Desires and Dreams and Powers Page 2

  But then I walked into the room and there was a short, stocky girl standing on one of the beds. She had covered one wall in sheets of white printer paper, and now she was writing on it in Greek.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, turning around. “I’m Maura. You’re my roommate, right? I’ve decided to make this room my Homeric love-nest, and I will not be swayed from my choice. If you’re hot for a different poet, feel free to put him on the opposite wall.”

  “I’m Fiona,” I muttered after a few moments, and sat down on the bed. The silence stretched awkwardly between us. It felt weird to stare at her, it felt weird to ignore her, but I had no idea what I could say to her. Mom would say, just be friendly, which was the most useless advice in the world—

  Instinct took over. I pulled my knitting out of my backpack and grabbed the needles with shaky hands. That was always my tactic when Mom forced me to socialize: knit, and you don’t look so stupid when you’re silent.

  Except, if you walk into your dorm room, say hi to your new roommate, and immediately sit down to knit silently while ignoring your suitcases? You look really, really stupid. My face heated with horrified embarrassment, but my hands kept knitting automatically.

  “Hey, you knit? Are those three needles?” Maura clambered off the bed. “What are you making?”

  “A sweater,” I said after a moment. I was pretty sure she wasn’t being sarcastic.

  “Wow, that is amazing. I tried to knit once and I nearly poked my eye out. Let’s be friends.”

  And that’s how it started.

  Maura was a Classics major. She loved Homer and Shakespeare and horror movies and cinnamon Ice Breakers. She told me to suck it up and learn to love the germs when we shared a mini-tub of ice cream, and she forced me to join the Oresteia read-aloud she was having with her Classics major friends, and she liked to say, “Pizza, please,” and then laugh, because that was our special joke from a 2 AM art history study-session.

  She was my friend.

  She was, and now she’s not.

  * * *

  It’s barely evening when we get home. And. Well.

  I sit on the couch. Dad sits next to me with a really awkward grin. He tried to talk; I refuse. After a while he gives up, and I stare at the dark TV screen.

  My best friend is dead. I know what killed her. Nobody will ever believe me.

  What am I supposed to do with myself now? What can I possibly do?

  Dinner is frozen lasagna—organic, of course, with free-range beef. I stare at the abandoned box in the kitchen, and the bright yellow words NO HORMONES ALL NATURAL, while Mom chatters at me about her plans. She’s already found me a therapist and mapped out a schedule of yoga, lots of rest, gardening, a book club, and everything’s going to be fine.

  Afterwards I escape to my room. I take a shower, but I don’t wash my face; I can’t face even ten seconds of darkness to keep my eyes shut against the suds. Instead I use a face-wipe after I’ve toweled off. Then I lie down on the bed with all the lights switched on.

  It’s a long time before I’m tired enough to let my eyes drag shut.

  * * *

  This is just a dream: I’m in the common room alone, in the dark, when a hand settles on my shoulder. I go still, my heart rabbiting. The fingers stretch and grow until they touch my navel and I want to vomit because it’s wrong and scary and wrong.

  Then I wake up.

  This was real: a month after starting college, I was taking a shower. I had just washed my face, so my eyes were shut to keep the water out. I reached for the towel. My fingers brushed—just for a second—against a hot, wet tongue instead.

  My hand snapped back. I curled into myself under the shower-spray, my eyes squeezed shut. I must have waited ten minutes, hoping to wake up.

  I’ve been waiting my whole life to wake up.

  * * *

  After that shower, I was a mess. Maura switched off her lamp, and even though we had a nightlight, I started sobbing. And then, after she turned on the light and hugged me, I told her the truth.

  Maura didn’t believe me, of course. But she didn’t not believe me. She didn’t tell me I was crazy and she didn’t tell me to grow up. She just listened.

  I didn’t tell her about the tongue in the shower, because it sounded too crazy, and I couldn’t stand to even think about it. But I told her how I was always scared and I always felt like a terrible somebody was watching and I was always, always, always afraid.

  “I wish I was brave like you,” I finished quietly, helplessly. “I wish I was brave like you.”

  Maura squeezed my hand. “So you’ve been stalked by unspeakable supernatural evil every day of your life—”

  I snuffled and rolled my eyes, because yeah, right she thought this thing was real.

  “—or you just feel like you are, whatever. You’re still here, right? Even though you’re afraid. I think that’s pretty brave.”

  “You think I’m crazy,” I whispered. “Don’t you?”

  “Maybe a little,” she said. “But also awesome.”

  I stared at her. “I was so scared, I couldn’t even look in the rearview mirror when I was driving here.”

  “Yeah. You drove for two hours with Cthulhu in the backseat. And you didn’t crash. That is badass.”

  * * *

  The next day, I still don’t know what to do with myself. After a breakfast of Dad’s sausages and slightly burnt waffles, I sit on the couch again. I’m alive. Maura’s dead. It doesn’t seem like there’s much point to anything else.

  I didn’t know that grief had so much boredom in it.

  Mom knows what I should do, just like she always does. She strides into the living room, wearing not a suit but one of her carefully, stylishly casual outfits: beige skinny-jeans, a loose white blouse, and a gold necklace that almost reaches her navel. Her face is literally airbrushed—she collects professional makeup supplies—and she’s been tastefully scented with Chanel.

  Briskly but kindly, she tells me about my plans for the day: therapist, spa, mother-daughter lunch.

  I stare at her. My eyes burn from lack of sleep; I know they’re red and swollen. My hair is a mess, I didn’t even try putting on makeup, and I will never, ever have that air of calm, casual confidence. I will never be the daughter she so desperately wants.

  “No,” I say, because trying to please her doesn’t matter anymore.

  “It doesn’t have to be sushi,” says Mom. “There’s a new Thai restaurant—all local ingredients—”

  “No,” I say more strongly. “I’m not going to lunch, I’m not going to the spa, and I’m not going to see your stupid therapist.”

  “Fiona Anne Kincaid.” All the casual-chic is gone from posture; she looks like the woman who regularly eats the Board of Directors for breakfast. “You will come with me.”

  “What are you going to do,” I ask, “carry me out of here?”

  I feel the slow burn of adrenaline in my veins. I’ve never fought with her before, because all my life, I’ve been afraid of her. But really, what is she going to do? What can she possibly threaten me with, compared to what I’ve already survived?

  I remember Maura’s voice saying, Two hours with Cthulhu, and suddenly I’m crying.

  * * *

  This is the truth: I was downstairs in the common room, finishing up a paper. Maura had just finished her Greek exam and had hardly slept in two days, so she was crashed in our room. I needed my Econ textbook that was sitting on my desk. I slipped in quietly, for once not switching on the light, because I wanted to let her rest—

  And stopped. Because I knew he was there. He was right there, standing next to me, and my whole body was pulsing with cold waves of fear.

  I’d like to say I didn’t think he would hurt Maura. But I didn’t think at all. I didn’t care about anything except escape. My fingers scrabbled at the desk until I found the book, and then I flung myself back into the hallway, the door slamming behind me. I spent the night sleeping on the common room couch.
>
  When I went back to the room the next morning, Maura lay on her back, hands clasped nearly on her chest, her throat sliced open. On the wall above—on the Homer-scribbled pages she’d put up on our first day—was written a message in her blood.

  Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?

  * * *

  I never thought hearts could actually feel heavy. But for the rest of the day, that’s exactly how I feel: like there’s a lump of lead in my chest, weighing me down.

  I just want her back. I just want it to not be my fault. I just want to stop being scared.

  That evening, in the shower, I cry for nearly half an hour. Then I actually wash my face, because I’m so exhausted I can barely care what my monster does.

  Nothing touches me. I hear no sounds except my own ragged breaths and the whoosh of the water. But when I get out, there are words traced in the fog on the mirror.

  Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?

  I wonder if he really means it. And for the first time, I feel more angry at him than afraid. I’m not crying anymore; I am crisp and crackling and on fire.

  Glad?

  No. No, I fucking am not.

  * * *

  The anger doesn’t stop. I seethe all night as I lie awake, squinting at the lights. I hate him. I hate what he’s made me. I hate what he did to my friend. I hate that he will never leave me alone.

  Is he mocking me? Threatening me? Or does he really think that I might be glad at what he’s done?

  Maybe he doesn’t think at all. He might not be human-like enough to think in goals and reasons.

  If he is able to think, he must believe I’m beaten. I’ve been so afraid for so long, and I’ve never even tried to escape, much less to fight. I’ve only cried and hid.

  But whoever he is, whatever he is, there’s one thing he didn’t plan on: I loved Maura. She was my best friend, my first friend, my only friend, and she changed me. She told me stories. Orpheus walking into the Underworld, and scared girls surviving till the end of slasher movies. Ellen Ripley facing down the Alien Queen, and Achilles avenging Patroclus.

  I’ve been afraid every day of my life. And I’m still fighting. I’m still here.

  * * *

  I make my preparations in broad daylight, when I think there’s a chance he can’t see me.

  There’s no way to research a nameless thing. All I know is: he was solid enough to hold a knife. And he doesn’t want me to see him. So I hide a flashlight and Dad’s antique bowie knife under my pillow.

  That night, I shut my bedroom door, so I can’t hear the comforting, human hum of Mom and Dad’s voices. I switch off the light. I slide under the blankets.

  One hand curls around the flashlight, the other around the knife. My heart beats faster and faster as I think of Maura, of how she said I was brave.

  I’m still here, I think ferociously to the darkness. Do you hear me? After everything you did, I’m still here.

  The mattress shifts as something sits down beside me. My thumb finds the switch of the flashlight.

  I open my eyes.

  Textual Variants

  1. They say that Kor and Kima were the first gods, Dusé and Tsuitya their children. When Dusé died, Kima asked every creature in the world to give a drop of blood; for if all the drops were gathered and Dusé bathed in them, he would return to life. But his sister Tsuitya was jealous and desiring. She drank up all the blood to make herself stronger, and there was war in Heaven.

  In the end they cast her down. But Dusé never returned.

  * * *

  Aru Cainavon had left the monastery because he could not believe the monks when they said it was wrong to save lives with the sword, and because he would not force them to live at what they considered an unacceptable price. He returned because he believed them when they said they had found the girl who was the Eyes. And for her he was willing to kill, no matter who found it unacceptable.

  As it turned out, he didn’t make it back in time for the monks to consider his choices anything at all.

  He swung his sword, slinging the last Warder’s blood off the blade, and turned to the girl for whom the monastery had been destroyed. She was still huddled in the corner of the room, fingers clutching a set of prayer beads.

  “Get up,” he said. “We need to leave.” The harsh scent of smoke was growing stronger; soon the entire monastery would be in flames.

  Her wide eyes stared at him through tangled strands of black hair; her breath came in loud, wheezing sobs. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and run, but she might scream and draw pursuers. Instead he knelt so she could look into his eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “San,” she whispered. “San Attesakasa. He said—” Her knuckles whitened around the beads.

  “My name’s Aru.” Sweat trickled down the back of his neck; he tried not to think about the approaching flames. “Brother Maron wrote me about you. That’s why I’m here. Will you come with me?” He held out a hand.

  For another moment she stared at him. Then she reached shakily for his hand.

  That night, as they hid in an overgrown hollow, she whispered, “Why do you bother? They broke the Crystal.”

  Aru stared into the darkness, remembering Brother Maron’s mumbling voice as he read the prophecy: For what the Eyes sees when she looks into the Crystal, all men shall see. Therefore let the Eyes look with purity upon truth and justice, that all men may be pure and abide in justice.

  “We’ll find a way.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Brother Maron said he was glad to die for me.”

  “You are the Eyes. You will save us all.”

  “Not Brother Maron.”

  * * *

  2. They say that when Dusé died, Kima swore no creature would take one breath more than her son, and began to destroy the world. Kor was brave; he fought her and fell. But Tsuitya was clever, and trapped Kima within her magic mirror, never to touch the world again unless someone should speak her secret name.

  This meant that Tsuitya had to kill all three thousand thirty-three of Kima’s worshippers. The tales of the gods are never pretty.

  * * *

  “You stay here,” said Logan. “I’ll get food.”

  San leaned back against the grimy cement wall, grateful for the rest. “All right.”

  He glanced sidelong at her through shaggy brown bangs. “You’re not arguing? Are you sick or something?”

  She knew he was worried: usually she protested that she could scavenge just as well as he could, even though he was fourteen and a head taller. But she couldn’t tell him that the shard in her ankle was aching worse than usual, loosening her joints and weakening her muscles.

  “Tired,” she said.

  “Good. Keeps you sensible.” He gave her shoulder a little push and turned. “I’ll be back soon.”

  And he was gone, footsteps echoing down the alley. San closed her eyes and drew a breath, trying to ignore the oversweet tang of garbage and the metallic stench of pollution. Logan had helped her escape from the Warders and now he was helping her survive on the streets of Cavernaugh. And she couldn’t even tell him the truth about why she felt weak. Because then she would have to tell him who the Warders really were, and who she was, and why she had spent the last three years fleeing across worlds and hunting for shards of the Crystal.

  Her ankle twitched as the pain flared again. Aru could sense shards; he had put one into her ankle so her could find her if they got separated. But it had been three months, and she was beginning to wonder.

  It was only a faint scuffle that made her open her eyes—and she screamed as she saw the black swirl of the Warder’s cloak, nightmare vivid against the pale concrete. She dodged away from him, only to be grabbed by another, who twisted her arms behind her back. When she tried to break away, his stiff leather gloves only dug deeper into her skin, and there was nothing she could do but stare at the other Warder’s black-m
asked face.

  They dressed like death because they believed the one they hunted was the death of worlds. But now their hunt was over because she was about to die, and as the Warder raised his sword, all San could think was how stupid she’d been, to stop watching for even a second—

  And blood spurted from his chest as he fell, Aru standing behind him. The other Warder barely had a chance to move before he was dead as well. Aru slung the blood off his sword with the same graceful motion San had seen a hundred times before, and she realized that she was trembling. Then she flung herself at him, and he pulled her against his chest.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was cool, but his arm was tight around her.

  She nodded. “I thought—”

  “San?”

  She pulled away from Aru and saw Logan standing at the end of the alley, eyes wide. She’d never stayed in a world long enough to lose a friend before.

  “Where are you really from?”

  Truth felt strange on her lips. “Another world.” She heard Aru inhale sharply, and she looked up. “They already know we were here, and we’re leaving—”

  “He has a shard,” said Aru.

  Logan’s eyes flicked to Aru in his blood-spattered trench coat. “Shard?”

  “From the Crystal—” The story tangled on her tongue. “It wouldn’t look like a shard, but it would be something crystal that never gets scratched.”

  Without looking away from her, Logan reached inside his shirt and pulled out a pendant on a chain. “You mean this?”

  “Yes.” She stepped towards him. “Please. We need it.”

  After a moment, Logan’s eyelids slid low again. “Only if you take me with you.”

  * * *

  3. They say that Kor and Kima knew the world was doomed to die only a year after its creation; but if they sacrificed their infant son Dusé, they could buy another three thousand thirty-three years. Their daughter fought them and failed, and so the world lives.

  Tsuitya died believing life was not worth such a price. Yet it certainly cannot be bought for less. For afterwards Kor and Kima found the world might live forever if, at the end of the its allotted time, Tsuitya were to give her life willingly. But she has nothing left to give.