The Van Alen Legacy

“But you’re not real, are you?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly. “No. I’m not. Not in the way that you are. I mean, no one else can see me but you.”

“Is that bad? Does it feel weird?” she asked.

For a while, Dylan merely smiled, and it was his same crooked sad little smile. “I don’t know how to explain it, but part of me is here—with you—and another part is . . . somewhere else. I don’t know, but I know I am not complete. I’m like . . . like a . . . template . . . you know, like a virtual personality trapped in a computer,” he explained.

He confirmed what she already knew: that there were dozens, possibly hundreds of other souls living within her. “The Croatan are insane because none of the spirits have the body for enough time to make it work. They become imbalanced and unpredictable—schizo, as the humans call it. Usually because the original host spirit loses control to a strong and forceful personality.”

She shuddered. “Like I have.”

“The Visitor. Yes. But you are aware of the transgression, which means you’ve been able to resist it. And there’s something else that’s different about you. Do you know what it is?”

“Not really.”

“Your human familiar, Morgan. Remember him?”

Bliss remembered the cute young photo assistant from the Montserrat shoot.

“The Red Blood is poison to Croatan, and yet it did not harm you. Which means, part of you is still uncorrupted. And also, you have me,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I keep them from you. I guard the wall,” he said. “That’s the best way I can put it. Imagine there’s a curtain that stands between your consciousness and the others. I’m that curtain.”

“So basically all that stands between me and the crazies is . . . you?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Me.”

Bliss cracked a smile. Suddenly she didn’t feel so alone anymore. She had someone to talk to, and someone who understood exactly what was happening to her. “I like those odds,” she said.

She was about to say something else when she was suddenly overcome with rage, a debilitating, inchoate rage— she felt as if she were frothing at the mouth, choking on her own bile—she gasped for air—doubled up and clutched her stomach—what was this? What was going on? Why was she so angry? Then she realized. It was not her anger, this was not her fury. She could feel it, but it wasn’t coming from her.

“What’s going on?” Bliss whispered. “It’s him, isn’t it? The Visitor? He’s upset.”

“Yes,” Dylan said, looking worried. “Try not to feel it so much. Push back. Do not let his emotions control yours.”

She nodded, gritting her teeth, trying to fight back as a garbled mangle of violent emotions washed over her. ANGER! HATRED! HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED—WHO IS RESPONSIBLE—I SHALL SLIT THEIR THROATS AND DRINK THE BLOOD OF THEIR CHILDREN—THE GATE WAS THERE! WE HAD THE GATEKEEPER IN OUR HANDS! THE PATH WAS WITHIN OUR REACH! FOOLS! FOOLS! She pushed back—No. No. Not me. Not me. Him.

Shut him out. Shut him out. Shut him out. Get away from me, from my thoughts, from my life. I am not you. I am not you. I am not you.

“He’s gone,” Bliss said, exhaling. She opened her eyes. She was still in the museum, and Dylan was sitting on the steps across from her.

“Good,” Dylan said. “It’s very important that you keep him away—that you don’t . . . you don’t let him take over.”

“I won’t.” She told him about how she was able to remain even when the Visitor came back. “He was trying to do something, I think, but I have a feeling it didn’t work out. It didn’t happen. Something went wrong. That’s why he’s so angry just now.”

“Yes, but I have a feeling it’s not over. You must continue what you are doing. Resisting him. Remaining, as you say. Watch and observe. And you must act when the time is right,” Dylan said.

“But what if he finds out?”

“I will help you as much as I can. I promise.”

“And what about you. Will you always be here?” she asked him.

“I can never leave,” Dylan said. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Can I?” she asked, holding out her hand. She put it up against his, hoping. But she felt nothing. Air. He was smoke and mirrors. Air and light. A memory. A ghost.

He wasn’t real. This wasn’t real.

“I want to kiss you so bad,” she whispered, looking into his dark eyes. “But there’s nothing here. You’re not really here, are you? I’m just crazy. I probably just invented you to feel sane,” she said, and before she could help it, she started to sob. The tears came flooding down her cheeks.

The enormity of her responsibility overwhelmed her. She didn’t know if she was going to be able to do it. It was too much to ask. She couldn’t stand up to the Visitor. To Lucifer. He was too powerful.

Dylan put a hand on her shoulder—she could see it but she couldn’t feel it. But she could hear his voice. “It’s all right, Bliss.” His voice was gentle. “It’s going to be all right.”