Андреа Кремер - Nightshade

He shook his head. “They would, but I asked them not to. I’d rather not have strangers rummaging around my things.”

“Especially when you’re reading a forbidden book as a bedtime story?”

“Well, that too.” He smiled, opening the door.

Shay’s room was halfway between messy and clean. The bed was piled with books, and a couple of discarded sweaters hung from a wooden chair.

The Keeper’s text lay open on an antique writing desk. Haldis rested beside the book, giving off a muted glow in the afternoon light. But you could see the floor, and there weren’t any precariously tipping mountains of dirty clothes, which was more than I could say for my own room.

Shay glanced around. “Not too bad.”

“For me this would qualify as a major improvement,” I said.

“Well, it’s good to know I’m not offending any obsessive cleaning standards you keep hidden.”

When I laughed, he stepped closer, running a hand through his hair.

“So . . .” he murmured.

The air in the room suddenly felt electric. I was all too aware that Shay and I were alone in his bedroom. Get a grip, Cal. Can you control your hormones for five minutes?

I cast my eyes around the room, unnerved and desperate to break the tension. As much as I wanted Shay to touch me, my fight with Ren had made me less willing to take risks. My gaze fell on a large steamer trunk half hidden by a pair of jeans.

“What’s this?” I walked over to it.

“Nothing, really,” he said, following me. “Just stuff I’ve collected and carted around with me over the years.”

I threw him a mischievous smile. “I don’t believe you.”

“Hey!” He didn’t grab my arm quickly enough to stop me when I knelt beside the trunk and flipped open the latch, lifting the heavy lid.

I began to laugh immediately. “It’s all comics.”

“Well, yeah.” He bent down, straightening the stacks. “But they’re really good comics, and some are very rare.”

I browsed through a few. As I lifted one stack, my fingers brushed against something soft. I frowned, pushed aside the comics, and buried my fingers in the plush material. I drew my hand from the trunk and saw that my fist clasped a fine wool blanket.

Shay cleared his throat. “My mother made that for me.”

“I remember.” I trailed my fingers along the soft cable weave. “It’s the only thing you have of hers.”

He pulled the blanket from my hands.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, worried I’d offended him by picking it up.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“The blanket,” he said. “It’s like . . . I think it smells different. But I don’t even have it close to my nose.”

“Oh.” I began to nod. “It doesn’t smell different. You’re different. And your sense of smell is much more keen. That will heighten your sense perceptions.”

His brow furrowed; he lifted the blanket to his nose, taking a deep breath. I jumped to my feet when his eyes suddenly shut and he stumbled backward with a gasp.

“Shay?” I took his arm. “What is it?”

“I . . .” His voice was thick. “I remember . . . I can see her face. I remember her laughing.”

“Oh, Shay,” I murmured, drawing him toward me.

His eyes opened, full of memories. “It can’t be real.”

“Yes, it can,” I said. “Scent and memory are completely tied up in each other. Your Guardian senses unlocked the memories for you.”

He was frowning. “Maybe.”

“Did it feel real?” I pressed. “Familiar?”

“More than anything,” he said.

“Then it’s your mother.”

He twisted the blanket in his hands. “Wait a sec . . . no, no way.”

“Shay?”

He grabbed my hand, pulling me back down the hall.

“What?” I asked as he dragged me at a run back to the broad landing in the main hall.

He didn’t answer, stopping in front of the tall wooden door that led to the library. He drew something that looked like a Swiss army knife from his jeans pocket and fiddled with the lock. I heard a click and the door swung open.

He didn’t say anything as he strode into the room. I followed hesitantly while my eyes took in the library. It was easily the largest room I’d ever seen outside of our school’s gymnasium. The library rose through the second and third stories of the mansion. Three of the walls featured built-in shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. A spiraling wrought-iron staircase on each wall led to balconies that ringed the upper tier of bookshelves. I’d never seen so many books. No wonder Shay had been dying to get in here. Beautiful and terrifying, the library seemed too perfect to be safe, like a carnivorous plant that used vivid blossoms to snare insects.

“This is amazing,” I breathed.

Shay was staring at the outside wall. It was the only part of the library not filled with books. Tall, stained glass windows framed an immense fireplace that was large enough for two men to stand inside it. I followed Shay’s gaze to a portrait that hung above the mantel.

Unlike the grotesque paintings that lined Rowan Estate’s hallways, this portrait appeared more traditional, though its occupants’ expressions were sober to the point of severity. A woman in a simple white dress sat in a chair. Her hair, the color of dark chocolate, spilled over one shoulder; her pale green eyes seemed to brim with tears. A man stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. His face was stern but also terribly sad and was framed by softly waving golden brown hair that brushed his jawline.

Even though I stared at strangers, the portrait brought a lump to my throat. I’d never seen faces so filled with grief. I came to stand beside Shay.

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?” he murmured.

“Why wouldn’t who tell you what?”

“My uncle.” He tore his eyes from the portrait. “That’s my mother . . . and I think my father too.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Are you sure?”

“If you’re sure that my sense of smell triggered a real memory,” he said. “That is the woman I saw when I smelled the blanket.”

“But Bosque didn’t let you keep any pictures of them,” I said.

“Exactly. So why would he be keeping a portrait of them in his library?” he said. “And why wouldn’t he want me to see it?”

“Maybe he was afraid you’d remember something if you saw pictures of your parents. Do you? Now that you’ve seen this painting?”

Shay looked at the portrait again. “No.”

I reached for his hand. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.” He stroked his thumb over my palm. “It would help if something in my life made sense.”

I squeezed his fingers. “I get that.” We’d both turned over too many stones, revealing ugly secrets squirming beneath. “So now what?”

“Now we do what we came here for in the first place,” he said.

“Research?”

“Research.”

I glanced at the multi-storied bookshelves. “Any ideas about where to begin? Or if your uncle has a card catalog?”

“Well, that wouldn’t offer much of a challenge, would it?” he quipped.

“I guess I’ll just start browsing,” I said, ignoring his taunting eyes.

He smiled wickedly. “There is one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“A locked bookcase.”

“Sounds promising. Have you checked it out before?”

He blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “As much as I hate to admit it, I felt a little guilty about breaking into Bosque’s library. I thought leaving that bookcase alone made up for it . . . kind of. Karmic compromise.”

“You are a strange boy,” I muttered.

“That’s why you like me.” He flashed a grin and walked across the room.