly was--how every inch was muscle, a perfectly
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tuned, deadly machine. Shallow scars traced a mysterious map across his shoulders, leading my eye to the enigmatic gleam of the gold band around his biceps. I knew he heard me come in by the subtle tilt of his head, but he stared out into the rain for a few seconds longer before turning.
"That was fast." When he turned, I saw the largest scar of them all; a huge, white, amorphous shape near his heart. I didn't bother to disguise my curiosity and closed the space between us; my eyes narrowed when I saw just how large the wound must have originally been.
"What's that from?"
He didn't reply, but his eyes wore the same dead expression they'd had after I'd read his mind. I reached out with careful fingers and touched the raised, uneven scar tissue, felt the shiny skin. As I did, I fell into a memory.
It was one I'd seen before, back in the tomb. But this time I got a longer look. His back to an old wooden building, Luke held his wicked dagger point against the skin on his shoulder, lightly tracing a careful line down to the tore, as if trying its strength. Beads of blood raised up in its wake and I shuddered at the expression in his eyes--like there was nothing behind them. The next cut was stronger but still unflinching, slicing into his skin and skipping over the tore. And the next was stronger still. But of course it was madness. If he was trying to rid himself of the tore, it was a fool's errand; the tore itself wasn't affected by the knife. It stayed solidly around his biceps as he tore his arm to ribbons, a viscous blanket of red obscuring each new slash and covering the gold of the armband.
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Finally, Luke lowered the knife, hand trembling, and I sighed with relief. But too soon. Fast as a viper strike, he dug the blade into his own chest, twisting it viciously. His hands slid from the grip at last, and his head fell back against the building, his body twisting and arching.
I gasped, pulling myself free of the memory with effort and blinking my wet eyes. "You tried to kill yourself." Saying it out loud made the memory real. I stared at him, repeating, "You tried to kill yourself?"
Luke swallowed, still as a statue beneath my fingers.
Trying to put this piece into his puzzle, I traced the pale lines that coursed over his tore. "Why would you do that to yourself?"
"You saw." He looked into my
