Title: A New Journey
Author: storydivagirl [at] hotmail [dot] com
Disclaimer: not mine, never were...just a big fan of Maria and want to do her some justice
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, but a lot is going on at the moment. I do try to update as often as I can, but I also want to make sure the story is decent, so I tend not to rush it. I apologize. If it's good, it's all my doing. If it's bad, blame Steph, my betaslave! Without her this story would be terrible and only make sense to me because she forces me to explain those things in my head.
Warning: If you thought last chapter was dark, beware that Part Seven was only the beginning of the darkness, death, etc. I cannot promise that everyone else will live and I hope this story doesn't scar too many people. Blame the evil fork, JK Rowling, for only further adding to the darkness with her evil book!
Part Eight: Middle of Nowhere, Kansas
I think everyone should imagine her demise at least once before the actual moment it occurs. I mean, we are genetically predisposed to rehearse everything else, so why should the biggest event of our lives (or more appropriately, the big finale) be any different? There is lucidity to it, an odd sort of beauty in confronting the undeniable and the transience of time.
For the record, that story about life flashing before your eyes is a bit misleading. After succumbing to the darkness caused by a ricochet bullet into my side, I fully expected to find myself overwhelmed by images as if I had gotten stuck in one of those circular movie theaters where pictures zoom by at warped speed. Somewhere between the pain with no origin and the numbness of accepting I was hit despite Jesse's best attempts to save me, I decided that whatever else awaited me would have to be better than a room cluttered with old antique chairs overdone with blood-soaked hues and an overabundance of throw pillows with long tassels of beads infamous for severing eyes. I recalled a long list of pop culture references that had been shoved down my throat and I anticipated an anthology of my greatest hits; a retrospective of my life where I realized that living is all about eluding the inevitable end for as long as possible. It was supposed to be my memories, an animated patchwork of time that my subconscious trapped within its confines. The ultimate pros and cons list.
After all, that was what Liz led me to believe. Her voice had been grave and confident as she spoke, explaining the seconds before Max healed her. It was in the midst of one of my faith-driven quests, something I often undertook after a mishap of the alien variety was narrowly circumvented. Liz had placed her hands on my shoulders and steered me to an empty booth in the Crashdown, where I proceeded to hyperventilate and throw out the random questions running through my brain. She tried to comfort me the only way she knew how-the truth as she knew it or chose to remember it.
Sure, there were snapshots of experience that practically played out before my eyes, but it was much more subtle than a bombardment of I told you so and what if. It was senses on overloadand emotions. In those split seconds of teetering between two worlds, my mind ran the gamut of emotions locked inside of me. The ones I didn't even recall like the tart taste on my lips and the slow unraveling inside my gut as my father pulled out of the driveway for the last time-and those that I thought would cause me to implode if I didn't spurt them out quickly enough.
There was also peace, a strange stillness that anchored the abundance of feelings on rapid-fire. There was no time for pangs of regret, misunderstandings, or any of those banal occurrences that bogged down the brain. It simply was a matter of fact and the calmness came out of the way I accepted everything so easily.
It was what I imagined existing within a bubble would feel like-the ability to lose yourself, but maintain a connection to humanity. The outside world was visible to the eyes, but there were layers protecting me as I floated away, unbodied, caught up in the wind and the hum of energy surrounding me. There was the dim acknowledgement that at any second the bubble could burst, but I had no reservations as I sailed further into the heavens.
It was so much simpler there, just being.
No worries, no worries.
No blood on my hands, no deluge of guilt and terror.
Quiet.
"More will follow," said the voice within my head before I had passed out and I had feared that Jesse's demise was only the beginning.
But not there because the quiet blanketed me from all those uncertainties that the world couldn't.
God, why couldn't things remain quiet?
The room was a beige sarcophagus. A fluorescent blue light reflected on an ugly rectangular box and blinked out the current time, forcing life back into my lungs with a subsonic whoosh. My heart beat loudly, the sounds of a mechanical tick echoing in my ears, and my chest rose and fell with no difficulty. Sounds from the outside world and voices from another room blended together in cacophonous agony as my eyes adjusted to the gray beams of light infiltrating the room via an open curtain. It blended with the beige coloring of the walls, padding the cracks, and created a murky ambiance, like the water in a backyard pond.
It wasn't supposed to be this way, I thought.
It was contrasted by the verdant green I observed outside the window, leaves shimmering on the trees and the sounds of life, in the forms of birds chirping, rumbling beneath my room. We were no longer in the void of the desert, the place where life was not meant to exist but still managed to thrive somehow, nor were we in the city, the air lacking the crackle that only a crowded block could generate. We were at a rest stop somewhere between the two, an evanescent place where tall, bending towers of grass lined a small dirt road that appeared to go on for as far as the eye could see, absorbing the blue embers of the sky.
The air was hot and still and felt like a weight against my chest. A tree sap smell blew into the room with the wind and there was no denying it-I was awake. I was still there. Alive. Oxygen in my lungs and noise in my head.
I didn't want to be. If I was awake, then everything that had happened was awaiting my return-biding its time in the shadows-and, quite frankly, I was never very good at seeing things through until the end. I had a history of getting in over my head, failed attempts at solving the problem, and running off to lick my wounds in the privacy of my own home while I berated myself because I knew that Liz or Alex or Max or even Michael would be able to fix things.
I missed the quiet already.
I had been robbed of it. Someone (Max? God?), in his infinite wisdom, chose me over Jesse. I was brought back to this misery, to the inescapable replay of Jesse gasping for breath, his lifeless body, and the painful certainty that he should've been alive instead of me. If only he hadn't tried to protect me. Why? Why did he do that? And how could Isabel instigate this whole mess? What could possibly be better than the way Jesse used to look at her with utter devotion emanating from his eyes? I would've given anything for Michael to stare at me with such adoration.
It wasn't supposed to be this way, I thought again. I yearned to be one of those adults, like Jim or Max or my grandparents who were always composed and could accept any mind-boggling tragedy while remaining taciturn and gracious. In periods of desperation I came across churlish and unappreciative at best.
My hands roamed over the bed, trying to get a sturdy hold on the mattress, and I pushed myself up. My eyes searched the room for proof that it had been a nightmare. I wanted to believe that Jesse and I were resting in some dive motel before restarting our investigation in the morning. I silently prayed that he would open the door, hands grasping coffee cups aplenty, and make some snarky comment that would keep my mind off all the bad.
It didn't happen that way. Jesse was gone. Gone. I hated that word and all its connotations, like a plague. I sat there for a few minutes, trying to remember and then forget every detailmoving onattempting to figure out how long I had been in that bed and exactly where I was. It surprised me that I was perfectly fine, considering the immense amount of pain that I had been in prior to collapsing. There were no lingering aches or side affects that I could determine, as if I had never been injured at all. I lifted myself out of bed and studied the layout, sticking my head out the window and inhaling deeply into the clear sky. The outside world felt completely unaware of the danger looming in the distance-sheer blue with cotton candy clouds that filtered out the sun-and I longed for that type of ignorance to return to me.
If I had been asked a few days ago whether I would have traded knowing Michael and spending time with him for ignorance to all the craziness that abounded in the universe, I would have been confident in my love for Michael. I still loved Michael, that would never (could never) change, but things were different now.
"More will follow." It was on repeat play in my head like once of those insipid pop songs that slipped off the lips without much thought.
Losing one loved one was barely manageable, but to find myself reliving that same sort of grief all over againI wasn't that strong. When the others disappeared, I told myself that at least they were alive out there. We couldn't be together anymore, but I knew that they were still in the world, doing things, living their lives, and it offered me some reassurance. What could I tell myself that would make Jesse's demise seem less excruciating? How would I handle it if someone else died?
I still remembered the look on Sheriff Valenti's face the night that Alex was murdered. Of course, we didn't know it was murder at the time; back then it was an accident, a tiny tragedy that was unavoidable. I couldn't sleep for weeks without Michael there, resting on the edge of my bed, one arm holding onto me and the other stroking the tendrils of hair back off my face. As Michael laid there next to me, offering words of comfort, I imagined what Alex felt in those last few minutes-did he know he was dying, was he aware of the unfairness of it all or was he beyond that-and envisioned different scenarios. It somehow made it easier, as if by harping on the actual event, I was able to find some sort of closure.
Jesse was different. There was no need to ponder anything, no details left to the imagination. I had been there to witness the whole ordeal-the gun firing, his stupid heroics, and the promise he forced me to make. He was depending on me to see this through. Jesse trusted me with this whole thing and I was a shitty friend because I wanted to yell at him for putting me in this position. Damn him, I swore over and over while a breeze slapped against my cheeks and I choked on the ache swelling in my chest.
I felt like the sole survivor of some catastrophic disaster. That was it. I was stuck in the middle of Volcano the sequel. Rather than a dingy room with rustic décor, I should have been sitting in the back of an ambulance somewhere, with the red and white lights spinning and illuminating the ashen streets while the sirens blared, huddled in a blanket, telling the reporters and the cameras, "I don't know what happened. It's not right. She was such a nice girl that Isabel Evans. I never saw it coming"
I stepped away from the window and caught my reflection in the mirror next to the bed. It was the hanging kind, but it was propped up against the opposite wall as if the owner could not be bothered with such narcissistic necessities. I looked old, like the past few days were a time warp that added years to my face. My hair was a tangled mess and my appearance was similar to photographs of drowning victims that were stuck in cold water for days-my lips were a bluish color and my skin had a frozen air to it. I was dressed in clothes that were three sizes too big for me, a little girl donning her father's suits during playtime, and the final touch, a big metallic hand imprint on my side where the gaping wound should have been.
My hands clutched at my head and my fingers massaged the temples and bridge of my nose-wish it away, away, away. I could peer at myself all day and still not recognize the face mirrored back at me, the old Maria too different to relate to anymore, so I stepped away. I crept toward the door, wincing every time my foot made a creaking sound, and reached for the handle. I stood in the threshold of the door the same way I would at the edge of a swimming pool, toes hovering on the edge, ready to plunge in, but hesitant of the initial shock and chill of immersion. I knew what awaited me on the other side-people demanding explanations that I didn't have while attempting to avoid discussing anything of importance. An almost-paradox. No one would want to talk about the what suffocating the room, but they would need the details. Max would demand a reliving of the ordeal, every bit of excruciating minutiae included, with an apologetic glare and Liz would feel required to touch me-pat on the shoulder, squeeze of the hand-as if to say "I'm here for you" when in reality none of them knew what to say because none of them knew me anymore. I was the deformed animal at the zoo, the sideshow attraction that a person berated herself for peeking at, but just had to see.
I closed my eyes, although I wasn't sure why, and walked forward. Right into Michael, Smurf-boy extraordinaire.
Every coherent thought obliterated in his presence and I said the first thing that popped into my head. "Still blue I see." When he didn't say anything, I evil-eyed the tacky ornament hanging from his neck and added, "And there's the reason why, ladies and gentlemen. It's because Michael Guerin is an impatient lunatic."
He wore the same scowl he had on his face days before (at least I thought it was days) and it was a look I was well-accustomed to, one that provided me with a strange sense of security, as if Michael was promising me in his own weird way that some things would never change. I needed that right then. He stared at me, running his hand over his face as though he though he was removing my image from before him, or maybe trying to remove the weariness from his muscles. His eyes were raging and impenetrably dark under his heavy brows, the corners of his mouth curved down in an expression of judgment that was not meant to be cruel, but rather show his anxiety at seeing me. I knew that expression well, usually the one sporting it after numerous dangerous encounters where I became convinced that Michael was never coming home.
As Michael continued to look at me though, the expression faded and was replaced by a kinder face, the look of someone that was attempting to hold onto the moment. I knew that one too. It was the one that always made me feel special because not too many people ever got to see that side of him.
"You--" Michael looked down and I couldn't recall a time when words ever escaped us. Even in the end. He cleared his throat and looked back up at me, and this time there was something there I had never seen before. He reached out his hand toward my arm, but stopped himself mid-movement. He cleared his throat again and completed his thought, "You really shouldn't be walking around, Maria."
I shrugged. Were we really going to do this? Play the meaningless small talk routine that led absolutely nowhere. Anger burned under the tips of my fingers and it took all my energy not to scream at Michael.
He motioned to the bed and I moaned, making my displeasure known, before moving across the room and plopping down on it. He glanced out the window and said, "We're in Kansas. We'd stopped here for a night, but when you, well, since you guys-well, you know."
I knew. I couldn't forget. "I was pretty sure chickens didn't wander around freely in New York City, but thanks for clearing that up," I replied, attempting to find my personality beneath the grief of the past few days. I added, "I half expect to see Wilbur the pig wandering around with a spider on his back considering this amazing ambiance." Michael glared sanctimoniously at me as if I had offended him personally and I explained, "It's a Charlotte's Web reference. Literature. Famous child's story. Obviously over your head."
Michael rolled his eyes as he spun around. For a second I thought he was going to storm off, complaining that I didn't know how to take anything seriously, but he didn't. With one step Michael moved away from the window and engulfed me in an embrace. I wrapped my arms around his neck, unable to stop the tears flowing down my cheeks. I hung onto him as tightly as I could; my eyes squeezed shut against the bad memories lingering in the room around us. All I wanted was Michael. He was what I needed to finish this stupid mission. He was what I had always needed-the comfort only he could provide, without even realizing it. Simple things like that I could feel the bones in his shoulders under my hands, the pulse beating in his throat, the sensation of his hair against my cheek, and the way he smelled like safety and strength. I wondered if that was even possible, to smell of such things. I imagined I reeked of blood and fear and death. It was everywhere; the odor oozing out of my every pore-Maria Deluca, founder of Grim Reaper Perfume, a big seller amongst mass murderers and alien eccentrics.
He pulled back, caressing my face and said, "I told myself I wasn't going to do this."
"Do what?"
"Let you see what--" his voice cracked and it took all my strength not to kiss him. It was the last thing either of us needed right then. Too much had happened to simply wish it away in the same manner that we did with so many things in the past. Michael's hands wandered down the length of me and rested on my forearm. His fingers continued to move to my wrist and he fiddled with the charm bracelet I wore before covering my hands with his own. He sucked in a deep breath and said, "You were told not to get involved, Maria. After what went down in New York City with that maniac, you still didn't listen. Max explained how dangerous it was and you let us think that you-"
"I'm not responsible for what conclusions you drew after our goodbye in New York. My life is my business."
"Not when it's something that directly interferes with my business. You should've gone back to Boston."
Michael stared at me, eyes searing with anger, relief, and guilt for being happy that I wasn't the one who died. He looked for meaning-for the why and how this was possible-in my eyes, but I was so tired and so transplanted and so deeply angry to be there, blood pumping and breath escaping-I was livid, furious that an isolated rundown house in the middle of nowhere, Kansas was so outrageously, unacceptably alive. I snapped, "I don't take orders from Max or from you, Michael."
"Jesse's dead, Maria, and for awhile there, it looked like you were going to join him," he stated, his voice regaining its normal sternness with every additional syllable.
"Shut up."
"You acted rashly. You always hear a little piece of information and blow it out of proportion."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"You might be surprised to learn this, Pot, but you're black."
"Whatever. Hate me all you want, but Jesse's dead because the two of you didn't leave well enough alone." His words rammed into me at full force and he must've noticed because he quickly added, "I'm worried about you."
"Your idea of concern is duly-noted and I find myself emotionally moved. Oh wait," I paused and folded my arms to keep from pummeling Michael repeatedly before adding, "Nope. I was wrong. Not moved, just royally pissed off."
Things were so nice between us for a brief second in time that I was almost thrown by the sudden shift in mood. I didn't want to fight with Michael. I didn't want to hear his lectures or listen to him spew venom about how it was my fault that Jesse was gone. I brushed the last of the tears away and replied, "I know that Jesse's dead. I was there, Michael. I was the one holding his hand when it happened. I was the one who he jumped in front of a bullet to protect. And for what? Because I'm some sort of chosen one. Whoop-dee-do."
"You're notwhatever. You need to rest. Max healed the bullet wound, but there was something else in your system that he couldn't mend. He wasn't sure what it was."
"It was the Meddecchi. The amulet must have some sort of," I stopped mid-sentence and called out, "Gram? Gram, where are you?"
"Who the hell is Gram?"
"My otherworldly guide," I replied.
"Oh, is that all?" Michael responded glibly.
"Where is he? I still had the relic because that's the only way we were able to escape," I replied. My eyes immediately darted around the room and I jumped off the bed. I frantically paced the room, unable to locate it quick enough, before stepping in front of Michael and screaming, "Where is it, Michael?"
"You're starting to freak me out here, Maria."
"The relic of the Nagi. I can't-I need it. Don't you understand?" I waved my hands around in the air helplessly while he stood there studying me like there were two extra heads protruding from my neck and I muttered, "Of course you don't understand. I'm the stupid girl that gets in the way of everything. The one that doesn't get what your life is like-how could I possibly be special?"
Michael shot me one of his typical are-you-for-real steely gazes and folded his arms. He replied, "You need to calm down."
"You don't understand-"
"I understand that you need to get a grip and catch your breath, maybe even eat something. You've been unconscious for days and I'm not about to watch you collapse on me again. You scared the hell out of me, Maria, and if you insist on killing yourself, I'm going to ask you to wait 'til I'm gone."
His words struck me. Michael rarely let his emotions (anger's not an emotion, but rather a way of life) get the best of him, especially not fear, and to see him so visibly shaken, well, there was a reason I always felt like a bipolar nutcase around him. I stepped over until I was standing in front of him. I placed my thumb under his chin and forced him to look at me. I smiled as brightly as I could manage given the circumstances and said, "I feel fine. I've honestly never felt better, physically anyway."
He arched his eyebrow and asked, "Would you tell me if you weren't?"
"Michael, if I were in pain, I'd make sure the world was aware of it. I thought you knew me better than that."
A soft chuckle escaped from his lips and he countered, "It's because I know you so well that I asked the question in the first place."
"I'm fine," I repeated, this time with more conviction.
"I never wanted any of this to touch you. I thought that if I kept my distance, if we went our separate ways, you would be safe."
"This wasn't your doing, Michael."
"I seem to keep messing up your life, don't I?" he said aloud, but not really to me. He tilted his head and examined me as if I was a fun house mirror that distorted his perspective. He removed my fingers from his chin, but didn't break our connection. He rubbed the palm of my hand with his thumb and gulped down air like it was a fountain drink.
He wouldn't focus his gaze on me as he spoke. "I never want to go through that again. I thought that leaving you was the hardest thing I would ever do, but when you wouldn't wake up" Michael paused when his voice wavered slightly. He still refused to look at me, the stubborn fool, and his hand shook on top of my own. I wanted to comfort him, to interrupt whatever this was and explain that none of that mattered to me, that I was wrong to always compare us to Max and Liz or the happy couple in some romantic fable because, despite everything, what we had was so much better than that.
I didn't know how to articulate that and Michael was determined to pluck the thoughts from his head. He pulled me down on the bed next to him and his eyes were unyielding in relation to mine. He continued, "I always thought my purpose on this planet was to find a way home, to where I belonged, and then I met you and everything got screwed up-" Michael noticed the frown forming on my face-inept idiot was surely his god-given title in the universe-and he groaned, "I suck at this, you know that. You want me to explain how things changed for me when you came into the picture and I'll never be that guy for you, Maria. I can't share my feelings." He stopped on the word "feelings", forcing it out of his mouth like a piece of gristle stuck in his teeth. Michael had always admonished me for the significance I placed on such things, bitching and moaning whenever I dared to tread on the sacred grounds of emotionland. Knowing that made our conversation all the more surreal and I momentarily wondered if I really had died.
Michael sighed and said, "It's not easy for me to admit how important you are to me, Maria. You make me crazy most of the time."
"I make you crazy? Ha."
He talked over me, "And when you're not making me crazy, you're pissing me off. I can't seem to get--I'm not like Jesse, who got you to see things for what they were without even trying."
"Michael"
"Let me finish because I swore that I would tell you all of this if you woke up," Michael replied, resigned to his fate of emotional outpouring. I couldn't ignore how he emphasized if. Michael hadn't expected me to survive either-we both knew it wasn't supposed to be this way-though he seemed much more grateful for the altered outcome than I was.
"But Jesse and I were never together," I stated vehemently. I never considered how my relationship with Jesse appeared to those outside of it because the idea of it being anything more than friends was ridiculous to me. I could never fathom loving someone other than Michael, but he didn't look so sure, as if I was uninformed to my own feelings-which wouldn't be far-fetched if it weren't blatantly obvious to me every time I was around Michael that he was the only guy I could imagine words like "forever" or "crime of passion" (let's face facts-one of us is bound to murder the other one of these days and totally regret it afterward) in connection with. I squeezed his hand, careful not to seem patronizing and said, "I'm not sure you know what you're talking about."
He caught me off guard by chortling softly. His forehead wrinkled so much that it appeared he only had one eyebrow and he said, "I think that's the nicest way you've ever called me an idiot before."
I rolled my eyes and responded, "I wasn't calling you an idiot, Michael-you know what? I'm not going to argue with you because it will ruin the damn moment. We always ruin our potential moments."
He released his grasp on my hand and pointed at himself before replying, "Like we could really have a moment while I'm an overgrown blueberry."
"That's not the point."
"Yes, it is. You would hold it over my head forever that I had the gall to be blue at one of the pivotal turning points in our relationship," he replied, channeling my future reaction. He smirked-so sure of himself, the cocky bastard-and attempted (poorly) to mimic my voice, "Why is it that the only time you let me know you care is when you resemble Handy Smurf?"
I snorted, "Handy? More like Smurfette."
Michael glared in my direction in a manner which was usually reserved for me in our relationship. It was the evil eye of someone attempting sincerity only to be rebuffed with sarcasm. A twinge of regret shot from my gut, but I was unable to stop myself. There was something disconcerting in the intensity of his words, the fact that his voice reeked of honesty, which sent my brain spinning. This was what I had wanted all along, the reason I had embarked on this journey in the first place. The problem was that I wasn't accustomed to a Michael-Maria talk that didn't result in one of us leaving the other behind and it made me a bit wary of taking things at face value.
I replied off his expression, "It was a joke."
"Yeah, a poorly executed one."
"And I wouldn't react like a bonafide crazy person," I offered in vain, ignoring the look of disbelief on Michael's face. I couldn't even kid myself on that one. Michael was right. Do you know how hard that was to admit? (Not that I would, mind you.) Michael narrowed his gaze on me, silently explaining that he knew me too well to be fooled, and I felt compelled to disagree, "I wouldn't! I've matured in the past few years, I'll have you know."
"Uh-huh."
"Stop trying to start an argument in order to nullify what you said."
"Whatever."
"I'm onto your tricks, Michael. You never could say 'I love you' like a normal person."
Everything else disappeared for a brief instant in time. Michael smiled-the very rare type that wasn't about placating someone, but actually acknowledging contentment-and all I could think about was how nice things were when we were together two years ago (in good and bad). Nice? It wasn't necessarily the most fitting word-to call something nice had such a weak connotation-but definitely the most accurate, stirring up memories of afternoons in the park while I strummed my guitar and Michael blocked me out by blasting heavy metal on his headphones, grinning in my direction every now and then, stopping to initiate a tickle war, which garnered us disapproving looks from the Roswell seniors. I had thought it was the beginning of long overdue happiness. And it was. Snuggling at dark on dried out grass against an ill-placed tree, as if nature was designed by Picasso, and doing our own things but together as dusk rolled in from the distance. Unadulterated bliss and I wished I could go back and relive that moment one more time. There were plenty of good times, but that was the one I loved the most, the one thing that I would take with me through life after life after life.
Michael shook his head, chuckling at something that I didn't quite understand, and said, "You haven't changed at all."
"Says the guy that can't hold a discussion with me unless he gets to point out how badly he wants me gone."
"I never said that."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't.
"That's precisely what you said, give or take a few words."
"Or a whole conversation," he replied. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and added quietly, "I thought you didn't want to argue."
"I'm not the one denying the truth."
Michael let out a loud breath through his nostrils-a bull about to attack-and flailed his arms out and around, pointing to him and me as he countered, "This is what I was talking about with the crazy thing, Maria."
I smiled in spite of myself and admitted, "I love you."
"I know and I love you too. I love you so much and it feels like a sickness half the time, like something that I need to remove from my system, but I don't want the cure and I don't want it to be over. I dunno how to explain it, but I wish neither of us felt this way sometimes. It would be easier," he declared without preamble. He ran his hand over his head, sticking the short hairs up in every direction as he went, and before the words could fester, he quickly added, "Your life was better off without me."
"Says who?"
"You were shot," he answered as if that explained everything.
When he didn't offer any further information, I prompted him, "Thank you for the insight, Captain Obvious. I'm not suffering from amnesia and require a reminder regarding the whole thing."
"Two years, Maria," Michael replied, again with the man-of-many-words. I narrowed my gaze on him and frowned. He sighed like I was being silly and replied slowly, "You enjoyed two years of an uncomplicated, normal life and within days of being around me, you end up hurt."
"What happened to me the other day had nothing to do with you, Michael. Not really anyway," I argued. I shrugged, letting out a loud sigh to substantiate my annoyance at his assumptions, and as he rolled his eyes, disbelief evident on his face, I said, "Okay, fine, that might be partially untrue. Yes, the reason I undertook this whole quest was to locate you, to right some wrongs-"
"You didn't do anything wrong," he protested. He turned his back to me, the curves of his muscles and shoulder blades poking through his shirt, and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. I chewed on my lip, more to suppress the scream bubbling up in my throat, and watched him tap his foot impatiently, most likely trying to force what he considered "common sense" into my skull through a poorly executed homage to Stomp!.
When Michael continued to snub me-now humming some Metallica song to soak up the quiet and obliterate the recently spoken "I love you's" from memory-I stood up and walked back over to the window. My lungs expanded as my nostrils filled with the sharp scent of nature and I closed my eyes against the breeze while I struggled with the right words. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but I had this problem. Words made sense in my head, but rarely came out how I intended. Thoughts on my lips twisted into blunt objects, leaving small scars on those they came into contact with, and that was the last thing I needed. I wanted to sustain this moment between us for as long as possible. The connection. The innocence of loving someone despite all the reasons that it should never have happened.
Love was a strange, abstruse thing. For example, the idea that fear could exemplify the feelings that were simmering beneath the surface and somehow ease the tension between two people was bizarre to say the least, and I wasn't immune to the strange affects it had on my mental faculties. Minutes before I was inconsolable, lost in the devastation of the burden weighing down my shoulders, and while that was still an accurate depiction of my emotional state, I found myself eased by Michael's presence.
I silently reprimanded myself for doing this. I needed to find Gram and go after Isabel. I promised Jesse that I would save her and, if that wasn't possible, I was still a "chosen one" who was destined to handle the Gantuk or die trying. My concentration was supposed to be focused on the Gantuk, the Holy Trinity, and averting a universal disaster of colossal proportions. There could be no more surprises and the longer I hung around the others, the less I contemplated my course of action. I was providing Isabel or her evil clone with a hard on for gunfire or whatever she was calling herself these days with plenty of time to destroy me. And that meant that my friends' current predicament became even more dangerous than usual.
"Don't even think about it, Maria," Michael stated off the momentary lock of our eyes. The stern tone of his voice pulled me from my thoughts and once again the only concern I had was for his safety.
I spun around and feigned ignorance, "Huh?"
"I can practically see the sparks flying from your head."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Michael."
"This ends now. You're no longer involved. We'll wait until you're better before moving on and then we're dropping you off at the airport. I'll physically place you on the freaking plane if I have to."
I crossed my arms, attempting to ignore the drumming sound in my head-horses trotting down a brick lane-and the seagulls flapping in formation in my chest. My ears were burning with anger, but all I could harp on was the click-clack, click-clack in my head. I figured it was the Meddecchi coming to finish the job, recalling the incessant pain in my side from before.
Michael must have noticed because he hurried over to me and draped his arms over my shoulders. He said, "I'm getting Max."
"I'm fine," I replied, concentrating on the blueness of the sky as I looked on. I gripped my fingers into the bottom of my shirt, as if I could squeeze the thumping out of my brain with some sort of fashion acupuncture.
"You're not fine," Michael replied as he repositioned my limbs so that he could get a good grip on me. He practically carried me over to the bed, resting my back against the oversized pillows and swinging my feet up onto the bed. He sat down next to me on the edge of the mattress, pushed a piece of my hair back, allowing his hand to linger on the side of my face, and said, "I won't be gone long. I promise."
I grabbed his hand, panic setting in, and said, "Don't." I couldn't explain it rationally if I tried. There was something in my gut that overwhelmed me, a certitude that screamed not to let him out of my sight because, if I did, there would be no way to get him back. I rolled over in the bed and buried my face in my arms. The certainty of our future separation became stronger as I remembered the recurring dreams that I had been plagued with for weeks. The same dream every night. Always in the same place, a dark cavern that I couldn't escape from.
There were linear diagrams drawn on every crevice of the ground-in the dream the designs made sense to me, but I could never recall anything but dread when I woke up-and Michael stood in the center, surrounded by dismembered bodies of friends and strangers alike. Liz was there too. She was dressed completely in black and chanted, "Nasfarat medulica" over and over. I approached her, tapped her on the shoulder, tried to get her to help me get to Michael, but she looked at me malevolently and continued reciting, "Nasfarat medulica."
Michael had what appeared to be hieroglyphics tattooed onto his skin and he looked terrified in a way I had only seen from him once before-when Hank had gotten especially bad with his abuse and Michael had crawled through my window in the middle of the night. I tried to shout out to Michael, to let him know that I was there and would save him, but a small child appeared and said, "It will require the ultimate sacrifice" before throwing a set of daggers at Michael. I screamed, but no sound came out. The daggers bounced off his chest to the shock of Michael and me. The child looked at me expressionless and stated, "It is for you to decide" before floating across to Michael. The child placed his small hands on Michael's shoulders, looking ill-placed like something out of Alice and Wonderland, and a large sword materialized out of thin air and struck Michael's abdomen with such force that I could hear the blade rip through him. It echoed in my ears as I felt the world fade away, sucked into an abyss of loss, and Michael crumpled to the ground. There were no words available to me, no thoughts in my head, nothing except static.
The cavern resembled the aftermath of a natural disaster. Everywhere were screams of those not-quite dead yet and others crying out for their loved ones. The terror reverberated off the walls and they started to shake from the power of the shrieking. I recalled the hysteria. The copper tinge taste of blood was all that I could smell and it poured out of every crack, seeping down the rocks. There was so much blood that it slowly filled the grotto-a tidal wave of thick red-until Michael's face was no longer visible. I would reach out to him, scream for him, but it never worked. He was gone and I would suddenly find myself falling down a boundless gorge while familiar cackles echoed in my ears.
I crushed my eyes shut and bolted upright, every muscle tensing and covered in sweat, and grimaced as the hammering sensation in my head became more frequent. My hands clutched my head and I said, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Michael. I can't stop it. I feel like my brain is slowly ripping in half."
"Maria," he said. He moved to get help, but I latched onto his arm again. His eyes wandered over me as if he expected to see into my head, as if he thought there was a way for him to rip this out of me and contaminate himself with it instead. He said, "I shouldn't have pushed you. You're still too sick."
"Don't leave me, Michael," I said, squeezing his arm. I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to calm the tremors coursing through my body, and went on, "I'm going crazy."
"You're not crazy."
Tears trickled down my cheeks and I shook my head, "I hope I am because if I'm not" My voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought out of fear that it would make it that much more real. I might not have understood the full meaning of my dreams, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that the gist of it didn't sound promising for anyone, especially Michael. God, Michael. I couldn't bare it. "Please don't leave me. Promise me."
I tightened my grip on his shirt, wishing the foreboding sensation out of my gut and into captivity within the flannel fabric. It didn't work. This was wrong-being with Michael, his involvement with the key, Isabel and Liz and Jesse and everything else. Incredibly, insufferably, irrevocably wrong. A deep, awful, primitive terror gripped all of me: ice like artic frost traced a line of fire down my spine, chilling everything in its path. My vision darkened to the point where I was literally bathing in darkness and the warning bells went off in my head screeching out until I fastened my hands over my ears to make it stop. It didn't help. It couldn't because the noise was coming from inside my mind, taunting me, reminding me of things that I wanted to forget. If only I could. If only.
Jesse's dead. Jesse's dead. Jes-se's de-ad. Michael could be next. Mich-ael-coul-d di-eeeee. Never let that happen. Nev-er. Ne-ver let that hap-pen. I breathed at this pace. I let out loud hisses as each thought ran through my mind in Buddhist chant formation. I repeated loudly, blocking out the whirr of the mantra behind my eyes, "Promise me you won't leave!"
"Maria," he repeated, this time barely more than a whisper. His face appeared gentler than normal and he kissed my hand. He stated, "I thought we agreed you were going to stop scaring me." I nodded and he went on, "Do you remember the day you attempted to teach me how to play miniature golf? You were hellbent on the two of us acting like a normal couple and decided that putt-putt golf was the answer to all our problems."
I refused to acknowledge the alarms going off inside of me, and I forced a small smile. I wanted to reply, "If only it were that simple" but decided to play along with him. I recalled the moment vividly as if it was still occurring and said, "You mean when you pulverized the bucket of golf balls because a six-year-old kicked your ass."
"He was cheating. I'm sure of it."
A laugh escaped from my lips. Michael's voice was inside my head, amused and tender, drowning out the venom that the Meddecchi and the dreams were inundating me with. It didn't really matter what Michael and I were talking about, only that he had said something of the normal variety. The sound of his voice was like rediscovering my own sanity.
For the first time since I had awoken, I noticed how haggard Michael appeared. I asked, "When was the last time you slept?"
He waved the question off and answered, "I think you need to eat and, when you feel up to it, I'll take you downstairs to fill the rest of us in on what happened. Liz offered what information she could remember, but she's been a wreck since you collapsed. She hasn't been making any sense. She wanted to sit with you, but Max didn't think it would be a good idea." His fingers instinctively drew small doodles along the top of my hand and arm as he added, "Kyle cooked what he refers to as the Valenti mystery omelet. I'll bring some up for you."
A gurgle in my stomach induced a guttural groan at the prospect of food. I had no appetite, no interest in anything of nutritional variety or sustenance in general for that matter. I replied, "I think I'd rather chew on my socks than eat anything that Kyle cooked, and I use that term loosely. Jim filled me in on some of Kyle's forays in the kitchen."
"I guess I could whip you up a sandwich?" Michael suggested with an almost evil glint in his eyes.
I immediately flashed on Michael in his kitchen while he prepared a turkey sandwich with "all the necessities"-Tabasco, lettuce, onions, and marshmallow. Revolting. I commented, "It's mighty brave of you to label one of your concoctions a sandwich."
"You've got to eat, Maria."
"You sound like my grandmother," I replied, shuddering at the image of Michael sporting a muumuu when it popped into my head. I added, "I'm not hungry."
"I don't care."
"What are you going to do? Force feed me."
"Don't think I won't."
"You haven't slept in days, have you?"
"Stop changing the subject."
"Says the master."
"Don't worry about me."
"But I do. The key is depleting your life force. It's going to kill you," I said matter-of-factly, recollecting the reason I had agreed to this stupid mission in the first place. Gram said that my friends would surely die, specifically that Michael would succumb to the power of the key, and I wasn't going to let that happen. No one else was going to die. This stupid craziness couldn't steal anyone else away from me. I reached out to touch the key, but Michael pushed my hand away. I frowned and said, "I can't lose you, Michael. Not like that."
"You won't lose me, Maria. I promise, okay? Now you need to make me a promise. Swear you'll stop scaring me like this. I'll go get you something to eat and while I do that you rest."
"I-I'm not-this is wrong," I responded, looking around the room as if I expected Isabel to jump out of the woodwork, grab Michael, and take him away from me.
"What does that mean?" he asked. When I didn't answer, he shook me gently, "Maria? Maria, stay with me."
"It's not me. It can't be, right? Otherwise, why am I still here?"
"Jesse saved your life."
His words didn't register properly, sounding like a radio station when you've driven out of range. I shook my head, overwhelmed by everything, worried about everyone. I suddenly had a great deal of respect for Max and all the things he used to deal with. "It's supposed to be me, but it's not. I got him killed, Michael. It's my fault," I replied. My words came out slowly and far apart, as if I had suffered from a stroke. I held onto Michael as tightly as I could and repeated more fervently, "It's my fault."
"It's not your fault, Maria. Do you hear me? It's not your fault."
He's lying. He knows it, you know it, and the others know it. You were too late, too slow. Jesse's dead and it's your fault, a voice taunted me from the depths of my subconscious.
I covered my face with my hands and tried to make the voice go away, seeking some sort of mental antidote that would help me compose myself before things spun further out of control. I wasn't sure when the tears stopped flowing or how Michael ended up kissing my forehead, but upon realization, I didn't do anything to stop it. In the same fashion that the sorrow took over, it washed away. I knew Michael was freaking out. His eyes were unable to conceal his worries that I was suffering from a psychotic breakdown, and I hugged him to me. I kissed his neck and whispered, "Don't worry. I'm going to fix this." I said it with a forced bravado, a confidence I didn't possess yet, hoping for some sort of sign from above that provided me with all the answers. A sage of sorts that set me on the correct path.
It wasn't supposed to be this way, I remembered. None of this should've happened. I shouldn't have been there. Thoughts jumbling together, guilt coursing through my veins, and dreams flittering away. I tightened grip around Michael's waist and thought of Jesse. During one of our long drives he had asked me what made me fall for Michael, when I knew it was real. I had scoffed at the idea, saying that I still didn't know if it was real and for him to keep his eyes on the road. Jesse had given me that look, that certifiably Jesse-look, and replied, "We are our choices, Maria. You love him. You chose to come with me, to help Michael. That's real. Our choices are real." Again I had scoffed at him. I had rolled my eyes and pretended his words didn't penetrate. Damn Jesse. Even in death, he was haunting me with his penchant for clichés.
"We are our choices, Maria."
Jesse's voice blended with Gram's. "Their fate is in your hands."
I let go of my hold on Michael and stared at him as if I had just seen someone walk on water. It wasn't the clarity I prayed for, but it was a start. I knew that I couldn't hide from destiny anymore. I had made a career of it, one of the few things I was skilled at, running in the opposite direction of anything that I deemed important in my life. I talked myself out of taking risks, of following my heart, and believing in fate because I was scared. Michael never let fear stop him. He did what he had to do to survive, damn the consequences until later. Jesse was the same way-following his heart, never backing down from a challenge, and trusting that I would help him. And, in that nanosecond of time, I knew. I knew that I couldn't afford to be scared any longer. Everyone, whether they knew it or not, was counting on me.
"We are our choices, Maria."
I made out a clear patch in my mind through the fog. There it was like the sunlight peaking through the dark clouds of a storm. A possibility. It was risky and it wouldn't be an easy thing, but there it was. My chance to make things right.
"Focus on getting better," Michael replied as he grabbed my shoulders, steadying me, but I didn't require steadying. There was something peculiar in his voice, something unnerving, a tone I had never heard from him before. Hysteria.
"I'm fine. Really-" I paused and there was a voice. A different one this time. Gone were the ominous words, replaced with what felt like sweet nothings whispered in my ear. I smiled against the sound in my head. With the same fervor that the foreboding of more death lingered around me, I felt an inexplicable optimism, not blindly, but assuredly, and knew that success was not unattainable. It would be a hard road and the ultimate end would be shaped out of every decision I made along the way, but if I believed, if I tried, really tried, I could do this. I could save Michael and the others and keep my promise to Jesse.
"You may yield it once everything is returned, but not before then. The key is the final piece of the puzzle. Add it too soon and the answer will be unattainable. You must trust that the answer is before you at all times."
Gram's words floated through my mind as I reached out to touch the key again, but before Michael could push my hand away, I stopped myself. I said, "The answer."
"What?"
"Everyone will be better off once you figure out what you want and why you want it. You're here with me, but it's like you're not really here, not completely, and maybe that's because your destiny lies elsewhere."
"Jesse said that I needed to figure out what I wanted. I've always known what I wanted, Michael, but something's always stopped me. I tried to blame it all on you, but it wasn't your doing. It's never been you. I mean, you chose me over going home and that still wasn't enough," I laughed mirthlessly, eliciting a strained smile from Michael, placating me, frightened that I was going to hurt myself. He feared that I planned to jump out the window and fly off into eternity. He looked into my eyes and saw the darkness too, but he couldn't comprehend what it meant. Not to me anyway.
It wasn't that I wanted to die. I wasn't carrying around a book of Sylvia Plath poems, dressing entirely in black, and writing songs about the horrors of living. I loved living. It was rarely effortless, especially without Michael there to hold me when the world got overwhelming, but I couldn't imagine not breathing, absorbing, feeling. No, I didn't want to die, but death was an inevitable part of life and something I was always acutely aware of, long before Alex died and I was confronted with my own fleeting mortality. And the answer was there. I felt it, I breathed it like oxygen. It was my sacrifice to make and it struck me how odd that seemed. As if death was a choice to be made, how funny to decide such things, like which movie to rent on a Friday night from the video store.
I smiled at Michael. A different smile than ever before, hoping to convey everything so he wouldn't be scared, and continued, "I know I hurt you when I did that. Every night since then, I've wondered why. Why did I push you away when you're the only real thing in my life? Now I know the answer."
"It doesn't matter," he said, unblinking, staring at me with unabashed suspicion and worry.
"This is my fight. Not yours."
"Your fights are my fights, Maria. Isn't that what you've always told me?"
I ran my hands through his hair, memorizing the texture of it, and said, "Why do you pick now to listen to me."
"I've always listened-even when I didn't like what you were saying, I listened," he paused and tugged on my hair gently. It garnered him the evil eye and he said, "Unless wrestling was on, of course."
I giggled, "Of course."
"So we're in this together."
"We can't be, Michael."
"I'm more stubborn than you, so let's see how long that lasts."
I groaned, pretending that I didn't love Michael for what he was saying, what it meant in regards to our relationship and in the big scheme of things. I wasn't sure who I was fooling so I motioned to the floral bedspread and attempted to change the subject, "How did you guys end up in this place?"
"Kyle helped this guy that was stranded on the road with his car. We asked if he knew of any cheap motels and he told Kyle to use his grandmother's place. She died a few months ago and he hadn't sold it yet."
I nodded with a small smile. My eyes darted around the room and I noticed the camper's bag Jesse and I had stumbled upon in the caverns. I had no idea how it had gotten here. Neither Jesse nor I had taken it with us, too caught up in the unfolding events regarding a fluttering eye in a bowl and then Gram, the hologram from hell. I stared at it for a second before instinct kicked in. I hopped up and emptied its contents on the comforter. The relic was not there, but everything else was as I remembered it from the caverns-it even landed in the same formation. The wind whipped in through the curtains and caused a piece of paper to dance around me. I snatched it out of the air and my eyes widened when I realized it was the same one from before. The Congo Chemicals invoice. I muttered, "Earl Monet. He's involved. I knew it."
"You should trust no one. They will be used against you before this journey is over."
"Who is Earl Monet? Is he the one that-"
"How did this bag get here?" I interrupted.
"What do you mean?"
"Where did this bag come from, Michael?"
"You had it with you."
"No, I didn't."
"Yeah, you did. Liz said she saw you drop it when you got here, before you rushed to Jesse's side."
"This isn't my bag."
"What?"
"Michael, I'm beginning to wonder about your stunted vocabulary," I replied, slowly piecing together a puzzle with a picture I wasn't particularly fond of.
"It has to be your bag. Why would Liz lie?"
It was the same question I was asking myself and none of the answers I was coming up with were very pleasing. My legs wobbled slightly and I wondered how I hadn't seen it sooner. I knew something was off. How had I not seen it sooner? "Oh God." I rummaged through the bag. I found a notebook that hadn't been in the bag when I was in the caverns and opened it up. It was her writing on the inside cover. Page after page after page of absolutely nothing except huge X's across the center. Until I flipped to the back of the spiraled book. On the back cover, casing the entire thing, was the drawing from my dream. The diagram with all the lines and the page before it had been ripped out, only a small corner of it was left with the words "Nasfarat medulica" written in the tiniest of scrawl and a partially scratched out sentence that appeared to say, "but the answer will be obvious to her. Must destroy her first."
I ran my fingers over the words, imprinting them to memory, and it struck me how absurd I must have seemed to Michael. It was funny to think that in that moment in time Michael was the normal one, the least likely target for catastrophic events. Who would've thought that I had such karma lurking inside me?
"Jesse would want you to rest," Michael said in a placating tone.
"Huh?" I replied, glancing at the words again. I said, "I made a promise to him, Michael. I can't let him down."
"It's a stupid book bag."
"No, it's not. This is-" I stopped and thought back to the caverns when I first found the bag. I had pulled out a torn off scrap of paper that discussed the history of the Nagi people and the Holy Trinity. The last part had been cut off-but what had it said? I mumbled under my breath, "Think McFly, Think!"
Then it hit me.
"Certain death to those that trespass that do not belong. Must find the chosen ones first. The answer is in the most unlikely of places, but-but the answer will be obvious to her. Must destroy her first."
The notebook slipped out of my hands and my eyes shot around the room cautiously, expectantly, and the clickety-clack started once again. I forced it aside, told myself that the pain didn't matter, channeling my inner sports guru and thinking, "No pain, no gain. No pain, no gain. No pain, no gain. Ouch. Definitely pain. Helluva lot of pain. There better be some damn gain soon." I heard voices. Not inside my head, but in the landing downstairs. I crept across to the door, cracking it open slightly, and peeked down. Max and Kyle were blocking Liz from the stairs, explaining that it was best to leave this part to Michael right now. Liz was determined to get up the stairs though and I knew it wouldn't be long.
I tried to ignore the way Michael was peering at me, as if I had to be handled, as if he was sent in to stall me until the men in white coats came to drag me away. I crept back over to the bed and paced the floor, "What am I going to do? How? How did they get to her?"
"We're not sure. The only thing we can think is that Isabel and Lonnie-"
"What?" I asked, my head snapping up and focusing on Michael. He started to respond, but I pointed at him and said, "That's right. Lonnie. She's the one who gave you the key."
"Yeah, but-"
"We've got to get out of here, Michael," I replied. The pounding in my head was getting harder to ignore, but I pushed past it and started opening drawers, tossing random slips and sweaters about.
"Maria, what's going on? Let me get Max."
"You can't. We can't trust him, Michael."
"Look. I know you're upset about Jesse and this thing with Isabel-"
"It wasn't Isabel."
"What?"
"It was her."
"You're not making sense, Maria."
"I can't explain this to you, Michael. Not yet. But I sure as hell can't leave you here with-I don't know what's going on. I don't know why this happened."
Michael pulled me away from the bureau and gripped my shoulders. He shook me gently and said, "You're not well, Maria."
"She wants you to think that."
"Who is she?"
I laughed bitterly and said, "Liz. It's her, but it's not her."
"Maria."
"I'm telling the truth."
"I know that you think it's the truth, but Liz would never hurt you."
"I never thought Isabel would shoot Jesse either," I snapped. Michael winced against the harshness of my words, but I refused to apologize or make light of what happened.
"Liz isn't the enemy."
"Stop talking at me like I'm paranoid."
"You've been through a lot. I understand why you would be suspicious of everyone."
"I'm not making this up!" I stared at him, longing to know how to convey every emotion swallowing me up. I took a deep, fortifying breath and said, "You don't have to believe me yet, but try to trust me. Something's going on, Michael. First Isabel and now Liz. Something happened to them in those caverns. There's a reason that Lonnie gave you that key. I need to think. But not here. We're not safe."
"How do you know you can trust me?"
"You should trust no one. They will be used against you before this journey is over."
"I don't," I answered simply. I reached up on my tip-toes and kissed his lips briefly. It was one of those incredibly cheesy moments where our eyes met and I felt nothing but love for him. "But I have to believe in someone and I've invested over five years in you, pal."
Michael nodded. He didn't say anything and his face was unreadable. He probably had no idea what to say. Instead he nodded and started going through the closet. He called over his shoulder, "What are we looking for exactly?"
"The relic."
"What's the relic?"
"I had it with me when I came," I replied. Panic set in. What if she had gotten her hands on it? Did she know what it was? Or was Michael right and I was paranoid? Was I creating a bigger threat, looking for ways to isolate myself from my friends? But there was the notebook and the bag that she had lied about and the secret handshake that she didn't remember back in the cavernsand Isabel's zombie look. Was Isabel under some sort of mind control? All these questions ran through my mind and the only thing I was certain of was that Michael and I had to find the relic and get out of there.
"Gram?" I called out.
"Who the hell is Gram, Maria?" Michael stopped searching the closet and looked around the room, "Is he here with you now?"
I laughed through the heat behind my eyes. This further befuddled Michael who glanced at the door nervously, as if he had to call for backup to restrain me. I said, "No, Michael. I'm not completely nutters yet." I took a deep breath. I couldn't feel my body, but I knew it was there. I said almost inaudibly, "Don't hate me for dragging you into this."
"I couldn't if I tried, Maria, and believe me, I've tried."
"I know. Me too."
"Maria."
I loved how he said my name, so simple and undaunted, and I always had. It could reduce me to a puddle of goo, infuriate me, and make me feel infinite. In that moment, I could face anything, confront whatever awaited me outside that door because my clothes smelled of Michael and the sound of my name on his lips was pressed into the spindles of my memory. It was odd to say, but Michael's presence calmed me. I never thought it was possible, seeing as no one incensed me in quite the manner that he could, but I was at peace with my task.
The if you build it, they will come idea popped into my head. I figured it was worth a shot and the quicker we got away from Liz, the safer we would be. I closed my eyes and snapped my fingers. The relic, which had been resting on the opposite bureau on the other side of the room, flew through the air and landed on the bed quietly. I ran over to it and picked up it. I stuck it inside the elastic waist of my pants and called out again, "Gram?"
A pop sounded out and Gram appeared, floating next to me on the bed, and said, "Feeling better, master?"
I groaned and said, "I've been better."
Gram glanced at Michael whose mouth appeared to be stuck in the open position and said, "I see you have retrieved the key."
"Yes."
"He is an odd creature. Not of this earth."
"Yeah, he's a strange one."
"Hey-"
I held up my hand and said, "But it's not because he's not of this earth."
"What's going on?" Michael asked. He rubbed his eyes as if he expected Gram to disappear and then he glared at me as if I had put some sort of hex on him. When I didn't say anything, he repeated in a cross manner, "What's going on?"
"Who are you? Marvin Gaye?" I countered. I pointed to Gram and said, "This is Gram. Jesse and I found him in the caverns. He grows on you, like fungus."
"Lucky you," Michael replied.
Gram looked at the two of us and said, "You cannot use the key yet, master. It is the third and final piece. If you were to add it now it would be cataclysmic."
"And what about his health?"
"It's depleting. He will be dead by tomorrow night if this is not resolved. But you know that," Gram said impassively. He floated across the room and stopped in front of Michael, studying him carefully before saying, "He knows that too."
"You'll have to excuse Gram. He's rather fond of hyperbole."
"You know I am not, Master. If the Meddecchi is the first to gather the pieces, he will die and the Gantuk will rise."
"After this is over, I'm enrolling you in an optimism seminar, Gram" I replied, stepping between Gram and Michael. I took Michael's hand in my own and said, "We need to get out of here."
"You are still quite ill, master," Gram stated with indifference. "To carry this load will harm you."
"Michael comes or I don't go at all."
He motioned to Michael and said, "It is most likely too late for him, Master. The energy of the key is already embedded into his system, suffocating his organs. It would be best to leave him."
"No."
"The Meddecchi has attacked you through the amulet once already. In a weakened state, I cannot guarantee you'll live."
"Splendid," I said.
Michael squeezed my hand and asked, "Does he ever have anything nice to say?"
"Well, I can't be sure, but I think he remarked on how nice your ass looked in those jeans when we arrived," I commented.
Michael's mouth dropped slightly and Gram looked downright offended. "I am a messenger of time. I do not involve myself in such trivial things."
I shrugged, "Right. That was my thought. My bad." I heard Liz's voice over the others and a clatter of feet on the stairs. I said, "She knows. Gram now."
"Master, I implore you to reconsider."
"We have to leave."
"And go where?"
I glanced at Michael who was staring at me expectantly, as if he was simply there to blow things up if they got too close to me and to keep me from mental psychosis. I answered, "To Volondra." I nudged Michael in the side as Gram snapped his fingers and I mumbled, "Forgive me for this." I closed my eyes and summoned up all the energy I could muster. My heart exploded beneath my skin, sending shivers and shakes coursing through my nervous system, and my head pounded. No longer a clickety-clack, but the droning clang sound of a large church bell.
The rainbow of colors from before whirled in through the open window and encircled the three of us. I tightened my hold on Michael's hand and shouted through the windy racket, "Don't let go. No matter what."
"I don't plan to," I heard him shout out to me.
We landed on a deserted street, which seemed odd considering it was still daylight. The wind howled around us and my head was numb. The pounding had stopped, but there was something else, something strange, like a fish swimming through my brain. I was suddenly exhausted. I held onto the relic and Michael's hand. He was muttering obscenities under his breath so I knew he was okay.
Relief washed over me, but was quickly replaced with exhaustion. I could barely keep my eyes open. I was vaguely aware that we were still in the street and that a car could hit us, but I couldn't move.
I felt a foot dig into my leg and I thought it was Michael at first until I realized I was still holding his hand. I gathered all my energy and propped myself up. I squinted upward, but the person's face was blocked by the sunlight.
Michael jumped up and it was when she replied, that I knew who it was. She said, "I've been expecting you for awhile, Maria, though I didn't anticipate this loser accompanying you."
"Lonnie," I squeaked out before my arms gave out and I fell back onto the black concrete. Michael called out my name and I remembered thinking that this was becoming habit for the two of us before passing out.
(to be continued...) - coming soon