Whispered Secrets - Jay Mirano (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

of my feet moving forward toward the flames. All I could comprehend were Lacey’s eyes; they had become my entire focus.
Something hard clamped down on my forearm, but I tugged it away with surprising strength. Nothing could stop me now. I didn’t feel in control of my own body.
My foot impacted with the base of a blue flame, knocking it onto the ground. With a sigh it blew out, and just like that Lacey’s hold on me was broken. The tranquil look was erased from her face, replaced by a wide smirk, an ominous smirk. She glanced over at Jake, blowing him a kiss, before sprinting from the shattered circle. As she passed me she whispered just one word in my ear, “Thanks.”
And then, she was gone. The forest suddenly seemed so quiet, so detached from the rest of the world. All I could hear was Jake’s ragged breathing.
“Are you happy?” He whispered, his face down-turned.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you happy you let her get away – are you happy you ruined everything I’ve spent so long trying to achieve?” Jake looked up at me, his eyes muddy.
“You were trying to kill her,” I said, taking an involuntary step back.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve put your life in jeopardy.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’ll come after you now, and she won’t stop until you’re dead.”
Far in the distance a cackle sounded, echoing around the forest, mocking me. She won’t stop until you’re dead.

Chapter VI

Jake was pacing the living room, his fingertips pressed to his eyes. His Mom sat next to me, her hands cloaking mine with warmth and ineffable comfort.
“Can someone please just tell me what’s going on?” I asked, my words slicing through the blanket of silence shrouding the room.
Jake’s slowly raised his head, his eyes clouded with concern. He cast a glance toward his mother, before continuing his fretful pacing.
“You said my life was in danger – that Lacey wanted to kill me,” I said, my voice growing shrill and panicked. “Why?”
I felt Mrs Turner tighten her grip on my hand, her entire face furrowed and creased. “It’s a complicated matter.”
“Give me the simple version then.”
Jake came to a sudden stall, his face stormy. “Why couldn’t you have just kept out of it, Sam? Why do you always have to stick your nose in?”
“Excuse me?”
“Jake, calm down,” Mrs Turner’s voice was soft, but it was laced with warning. She wound her free hand around my shoulder and squeezed. “This isn’t Sam’s fault.”
“Oh, isn’t it? Whose fault is it then, mother?” The way he said the last word was mocking, sarcastic even. I suppressed a grimace.
“It was mine,” she said, glancing in my direction. “I told Sam where to find you.”
Jake glared at her incredulously, his lips clamped down in a tight line. “And why, might I ask, would you do that?”
“Because I asked her!” I cried out, barely able to keep myself in check. “I knew Lacey was bad news, and I was coming to tell you. I only wanted to help.”
Jake crossed his arms over his chest.
“So I came to find you,” I continued, swallowing away my apprehension. “Before Lacey had a chance to hurt you – because believe it or not, I really care about you, Jake. But then I saw you, I saw what you were doing to her, and…” I trailed off, not certain how I could possibly explain what had happened next, the way Lacey had pulled me to her with her stare.
“Jake, you have to tell her the truth. Imagine how confused she must be,” as always, his Mom was the voice of reason.
Jake sighed, sitting on the coffee table opposite me. He tore his fingers through his hair, biting his lip. When he returned his gaze to mine, his blue eyes were burning intensely.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he said, his voice so low I could barely hear. “Neither is she – my Mom, I mean. Her name is Althea, and we’re not related in any way.”
I drew my hand away from Mrs Turner’s – Althea’s? – grasp, and buried it in my lap. “Who is she?”
“She’s a convenient excuse,” he smiled, as if in on some secret joke. I noticed Althea was smiling, too. “She’s the only way I can be near you without raising suspicion.”
I felt my face pale. “Jake, what is going on?”
“Althea and I are very good friends, but her purpose is a practical one; she poses as my mother so that I may pose as a teenager.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve been through this many times before,” he sighed.
“Uh, no we haven’t.”
“Not in this life, no.”
I sprang to my feet, fury steadily building. “Stop being cryptic and just spit it out!”
“Please, sit back down.”
I did as he said, and willingly let Althea take my hand again. I needed something tethering me to reality, even if she was technically now a stranger.
Jake took a deep breath in. “I was born Jacques Dessette in 1735. And you were born – for the first time – as Bridget Donahue in 1737.”
I felt a wave of dizziness sweep through me, but I fought it off. “Huh? Wha…? Excuse me?”
“I know you’ve dreamed of Jacques and Bridget before, you always do.”
His words provoked a niggling of a memory, of two lovers tearing across a summer meadow, hands clasped. I had had that dream before, but how could Jake possibly know that?
“But the dream always cuts off,” I whispered. “I never know what happens next.”
“What happens after Jacques leaves, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Jake nodded at Althea, and she disentangled her hand from mine and got up. Jake took her place next to me, his hand lightly resting on my thigh. “Try and remember.”
I closed my eyes, running through that familiar dream in my mind. Jacques and Bridget together, laughter hanging in the air. The playful trail of kisses Jacques leaves down Bridget’s neck. And then those screams, those bone-chilling screams that forced them apart.
I tried to focus in further, on Jacques as he runs back through the meadow. But his figure is muddy and unformed. I couldn’t grasp it.
“I can’t,” I say, my eyes springing open once more. “I can’t see past the screams.”
“Yes you can,” Jake says, his voice soft and reassuring in my ear. I felt the bloom of goosebumps sprout on my arms, and I hoped he didn’t notice.
I closed my eyes once more, trying instead to focus on Bridget. She is watery at first, a blur of white-blonde hair and muddied dress. But then she becomes clear, so clear I could see the look of panic on her face. But more than that, I could feel

the panic. I could feel the way it surged through her veins, I could feel the way the cold film of sweat clung to her forehead, and the way her skin crawled with worry as she watched Jacques disappear. I could feel the urge to chase after him grow within her, until it was too strong to deny.
I bunched up the crisp cotton dress into my hands, so that I could run with ease. Jacques was just a speck on the horizon when I started after him, slowly at first, but running faster and faster until the stiff summer grass is whipping against my bare legs, leaving angry red slashes in their wake.
I could feel my loose hair snapping out behind me, getting tangled as the furious breeze tore through the strands. Jacques was still shimmering in the distance, but he was growing smaller. I pulled my dress up further still, my legs arcing in broad strides as I ran.
The sound of rushing blood filled my ears, my heart hammering faster than it ever had before. I soared across the meadow, desperate to call out after Jacques, but he was too far away. My breath caught in my throat, causing a searing heat to settle on my chest, urging me to stop and rest. But I couldn't; I knew Jacques was in danger and I had to stop him.
Finally the servant’s quarters came into view, and I could see Jacques entering its low, stooped doorway. I tore after him, my feet sending up plumes of dirt and grass behind me as I furiously pounded the earth beneath me.
I could hear the commotion in the servant’s quarters before I even went in, and I felt fresh terror flood through me. The room was dank, the air within laced with the stench of stale sweat and lingering dust. Inside I could see a ring of pale lights burning, on the edge of which stood Jacques, his arms outstretched.
“Clara, listen to me, don’t do this,” Jacques said, his voice heaving with the sound of his own ragged panting. “Whatever disagreement you have with my family, you can settle with me.”
My eyes finally began to adjust to the gloom of the chamber, so that I could discern a wild-looking Clara in the corner of the room, as well as Jacques’ mother Ethel huddled in the center of the burning flames.
“What is happening?” I asked, rushing forward to be at Jacques’ side.
Clara cast me a menacing glare. “Ah, sweet Bridget, sweet, far-reaching Bridget. How nice of you to join us.”
“I beg your pardon?” I pressed myself against Jacques’ sturdy body, suddenly feeling very afraid.
“Please help me,” Ethel Dessette whimpered, her face smeared with grimy tears. “She’s a witch.”
Clara folded her arms across her chest, a smirk playing on her lips. Clara, a witch? Clara, the harmless lady’s maid? I had seen her many times when visiting Jacques at his manor, but she’d always seemed so genial. Certainly not a witch.
“Leave my mother alone,” Jacques growled. “As I said, you can deal with me.”
“Very well,” Clara sighed.
Without warning, Jacques flew into the air, his body colliding with the ceiling above. Shards of shattered wood and splinters came raining down after him, coating his body as he fell back down and impacted with the floor.
I heard a scream rip from me, and I raced forward to help him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Clara’s hand flick upwards, and I too was sent flying outward, ending up pinned against the far wall.
“You stay,” Clara said, smiling at me. “I’ll deal with you later.”
I struggled against the invisible bounds that seemed to have me plastered against the wall, but to no avail. I couldn’t even budge an inch.
I heard Ethel whimper again, and for the first time I noticed how badly injured she was; yawning gashes peppered her entire body, from which issued a steady flow of blood. There wasn’t a single spot on her arms that wasn’t bruised, the entire surface of each mottled with deep shades of magenta and crimson. She was still enclosed in her prison of flame, but still made attempts to reach out and touch Jacques.
Clara made her way towards Jacques, her crimson skirts sweeping aside the fragments of ceiling that now littered the room. Jacques shuddered as she approached, propping himself up on one elbow and spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“Why are you doing this?” He snarled, his teeth stained red.
“I had to teach your mother a lesson,” she said, her voice lilting and melodic. “She needs to know it isn’t appropriate to end someone’s employment without just cause.”
Ethel’s response was hoarse, but audible nonetheless. “I caught her with my things… She is a thief…”
“Oh hush,” Clara spat. “You aren’t