“The scar?” Branwell asked, darting a look to the corner where he assumed it was.
“Yeah. It opened.”
“Fascinating.” Tennyson kept his eyes riveted on his sister.
Abruptly, the scar flared wider, rifting open. The edges turned golden and fluttered as if in some unseen breeze, just as it did when one of the triplets deliberately activated their GUTs.
Chiara’s head snapped to attention, eyes opening.
Chiara’s gaze but . . . not.
She looked around the room.
Dante. Branwell. Tennyson.
“Cesare?” Dante asked. “Babbo? Can you hear me?”
Chiara stared at him. Eyes unblinking.
“Trova il potere,”she said in the same creepy low voice she used when sleepwalking.“Chiude il lampo.”
Find the power. End the lightning.
More of the same. Words she had said before while sleepwalking.
“I think Babbo said those same words in his suicide note.” Branwell murmured. “Find the power. End the lightning.”
“But what do they mean?” Tennyson asked.
Chiara frowned, gaze confused.
I suddenly realized that she was shaking. Goosebumps pebbled her skin despite the summer heat.
“It all went wrong when the lightning began,” she said, her voice that same creepy monotone. “You must go back to that. Lightning is the answer.”
“What must we go back to?” Tennyson again. “When did the lightning begin?”
Chiara rotated fully toward him.
“What must we go back to?” Tennyson repeated.
“The beginning,” Chiara’s voice vibrated.
Alright.
“What beginning? What went wrong?” Tennyson asked.
But the atmosphere had changed. Chiara’s trembling reached a fevered pitch.
Chiara turned in my direction, eyes huge, snagging my gaze with earnest intent. She then deliberately turned and pointed to the flapping rift.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “It comes now.”
“Pardon?”
“It comes.” Eyes black. “RUN!”
I felt it then, surging forward. The black, soul-sucking sludge. The Chucky-slime.
