Content Warning: description/discussion of medical procedures, description/depiction of animal death
The winter wind whipped through the canyons of Manhattan as Talia Nguyen emerged from the subway station. She paused for a moment to consult her phone's map, then sped down the sidewalk, powerwalking as fast as she could.
Of course the bus had been late. Of course, today, the one day she could afford to take off from work, the one day she didn't have a deadline bearing down on her, the Greyhound had been delayed for a whole hour. She'd almost bitten the bullet and gone home, tried to drive down into the city, lack of parking be damned, but her old Civic was still making that odd noise whenever she went above sixty, and the last thing she needed was to end up stranded on the side of the road somewhere.
Three more hours and a couple subway transfers later, and she'd finally been spat out into the throngs of urbanites, left to bob and weave through the crowds, her purse slung over her shoulder. At least she'd gotten a chance to do a bit of work on the ride down from RISD: midterms were fast approaching, and while her thesis advisor was still breathing down her neck asking for an update, she could wait another day or two. Right now, she had other priorities.
Her phone buzzed, the chipper notes of her ringtone blending with the sounds of muffled conversations and distant sirens.
"Hey, Mom!" she said, pulling her scarf down.
"Where are you?" her mother asked, her voice tinged with concern.
"I'm almost there," Talia replied, trying to reassure her, before switching to Viet. "The bus was late and I didn't have any service in the subway. I can see the hospital now."
"Good. Do you have her gift?"
"Yeah, I've got it right here," she said, readjusting her oversized purse on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I didn't forget."
"Please tell her we're praying for her."
"I will," she said as she stepped through the hospital's double doors, a blast of warm air enveloping her. "And I'll call her parents afterwards, too. Is her Mom doing okay?"
"She's being very strong… but I'm worried she hasn't been eating enough. I just brought them some cahn chua the other week, should I make some more?"
"That might be a good idea." A balding man caught her eye, scowling at her as she passed, and she quickly switched back to English. "Alright, I gotta go check in. Love you, Mom!"
"Be safe, honey."
"I will."
From there it's a procession of desks and elevators, of spelling her name, first and last, until she was walking down the long sterile corridor, her boots clunking against the dingey tile. She paused in front of the open door, steeling herself as she took a deep breath.
She can still hear you, she thought, her therapist's mantra immediately springing to mind. She still knows you're there.
Even with all her preparations, it's still a shock to her system each time she sees her, like ice water poured down her spine. Wires and monitors, the sound of her heart, digitized. The bump under scratchy hospital blankets where one of her legs was still casted, immobilized. The long, crescent scar curling above her ear, a deep furrow cut through a field of shorn hair that was just starting to re-grow.
Lee.
Tears pricked at Talia's eyes as she took a shaky breath, putting on a smile.
"Hey, girl!" she said, her voice chipper as she strode into the room. "Look at you, not on oxygen anymore, breathing room air like a badass!" She plopped down on her usual chair, setting her bag on her lap. "Can you smell it?" She sniffed. "Mmm, floor cleaner and latex, dee-licious!"
Her best friend said nothing, taking low, hissing breaths through her tracheostomy tube.
"And you got your last arm cast off, finally!" Talia said, pointing to the sunken scar on her forearm. "I asked if they would let you keep it for when you woke up, so you could see everyone's signatures, but they said no. Something about 'biohazards,' I dunno." She shrugged. "You're the smart one, so you'd know better whether or not they were just bullshitting me."
When she'd first heard about the accident, she'd been in the middle of the grocery store, trying to decide which kind of chips to bring to a house party. Minutes later, she'd been sprinting to her car, then screaming down the highway, then sobbing as the nurse told her that it was bad, that she'd coded but they'd brought her back. When Lee's parents finally arrived, her mother had collapsed in her arms, wailing at the sight of her baby girl lying there, so broken and bruised that she barely recognized her. Her father had tried to be stoic, choking back tears as he talked to every doctor, every nurse, every technician, needing to know that yes, it was touch and go, but yes, they were doing everything they could.
Seven cracked ribs. Five fractured vertebrae. A femur that had been broken in half, arms that both needed casts. She'd needed three transfusions after they cut her open, trying to stop the blood pouring from her spleen, the blood pooling in her chest, threatening to crush her lungs. Her craniotomy had gone well, but the procedure to stabilize her spine had been more complicated than they'd anticipated, meriting a fourth transfusion. The surgeons had said they'd done their best, but still cautioned them that there was only a fifty-fifty chance she'd be able to walk normally again. She'd need physical therapy, lots of it, need to re-learn how to balance, how to stand, how to move.
But she was healing. Miracle of miracles, she'd survived, and now her body was trying to repair itself, to put things back to the way they should be. It could've been wishful thinking on Talia's part, but she could've sworn she'd seen a spark of hope in their eyes, a tiny scrap of tempered optimism half-hidden behind their glasses.
The neurologists, in contrast, had only gotten more baffled as days stretched into weeks, then into months. They'd been the ones to put her under, to pump her full of propofol and thiopental, saying they were worried about the swelling, about possible brain damage. But when they couldn't bring her back afterwards, when the anesthetist had tried everything, and she was still unresponsive… that's when the fear had really set in. She wasn't brain dead, they knew that much: over the weeks they'd been assessing her, the lesions they'd detected were healing gradually but steadily, the swelling around her brain stem had gone down significantly, and there were no key areas where the blood flow had stopped entirely. According to them, similar cases they'd seen would be at least vegetative, if not in a state of reduced consciousness by now, but her eyes had remained closed, her Glasgow score refusing to budge above a six.
Why wasn't she waking up?
"Anyway, little update for you from 'New York's finest,'" Talia said, making air quotes, "they still haven't found the guy. I was talking to the detective the other day, and they think he might've fled the country, or gone into hiding… which wouldn't have happened if they had hurried up and found the car in the first place! You'd think a lime green Maserati with a person-sized dent in the front bumper would be easy to track down, but noooo, they had to 'follow procedure.'" She scoffed. "Speaking of which, his Dad sent you flowers again, but don't worry, I threw them out. If he was really sorry, he'd find his idiot son and turn him in, not spend his Wall Street blood money on roses for you…" She shook her head. "As soon as you wake up, we're hiring the best lawyer in the city and suing the hell out of him. No more vacations to Bora Bora for you, asshole!"
Peaks and valleys scrolled across Lee's heart monitor, her pulse a steady sixty-eight beats per minute.
"On to better news!" she said, her voice a bit shaky. "Matt finally got his learner's permit! Dad's not super stoked about it, given how much it's gonna cost to add him onto their insurance, but Mom thinks this'll be good for him, give him some more independence." She grinned. "And it means she won't need to shuttle Mikey and Luke to and from baseball practice every week." A small laugh escaped her. "Mikey's convinced they're going to go to States this year, and for once, I actually agree with him. They've been putting in good work… or as much work as rambunctious ten-year-old boys can manage."
"In terms of everyone else…" she continued, "we'll get the icky stuff out of the way first: Claudio and Newo broke up, again, and I think it's for good this time. Between you and me, I think that's a good thing, they're just better as separate entities, not as a couple… especially given how obsessed they get with each other. He told me he's gonna renovate his uncle's old camper van, travel the country for a while, try to do the whole 'digital nomad' thing. Newo's already moved on, dating some German guy she met at a rave, so that means we probably won't hear from her until they either get engaged or break up… you know how she is."
Talia smiled. "Amaya and I are still going strong, though! She said she's sorry she couldn't come with me this time, but she's working on a massive project right now, so she's swamped." She shifted in her seat. "I was actually… thinking about bringing her home for Tet next year, if Mom and Dad are okay with it." She put her hands up. "I know, I know, I'm crazy, but Mom's actually been doing a lot better. In fact…" she wiggled a bit in her chair, unable to contain her excitement, "she actually called her my girlfriend last week! Not 'roommate,' not 'friend,' girlfriend!" She beamed. "As soon as they meet her, I know they're gonna love her, I just know it."
She shook her head. "Enough about me, though. What else has been going on, what else… uh… Jessica's sister got her braces off," she started, counting on her fingers, "Alex got that big promotion they wanted, the one I was telling you about last time, and… uh… oh! Manuel's band might be getting signed! Their EP's doing really well, and apparently there are some record labels sniffing around. I know he wanted to stay indie, at least for a while, but I think his bandmates might out-vote him. I know that Liza at least is tired of having to eat ramen noodles for dinner every night, haha! And—"
She stopped short as the intercom crackled to life.
"Code Blue," a woman's voice repeats, calm, measured. "Code Blue. Room thirty-three oh nine. Code Blue."
Talia held her breath as nurses sprinted past the open door, the wheels of the crash cart squeaking and squealing as they rushed down the hall. Only when their footsteps had faded entirely did she exhale, shaking out the tension in her shoulders.
She'd been there during New Years, when they'd almost lost her. She'd been sitting beside her, in the very same chair, a ridiculous party hat on her head as she counted down to midnight, watching the ball drop on the TV. She'd sprinkled paper confetti over her hospital bed, sung Auld Lang Syne with Lee's mom, then tried not to laugh as Lee's dad tried his hand at Sinatra's 'New York, New York," tone-deaf as ever. Halfway through the chorus, her heart rate had started to climb. Lee's parents had been excited, to start with; any change from baseline was a good sign, a sign she might be in there, might be trying to wake up. But then it kept climbing, and kept climbing: eighty, a hundred, one twenty… until it dropped like a stone.
The rest of the night was a blur. Alarms. Nurses, doctors. Being pushed out into the hall as her best friend seized, convulsing, the most life they'd seen from her in weeks. Holding her mother, the tears, the prayers…
She shook herself out of it. That was then, this was now. Lee was still here. They'd managed to stabilize her, bring her back to normal. She could still hear her. She was still in there.
She had to be.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Talia said, trying to keep her tone light as she rummaged around in her purse. "Mom sent you a rosary." She pulled it out, running her fingers over the wooden beads out of habit. "I know you're not sure if you believe in this stuff," she said as she stood, hanging it from a hook beside her saline drip, "but she went to the trouble of getting it blessed for you, so I guess it can't hurt." Her thumb brushed over the delicately painted portrait of Our Lady of La Vang. "She also wanted me to tell you they're praying for you…"
Her gaze drifted over her face, over the feeding tube taped to her cheek, over her dry lips, over those eyes that were once so vibrant and full of life, now quiet and shut.
"I've been praying, too…" She sat down. "To anyone, to everyone I think might be able to help. Spells, candles, chants… even Saint Raphael heard from me for the first time in years." A bit of a waver crept into her voice. "I've been too scared to do a Tarot reading for you… but I'm running out of options. It's not that I don't trust the doctors, it's just…"
She reached out, taking her hand in hers.
"Something is wrong. Something beyond medicine, beyond science. I know it, I can feel it." She shook her head. "I know that if you could, you'd be back by now, back with us. But something's keeping you away, keeping you stuck wherever you are now, and I… I…"
The image of her best friend blurred as tears clouded her vision.
"I miss you," she choked out. "We've always been together, Lee and Tee, just the two of us. I can't… I can't do this without you. I can't get my Masters, get married, finally go travel without you. And I know if…" she sniffled as tears streamed down her face, "I know if you don't… get b-better… you'd still be there but… it wouldn't be the same, 'cause you'd be really h-hard to hug." She let out a bitter laugh. "And you know how much I love your hugs…"
She laced her fingers between her limp ones, giving her hand a squeeze.
"So please, Lee," she said, her voice thin, strained. "Please, for me…"
The air was still, the whir and beep of machines her only companions.
"Please try to wake up."
Tap-tap-taptaptap, tap-tap…
Alastor drummed the end of his fountain pen against the desk, picking out a rhythm as his eyes roved over the half-written letter. Beside him, an antique clock acted as a metronome, it's hands steadily marching round as they crept past two.
His mind had always come alive at night. As a boy, staring up at the slanted ceiling of the one room shack he'd called home, it had inspired tales of terror, of rougarous, and fifolés, and other stories designed to keep curious children safely tucked in their beds. As he grew, however, and came to know the world's true monsters, the ones that walked in the daylight, wearing shiny shoes and haughty sneers, he'd come to see the utility of the dark, the opportunities afforded by a world that lay sleeping, defenseless against those who used the shadows to hide their tracks. By the time he was a young man, he'd felt as at home under the stars as he had all those years ago, hugging his mother's sleeping form, buried under blankets, safe from beasts both real and imagined.
He was shaken from his reverie when a lightning bug landed on the paper, its gentle glow illuminating a glaring mistake he'd somehow missed. Clearly, a lively mind did not necessarily mean a focused mind. The insect fled as he'd crumpled the page into a ball, then incinerated it with a flick of his wrist. He let out a static-laced sigh as he swept the ashes into the waste basket, watching idly as they fell like snowflakes into the bin below.
White sheets blanketing the ground of the deep, dark woods. Heavy breaths, gasps and whimpers as she struggled, as they turned round and round, until she was pinned beneath him. The scent of spice in the air, of vanilla and jasmine. The nimble beat of her heart, pattering away as those wide eyes stared upwards, full of trepidation, of unsaid pleas for mercy—
His fist hit the desk as he banished the memory, shocking the frog calls and cricket songs of his hideaway into temporary silence. In their place came the muffled noises of the city far below him, the sounds of arguments, car horns, and the occasional distant gunshot.
When he'd initially decided to join in on dear Charlie's little activity, he hadn't expected to find himself so enthused, so enthralled by the scenario she'd devised. The instant he snatched that flag from Vagatha's hand, however, a narrative had unfolded in mind, blooming like irises in the springtime. All at once, he was no longer Alastor the Radio Demon, but Alastor the honorable Colonel, Pride of the Red Army, defending his homeland from the barbarous hordes of the Blue Team. Likewise, his teammates were no longer vagrants and foundlings, but instead a ragtag group of draftees, set to be whipped into shape under his tutelage. In his head, their game no was no longer a game, but a battle, a bloody war that had been raging for decades, ripping sons from their mothers and pitting brother against brother. And he had intended to play his part perfectly, to fight onward, down to the last man, until they reached the only possible outcome: victory.
When the Princess had thrown a snag in his plans by snatching away his would-be Logistics Officer, he'd had to improvise, of course, but he'd had decades worth of practice in thinking on his toes. Even in his darling girl's absence, he'd been determined to rally his troops, to lead them across the battlefield and storm the enemy gates, to see their story to the end. And once they'd basked in the glory of their supremacy, the real show would begin. He had been so looking forward to watching his teammates squabble, argue over what they should choose as a reward, so excited to watch the Princess' ill-fated attempts at fostering camaraderie end in disastrous failure. He'd carefully chosen his troops for this exact purpose, selecting both the physically capable and the exceedingly cantankerous, so that when the time came, he wouldn't have to lift a finger. He could instead just sit back and watch, a warm cup of coffee in his hand, as they devolved, as they debased themselves, throwing insults and fists, until an all-out brawl consumed the courtyard.
It would have been glorious.
And then, that blond rube had ruined everything.
He'd been having so much fun watching his business partner as she crept through the woods, trying her hand at spy craft, her position given away by the snap of twigs and the siren song of her heart, that he hadn't even noticed when Amon hadn't mustered with the other soldiers. When he'd dismissed his regiment to follow her, keen on getting the drop on her, he'd been shocked to find that he was already there, his arm raised with weapon in hand. Something unpleasant had twisted in his gut as he'd observed them, as she begged that wretch to spare her, and he'd felt he needed to intervene, to take control of the situation before it slipped through his fingers. Only instead of folding, like he'd predicted, instead of giving in to his demands, the traitor had struck him instead!
His antlers creaked and grew as his skin flashed hot. If it hadn't been for Lucifer's decree, he would have killed that spurious gnat ten times over, smote him where he stood, erased him, even, had he had the time to conjure the materials. Alas, he was bound by the Devil's orders, so he'd gathered all his self-control and simply thrown him away, out of sight and out of mind. He'd initially been tempted to follow him, to track him down and exact his vengeance elsewhere; after all, the King had never said anything about any consequences should a resident of the Hotel meet their doom outside its walls. But then, he'd heard it: that sweet, melodic voice, pleading for that unworthy fish man to run, to flee with her.
It wasn't often that he enjoyed the chase, that he got any thrill from a pursuit, but there had been something about the way she moved, about the sound of her cries that had made his blood run hot. All at once, his darker side had sprung to the fore, spurring him to run after her, to terrorize and tease her in equal measure. He had acted on instinct, tracking her like the quarry she was, his mouth watering at the thought of the ichor in her veins, now well-seasoned with adrenaline. And then, just as she'd found her second wind, just when she thought she might be able to escape him, he'd scooped her up in his arms, all soft flesh and wriggling limbs, delicious and ripe—
A bit of a growl bubbled up from his chest, and he shook his head, trying to maintain his composure.
He had gone too far; he knew that for certain now. That night, when he'd come to draw blood from her, to fulfill their bargain, she'd been unusually quiet, her eyes fixed on the ground, her nimble fingers worrying the hem of her sweater. At first, he'd attributed her spicy, fearful scent to Dr. Silva's absence: the good doctor was still holed up at the clinic, trying in vain to treat the legions of injured and frostbitten imps that had fallen victim to the storm. But when she continued to shy away from his touch, when she flinched at every unexpected sound, he'd come to the grim conclusion that he, alone, was the source of her unease.
The realization had been… unusual, and had come with an unfamiliar, sick feeling in the depths of his stomach, as though he'd eaten something that had gone sour. To alleviate his discomfort, he'd taken a portion of her donation, pilfered a spoonful as was his right, hoping it would heal whatever odd ailment had befallen him. He hadn't been sure if just one would do the trick, however, now that distribution had begun in earnest; Rosie had clearly been working overtime, and her blood was likely in the hands of dozens of demons by now. To his surprise, however, it had been just as invigorating as the first time he'd tasted it, rich and smooth and crackling with a power that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Fearing his judgement had been clouded, he'd summoned Rosie's appraiser, who came to the same conclusion: somehow, some way, she was still producing virgin blood.
His shock had quickly given way to delight. Clearly, this was some side-effect of his sweetheart's split soul, of her Bridged nature. So long as her true body on Earth remained untainted by dark magic, her manifested body would continue producing blood that was unsullied, pure and clean. He'd immediately phoned Rosie, informing her of the good news, then retreated to his quarters to give the proper thanks and libations to the Ancestors, to the spirits who had carefully placed this unexpected blessing in his path. Then, and only then, did he indulge, celebrating with another spoonful, another cigarette, his favorite films, and a bottle of bourbon.
His celebration had been short-lived, however. In the days since their encounter in the woods, she'd continued to shun him, to speak only when spoken to, her voice low and her eyes fixed to the ground. Instead of spending time with him, she'd been throwing herself into her work, sweeping and dusting and vacuuming with the vigor of a woman possessed, putting even dear Niffty to shame. Whenever she wasn't cleaning, she was stuck fast to that rams-horned dullard, sitting beside him at meals, discussing music he'd never heard of and films he'd never seen. He'd initially thought she had simply needed more time, that her apprehension would fade naturally, once she realized how much she needed him, once she realized how much he… how important their alliance was. As one day turned to two, then three, however, that sick, vexing feeling that had been clawing at the inside of his skull had gone into overdrive. Surely, he hadn't scared her that much! Surely, truly, she didn't think that he, of all people, would actually hurt her!
It was clear that he needed to clarify things with her, to correct her misinformed thinking before the situation devolved any further. So, he'd sprang into action: he'd already rush ordered twenty-five pink roses, one for each day since their deal had been struck, and while sweets weren't his forte, there was a bakery that Mimzy spoke highly of that would be opening in just a few hours' time. As for gifts, a record player would fit perfectly in the corner of her new accommodations; he'd already sent a few scouts out to find a quality model, as well as scour the city's few remaining records stores for songs by this 'Queen' person she was so enthralled with.
The coup de grâce of his charm offensive, however, had to be a letter. He knew by now that she valued the personal more than the material, that she placed sentiment, real or imagined, above any baubles he could provide her. If he were to mend this rift between them, he would need to be precise, to choose his words carefully.
Carefully easing the zipper of her jacket down, unwinding her scarf to expose the column of her neck, the alluring pulse of her carotid. Shivering sighs and little pleas as his mouth dipped down, brushing against her fever-hot skin, the salt of her sweat on his tongue as he found his mark, as his teeth sank into her flesh—
His grip on the fountain pen tightened until it shattered in his gloved hand, spilling red ink all over the desk.
"Merde!" he swore as he pulled a handkerchief, then another, out of storage, summoning them from his storehouse back at the château. His face burned as he mopped up the ink, as he crumpled the pieces of soiled paper, dropping them into the wastebasket. Now was not the time to dwell on fantasy, he chided himself. As delightful as the prospect of drinking straight from the source was, she would never even dream of granting him such liberties if he didn't repair their alliance, if he didn't fix what he had inadvertently injured. He just needed to find the words to express himself, he just needed to stay focused long enough to—
He felt her before he heard her, felt the subtle tug at the edges of his perception as the gris-gris he'd given her passed through the wards guarding the door to her bedroom. There were a few beats of stillness, then a similar sensation, a ripple as the door to the hallway swung open, as the spells he'd layered there picked up on the presence of something foreign. He quickly sent a signal back, reaching out with his intention, ensuring that the guardians he'd stationed there knew that this unexpected visitor was a friend, not a foe. When the creak of the first stair reached his ears, he busied himself in ensuring the tower was presentable: perfuming the air with the scent of fresh linen, replacing the throw pillows on his bench with ones that were a bit less dusty. A snap, and his ink-splattered suit was sent off for cleaning, his outfit replaced by a more casual button up and slacks. A frantic energy hummed between his temples as he put the finishing touches on his desk, clearing it of clutter. Why was she up at this hour? What did she need?
He took a deep breath as the trapdoor to his studio swung open, as her steps grew louder, and plastered on a smile.
"Ah, sweetheart!" he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "To what do I owe the pl—"
The words died in his mouth as he turned towards her, twisting in his seat.
Upset. Something had upset his darling girl. It was clear from the hunch of her shoulders, the tremble of her hands as she toyed with the hem of her pajama shirt that she was bothered by something… or someone. She looked around, bewildered, taking in the sights of his studio—was it tidy enough, did she like it?—before her eyes fell on him at last.
"H-hi, Alastor." There was that tell-tale stutter, that waver in her voice, as if the act of speaking itself was causing her pain. "Do you," a sniffle, "do y-you have any more of that… sleeping tea stuff?"
His smile shrank, almost falling entirely before he composed himself. "Of course, my dear," he said, careful to keep his tone soft, his own words measured. A snap of his fingers, and a mugful from his storage room appeared in his hand. Drawing from the well of energy inside him, he poured heat into the mug, warming it to the temperature he knew she favored, then set it down on the desk. "Come, come sit."
Her eyes widened as she hesitated, taking a small step back. After a beat, however, she shuffled forward, her bare feet padding against the floor, the swish of her flannel pajama pants accompanying her steps. Her gaze darted from the potion, to him, then back again, before she sat at the very edge of the bench, as far away as she could manage. The sleeping draught rippled and shook in her hands as she brought the mug to her mouth, blowing whisps of steam away with a frantic, anxious breath, then drunk deeply, draining half the cup in one go. She set it down with a clatter, then grabbed one of his throw pillows, hugging it against her. Her scent was melancholy, like fresh-turned earth on a grave.
"Could you not sleep, sweetheart?" he asked, probing carefully, trying to suss out just what had rattled her so.
She shook her head 'no' as she squeezed the pillow tight, rocking a bit in her seat.
"I see," he murmured. "Tell—" he stopped short, correcting himself. "Would you like to… discuss it, perhaps?"
She said nothing in return, an impoliteness he supposed he could overlook, given the circumstances. He pretended to reach into his pocket, summoning a coin from his personal coffers.
"Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart?" he asked as he slid a shiny hay penny across the desk towards her.
Still nothing. Not even a hint of a smile. Her quivering lips—so easy to bruise, so tempting to bite—stayed stubbornly curled downwards as she stared at the penny, then glanced up at him, her brows furrowing.
He sighed. "Lee. Darling. There is clearly something going on in that pretty little head of yours."
It could've been his imagination, but he almost swore her heartbeat quickened just a hair. At last, she spoke.
"I had a dream," she said, her gaze dropping to the floor once more.
"A dream?" he asked, a ripple of genuine surprise filtering through him. "And here I thought Lucifer said you couldn't dream down here!"
She shook her head. "Not like a," she said, her words coming a bit easier now, "like a dream dream, more like a… a memory." She sniffled, and he summoned another handkerchief, careful to keep his movements slow as he offered it to her. "Thanks," she muttered.
"Of course, ma belle," he murmured, the term slipping out unbidden.
She spared another glance at him as she took a deep breath.
"It was…" she started, "it was like the ones I've had before, almost, where it was all dark and nothing everywhere. But this time… this time it was different." Her voice wavered and cracked. "My best friend was there, Talia was there, close, like she was in the dark there with me, and I… I d-didn't have a hand, but I could still feelher holding mine." A tear rolled down her cheek. "She was telling me she m-m-missed me. She was telling me that she needed me, that she wanted me to w-wake up."
Her watery eyes met his.
"But what if I can't?" Her words came in a soft, strained whisper. "What if I—" a sob broke through as more tears gathered against her lashes, "what if I'm stuck down here, forever?"
Once, when he was very young, perhaps only six or seven, he had come across a fallen bird's nest. Around the nest, three bodies lay lifeless on the hard-packed dirt, ants crawling over them in orderly lines as they picked them apart. Inside the nest, however, one of the birds had miraculously survived. It was a tiny thing, not even a fledgling, it's eyes still closed, it's veins visible through its thin skin as it cried out to him. He wasn't sure why the memory came to him now as he took in the sight of her, tearful and hunched, a pillow clutched against her chest like a shield, but it was there, in his mind's eye, clear as day.
He cleared his throat, collecting himself.
"The Fates are fickle creatures, my darling," he began, "twisting and weaving our tales, tying knots when we wish they wouldn't, cutting strings too short. But they are not the be all and end all. We can still shift our fates, if not change them entirely. We still have some choices to make, even if they aren't necessarily ones we'd like to make." He shook his head. "I will not attempt to give you false hope, nor claim that your hand is in fact better than the one you've been dealt. But it is still your hand to play, dearest. And in my heart, knowing how witty, how infuriatingly stubborn you can be, I have no doubt you'll play it well."
A bitter laugh, unexpected enough to make him jump, leapt from her mouth as she fixed him with a mournful glare.
"You don't even have a heart…"
Something twisted in his chest as her words, something so shocking and deep that it almost hurt.
Oh no, that would not do at all.
He gave her a moment, waited a beat for her to apologize, to retract her accusation. When no such retraction came, he took her hand, snatching it away from the pillow.
"Hey!" she yelped. Her eyes were wide, and her voice, while indignant, still wavered as a plume of spices reached his nose. "Let me go, what are you—?!"
"Correcting you."
The warmth from her palm was strange as he pressed it against his chest, even through his undershirt and button-up. An odd shiver wracked his body as he breathed deeply, adjusting to the sensation of another being so close, to the abruptness of an unexpected touch. After a few moments, he shifted his focus to her, to analyzing the lovely reactions that flitted across her face: shockfearsadshockfearembarrassedshock.
"Can you feel it?" he murmured as he reached into the well of power at his core, amplifying his pulse, sending it through her fingers.
She stared at him, her mouth agape as her own heartbeat quickened, galloping in her chest as the scent of her fear shifted to that of shy summer blooms, to roses and lavender and the barest whisper of unexpected vanilla.
He didn't resist as she snatched her hand back, letting her go without any fuss.
"Okay, okay, I get it," she muttered, her voice still a bit tight as her gaze fell to the floor. "You do have like, an actual, physical heart… point made, asshole..."
He couldn't help but smirk at her vulgarity. "And," he added, "the fact that I permit you to call me an 'asshole' and live should also show you that I've grown fond enough of you to allow you certain liberties."
Such as touching you, something inside him whispered.
He pushed the thought away. "You mustn't give in to despair, though, darling. The King of Hell himself gave his assurances that your safe return to the land of the living is, if improbable, still possible, and as we speak, dear Rosie is no doubt scouring every nook and cranny of Hell for information to aid you in that quest. And in the meantime, so long as you uphold your end of our bargain, I shall make every singular effort to protect you from harm."
He took a deep breath as he steeled himself. Best to get this unpleasantness out of the way now, while she was actually speaking to him, for once.
"And speaking of protecting you," he said, "I believe I owe you an… apology."
She looked up at him, utterly bewildered.
He cleared his throat, internally befuddled by the sudden tightness in his chest. "My behavior during our game was… less than gentlemanly, and I'm afraid in my enthusiasm to win, I let myself get carried away. It was not my intention to frighten you so severely, nor to cause you any discomfort… but I clearly caused you harm, and for that, I am sorry."
There was a beat of silence as she looked at him, almost studying him, as if trying to find any hint of deception, of insincerity.
"…okay," she said finally.
A deluge of relief flooded through him at her acceptance. By some miracle, he hadn't broken her entirely. What they had could still be mended. He made a mental note to give proper thanks for this unexpected boon later, but for now, he simply extended a gloved hand.
"And for the record," he said softly, "it's perfectly alright if you are not… 'okay,' as you claim."
She placed her hand in his, her fingers wrapping around as she gave a single squeeze, a silent 'yes.'
"Thank you," she murmured. "For saying you're sorry… and for meaning it. It… it means a lot."
When he had first found that baby bird, all those years ago, he hadn't known what to do with it. He'd never seen anything die before. Well, he supposed looking back that wasn't entirely true: he'd culled chickens and emptied crawfish traps, speared fish and frogs, even helped his Uncle Jean-Phillipe take down a deer or two. But he'd never seen death in its natural state, never witnessed the process, the slow dance that was the end of a life unaltered by the hand of man. A strange, morbid curiosity had taken hold of him as he sat down on the ground, watching the little thing as it squawked and cried, as the ants marched closer, as they began crawling up into the nest, unsure if he should intervene.
And then, like a tempest roaring up from the Gulf, his mother had arrived, her house dress billowing in her wake. He'd been so enraptured that he hadn't even heard her cries for dinner, heard her warning him to come when called. When her eyes fell on the bird, however, she'd stopped dead in her tracks, and for a moment, he had wondered if she was going to sit down with him, to watch as well.
Instead, however, she had stepped with care, moved with a caution he'd seen only a few times before, when she held his infant cousins after they were first born. She'd scolded him, but gently, told him he should have come to her, should have asked for help. She'd brushed the ants off the nest, then scooped it up in her hands, looking down at the bird with an odd kindness in her eyes. He had to be gentle with little things, she'd told him as she placed the nest back in the bough of the tree. He had to learn to be careful with things that were so much smaller, so much more fragile than him.
Her voice echoed in his head as his thumb rubbed small, gentle circles against his darling's hand.
"Fe tansyon," it murmured.
Be careful.
An array of TV screens flickered and fizzled, their blue light illuminating the darkened room.
A human dressed in a purple formal gown, stepping into the royal limousine.
The same human returning, this time clad in a red sweater, exhaustion written all over her face.
Her again, sitting beside that old-fashioned, musty freak, rolling down the road in that hunk-of-junk car of his.
Vox leaned forward in his chair, his fingers steepled as he examined the images as they scrolled and flickered past, their subject always the same. He reached into his pocket, fishing out his phone, navigating to a contact only labeled "Asset 913."
It was time for Plan B.
