This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.
It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.
Disclaimer—same as the other parts.
New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032
Kit—2:30 PM
We made sure Meg was comfortable—we'd put her in Margery's penthouse, who had been even more surprised than the rest of us to see her…and Erik. There had been plenty of whining, crying, fainting—then more crying and a lot of hugs. But all in all, the two seemed comfortable with the arrangement—even if Meg did now sort of look like Margery's daughter instead of the other way 'round. As soon as we were certain things would be all right with them, Erik and I went back to our penthouse—he wanted to take a shift at the front desk, but I called Sophia and asked her to do it. When I hung up, he was staring at me. "What, darling?"
His frown looked almost out of place. "You didn't tell her. You haven't told everyone yet."
"Told everyone what?"
The frown deepened. "That I'm alive." I could almost hear the childish "duh" in his tone.
I sank onto the sofa. "I'll do it later…much later…maybe tomorrow. I'm just…I can't deal with that kind of excitement right now. Besides," I said, batting my eyes a little, "I kind of want you all to myself right now."
Slowly—very slowly—the frown turned into a half-smile. "Does that mean what I think it means?" I nodded. He strode over to the sofa—three steps was all it took—and in one swift motion hoisted me into his arms. Once he had made sure he had me securely, he walked toward the stairs.
I giggled. "What on Earth are you doing?"
He silenced me with a kiss and started up the stairs. Every footstep echoed through my body, and what had started as a small tingle at the base of my spine quickly became a full-body itch. "I have missed you," he whispered, walking into our bedroom and kicking the door shut behind us. He walked over to our bed and carefully placed me down on it, moving a finger to my lips. "Don't move," he whispered, and after I nodded my agreement, he walked back to the door and locked it.
"Erik," I said, looking about the room for the clock—it was nearly three in the afternoon. "You don't really think this is the best time for this…?"
He looked at me quizzically, striding back slower than he probably would have if I'd said nothing. "You never used to object to this. What's changed?" When I said nothing, he stopped in the middle of the room—his expression changed, from a questioning look to one of disbelief. "There's someone else, isn't there?"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake…" I rolled over, putting my face into my hands.
"Come on, Kit, be honest with me." His tone was softer than I expected from a man who thought he'd been cheated on by his own wife. "Just tell me there's not another man in your life."
I rolled over again, now staring at him. "Honestly, Erik, you think I'd do that to you?"
"I think the thought may have crossed your mind after you thought your husband had died," he said, his voice rising slightly. "And if you'll recall your reaction when you first laid eyes on me today, you didn't exactly give me the homecoming I'd expected…actually," he said, cocking his head to the side, "you gave me exactly the homecoming I'd expected. Not the one I wanted, though—my idea of a 'glad to see you' reaction doesn't include a slap or two."
I rose from the bed. "What did you really expect? You faked your death and ran out on us! You expected us to just forgive you?"
"Would that be so difficult?"
"It doesn't work that way!" Against my will, my voice was rising. "You can't just leave without telling us, run off to only God knows where for four years, and then expect to walk back in here and have it be okay! It's not okay!"
He was silent for a moment as my scream finished ringing through the room. "Well, thank you for setting me straight on that," he said, so softly I almost had to ask him to repeat it. Without a sound, he unlocked the door, pulled it open, and slowly left the room.
I sighed. "Erik, wait." I walked to the top of the stairs—he had stopped at the bottom, not looking up toward me. "What's really the problem? You've never reacted like this before when I…" I couldn't finish—he'd never reacted like that before, ever, for anything.
There was silence for a few moments—the only sound was the circulating fan running softly in the background. "I'm ashamed of what I did—of leaving all of you for so long, of doing something so childish I couldn't face any of you for so long. I've been very afraid for the last few years that you'd go and find another, and with the world believing me dead, I would have no way to stop you." He half-turned toward me—he was in profile, but I could tell the expression in his eyes was less than happy. "I suppose it's my own fault, really, but I honestly never thought you'd yell at me on my birthday, of all days." His hand released the banister, and he walked away toward the parlor.
I leaned my back against the wall, closing my eyes. In all the excitement of the day, I had forgotten my own husband's birthday. I felt like an ass.
I heard a loud thump from the parlor. "Kit! Get down here!" He sounded panicked—a sound I didn't like coming from him. In seconds, I found my feet and had somehow made it to the bottom of the stairs without falling on my face.
"Erik, what?" I flew into the parlor, noticing the TV was on but not paying attention to it. "What is it?" He motioned to the TV, opening and closing his mouth a few times with no sound coming out. I looked—a "Breaking News" banner was on the bottom of the screen, and the fresh-faced-but-still-forty anchorman was speaking.
"…more reports of these strange occurrences are coming in from Europe. We…" He paused a second, putting his hand to his ear. "I'm being told we're going to go live to Paris, to our French correspondent…"
I looked at Erik. "What the bleeding hell…?"
"My…my worst nightmare has come true," he said. He was looking paler by the second—all the blood seemed to be draining from his face. I took his arm and pulled him back to the sofa, forcing him to sit down before he fell over. "It's happening, Kit."
"What's happening…?" He shushed me and motioned to the TV again. I looked—now it was a woman on the screen, sharing a split-screen with the anchor.
"…from all reports, these occurrences started around three this afternoon, and have been continuing for some time. Now, we are not at this time being allowed to disclose names…"
The anchor cleared his throat. "Does this seem to be an isolated incident?"
"No, it doesn't. We've had reports of these occurrences from all over France—Paris and Rouen seem to have the most reports, but there are reports coming in from Chartres, Lyon, Avignon, Marseille… We've even heard of a report from as far away as Turin, Italy…and of course, all of these are in addition to those reports from the New York area…"
I heard a muted, strangled cry come from Erik's throat, and turned to him. "Are you all right?" He shook his head, his eyes wide. "What is it?"
"Why…?" He took a breath. "Some birthday present, and from my own son…"
"Darling…?"
He looked at me. "He woke the dead." He turned away, back toward the TV, as the phone rang. "That'll be Sophia. I have an odd feeling, my dear, that at least the majority of those people recently woken are going to make their way to our lobby within the next few days." He sank into the back of the sofa.
I reached for the phone. "I should have burned that damn book when I had the chance."
